Courage Begins: A Ray Courage Mystery Novella (Ray Courage Private Investigator Series Book 1)

by R. Scott Mackey

  “Did she do that? Talk to a lawyer and tell her husband?”

  “Yep. Sure did.”

  “Did she tell you what Garrett’s reaction was?”

  “She said he wouldn’t let her divorce him. He did say he’d stop seeing the other woman. I don’t know that he did or not, but Tiffanie didn’t go through with the divorce, at least not at first. Then she started seeing that carpenter up in Tahoe. We found out about it and told her to stop. But she said he treated her really well, not at all like Garrett did. I suppose in a way, it helped her confidence. She said now that she had someone who loved her, she could go through with the divorce and move in with this boyfriend.”

  “Do you know if she told Garrett the second time about wanting to divorce him? You know, after she started seeing Harley Cowan?”

  He shook his head. “No idea. We never talked with her again after she told us her plans.”

  “One last question, and I’m sorry if it’s a little indelicate. Whatever became of Tiffanie’s engagement and wedding rings?”

  He snorted. “Garrett got them. We never even thought about them. Then the SOB had them delivered to us a couple of weeks after the funeral. UPS truck drives up one day, brings us a small box. Inside are the two rings. No note or anything. I don’t know why he’d do that. We didn’t know if he thought we wanted them for sentimental reasons, or if we wanted to sell them, or if he was thumbing his nose at us. We never could figure it out. He knew we hated his guts, so he never called or contacted us to explain.”

  That puzzled me for a moment, then it made perfect sense after I turned it around in my head. “What did you end up doing with those rings?”

  “I threw them in the God damned river. They didn’t remind us of Tiffanie. They reminded us of him.”

  twelve

  I caught the eleven fifty-five Southwest flight from Sacramento to Portland, touching down in Oregon on schedule at one twenty in the afternoon. I toted an overnight bag to the Enterprise Car Rental counter, though I hoped to be able to fly back to Sacramento later that afternoon. I’d promised Rubia I’d relieve her at the Say Hey and close it for the night, saving her from a thirteen-hour day behind the bar.

  I was used to driving my compact Japanese sedan in Sacramento, but the only car left on the Enterprise lot was a black Dodge Charger. At first, the car seemed too beefy and unwieldy. After driving it several miles, I started to enjoy its horsepower, unabashed masculinity, and rich aroma of new car and leather. I cranked up George Thorogood and the Destroyers on the radio, pulled into the fast lane, and checked my sunglasses in the rearview. Ray Courage, Bad Ass Dude. Rubia would’ve taken one look at me in that car and fallen down in laughter.

  Low, gray clouds stretched across the sky, patches of bright blue peeking through, here and there, as I drove south on I-5 towards Salem. I passed lush rolling hills packed with dense stands of trees, clicking by small town after small town. Crestwood. Lake Forest. Wilsonville. Donald. Northgate. Highland. In the light afternoon traffic, the drive took less than an hour. The first order of business was lunch; my only meal thus far today had been an apple and cup of coffee I scarfed down before my nine o’clock visit with Tiffanie’s parents.

  I found a place called Cozzies, a sandwich spot run by a very engaging couple, Dave and Deb Cozzie. I ordered the bacon, lettuce, tomato, and avocado on sourdough. While I awaited my order, I browsed a bulletin board near the front door. A few apartments were listed for rent or to share, the rates much lower than the Sacramento market’s. A Willamette University football schedule showed they had a game coming up against Linfield College. There were two flyers advertising an open-mic comedy competition in two days. I raised an eyebrow when I noticed one of the competition’s sponsors was none other than Bate Realtors.

  I devoured the sandwich and vowed that if I ever returned to Salem, I’d make Cozzies a regular haunt.

  The state capital boasted scores of historic buildings dating back to the city’s origins in the 1840s. Except for the new model cars on the street, I could’ve been in the middle of the twentieth, or even nineteenth, century. I parked downtown on Liberty Street, near the intersection at State Street, and walked halfway up the block, spotting the arched gilt lettering of Bate Realtors. The building was at least a hundred years old. The lower half of the two-story building was made of brick, punctuated with large picture windows under billowing brown canvas canopies. The windows afforded clear views inside several businesses housed in the quarter-block long structure. Through the glass at Bate Realtors, I could see five empty desks and an older man working at a desktop computer. On their front door, I noticed a flyer like the ones at Cozzies advertising the upcoming comedy competition.

  The man looked up from the computer and gave me a friendly smile when I entered.

  “I’m looking for Jake Bate. Do you expect him soon?” I surveyed the empty room, affirming that no one was making photocopies, returning from a restroom break, or otherwise engaged in the office.

  “Do you have an appointment?”

  “No, more of a drop in.”

  “He’s my son. He went off to show a house about an hour ago. He should be back in a few minutes. Is there something I can help you with?”

  “That’s okay, maybe I’ll come back in a bit.” I was standing a few feet from his desk and noticed a framed photo on one side showing him and three other men holding golf clubs, the lettering across the bottom of the photo read “Illahe Hills Country Club Men’s Scramble Champions.”

  “I knew I came to the right place,” I said. “You play golf?” I recalled Mrs. Bate mentioning it the night before.

  “Golfers play golf. Golf addicts live golf.”

  I laughed. “I’ve heard there’s some great golf in this area, and was hoping to find someone who might have recommendations.” When I retired, I’d considered taking up the game again. I’d been a decent collegiate golfer, but in the ensuing years, work and family duties had eased me away from the game.

  “Illahe Hills.” He pointed at the photo. “That’s private, of course. You have to be a member to play there. But there are several public courses I’d recommend. My favorite is Salem Golf Club. Beautiful course. Tough but fair. Been around since the 1920s.”

  “Thanks for that. I’ll look into it.”

  “You said the next time you were up this way you’d like to play. Where you from?”

  “Sacramento.”

  “No kidding.” He stood, walked around his desk, and came over to shake my hand. “Alexander Bate. I’m originally from Sacramento. I loved it there. Though, I don’t miss the summers.” He was as tall as Garrett and even better looking, with a lion’s mane of shiny gray hair, and an infectious sparkle in his eye.

  “But it’s a dry heat,” we said in unison, reprising a common Sacramento expression used to justify one hundred and five degree temperatures. We both laughed.

  “No, I love it up here. It’s home now. Has been for a while, ever since my son and I moved here, we’ve been comfortable.”

  We’d run out of small talk, an uncomfortable silence settling in, when I looked at Bate’s desk again and noticed yet another flyer for the comedy contest. I pointed at it. “I see you’re sponsoring the local comedy event.Is it a big deal?”

  “Kind of. We’ve been sponsoring it for a couple of years now, right after Jake won three years ago.”

  “Your son won the comedy competition?”

  He nodded. “Yeah. He’s won it the last three years in a row.”

  “Is he a professional comic?”

  “No, nothing like that. He works here fulltime. Comedy’s just kind of a hobby. He’s always been a strong public speaker with a good sense of humor, so he gave it a try a few years back, and he keeps winning the damn thing.” Alexander Bate shook his head and smiled. “Hey, speak of the Devil. Here he is right now. Just talking about you, buddy.”

  I turned around to look behind me as young man approached from the front door. I could feel the color drain from
my face, my mouth suddenly dry. Standing in front of me was Garrett Bate. Same height. Same build. Same face. Same haircut. Same taste in clothes. The only small difference I detected was a pink scar, about an inch long, on the side of his chin.

  “You know, I never did catch your name,” Alexander said.

  “Ray Courage.” My voice almost betrayed my shock.

  “He’s from Sacramento, Jake.”

  “Cool. Welcome to Salem. Are you looking for a new home up here?”

  “Not exactly, no.” I was muttering as my mind was shuffling through a mental deck of note cards.

  “Are you okay?” Jake asked. He had Garrett’s deep voice.

  His question snapped me back to the moment. “I’ve seen you before.”

  “You have? Really? Do you remember where?” Though he had Garrett’s Hollywood looks, his eyes exuded a warmth Garrett’s lacked.

  “I do. It was a couple of years ago. I was at the Sacramento Realtors Awards Night at the Crocker Art Museum with my girlfriend at the time. You gave the keynote address. You were very funny.”

  He smiled. “Yeah, that was great. I—” He stopped suddenly, and his face reddened. “No, that wasn’t me. I’ve never spoken in Sacramento. I thought you said the Salem Realtors Awards. You probably saw my brother. We’re identical twins and he’s in the business down in Sacramento. That must’ve been who you saw.”

  thirteen

  When I returned to my house about six thirty that evening, I went immediately to the case file in my office to confirm what I already knew—there was no mention of a twin brother in any of the reports. No mention of the father. Scant mention of the mother, only a note that she and Garrett worked in the same office.

  Despite my excitement about the discovery of a twin brother and its implications, I was dead tired. I called Rubia and told her I needed a couple hours sleep, but would be at the Say Hey at nine to take over her shift. The evening had turned cold, so I dialed up the thermostat and poured myself a snifter of Remy Martin cognac. I downed the cognac and poured myself another half snifter. I set the alarm on my cell phone for eight thirty, and after finishing the second drink, kicked back in my favorite leather chair, my feet propped up on the ottoman.

  I drifted off before the effects of the second cognac had even set in. The past couple of days had been a whirlwind; such a change from my previous profession’s day in and day out activities, I felt a bit off center. I contemplated what the past days had brought. Part of me was scared. Scared I couldn’t finish the work, that I lacked what it took. I was also scared about the new territory I’d entered, one with people who did bad things to others. Another part of me felt excited that I’d broken free from my mundane life. There was also the sense of obligation I’d felt since I was a kid, the one pushing at the back of my mind, driving me to do right. It was this sense that led me into the investigative field.

  A pleasant dream began to take shape. My wife was back with me, alive, smiling, just the way things had been…Then an army of hooded men burst into the house to take her from me. I couldn’t move, helpless, as if someone held down my arms and legs.

  Off somewhere in the distance, I heard an alarm trilling. Or maybe not an alarm at all. A phone? The sound faded, replaced by the angry snarling of a pack of dogs. They came streaming in through every window and door of my house, snapping and biting as I tried to escape. Again, the alarm sounded and stopped. I shook myself awake, to clear my head of the visions, falling back to sleep only to confront another horror—someone was holding me down, prying open my mouth, while another unseen person poured hot poison down my throat. I gagged and felt sick after they did so, standing and staggering. I vomited in hard, gut-wrenching waves until I had no more to purge. I collapsed and fell to the floor, turned to my side and looked out to see the chair and ottoman, the table light turned down low as I’d left it before my nap.

  I wasn’t dreaming. I’d become sick. Had someone poisoned me? The cognac? That was the last thing I could remember as my eyes closed, my head spinning so savagely I felt I might be thrown against the walls of my house. That was the last sensation I remembered before everything went black. Black, still, and so quiet. I lay in that state for what seemed an eternity.

  “Ray! Ray! Ray!”

  Someone patted my cheek insistently, while a second hand pressed against my jugular. Everything was blurry when I opened my eyes. I tried to focus on the person hovering over me, my hazy vision offering nothing better than triple vision of the figure.

  “Are you all right?” The voice was Rubia’s.

  I shook my head, or at least I think I did. “Furnace.”

  “What?”

  “Furnace.”

  “What?”

  “Turn…off…the…furnace.”

  Rubia rushed from me to the thermostat. Then I could hear her opening windows and the front door.

  “The paramedics are on their way. I called nine-one-one. Can you move?”

  I nodded. She helped me up and led me outside. Holding me under one armpit, she lowered me to the top step of my porch so I could breathe in the fresh night air. A siren came into earshot, and soon, an overkill of fire trucks and an ambulance rolled in front of my house.

  “How’d you get in?” I asked her after a few minutes.

  “You gave me a key, remember?”

  I looked at her and shrugged, my head too heavy and dull to remember anything. We sat together without another word until a guy in a uniform rushed up to us.

  “I think it’s carbon monoxide poisoning,” Rubia said to the man. He immediately put a mask over my mouth and nose and turned a knob atop an oxygen tank. I felt a surge of fresh air and clarity, though I still felt shaky and nauseated.

  In spite of my protestations, the paramedics hauled me off to Sutter General Hospital, where I’d spend the night in intensive oxygen therapy. Rubia rode with me and slept in my semi-private room, propped in a chair that reclined into something approximating a bed.

  When I awoke the next morning, I had a small headache, but otherwise felt fine. The nurse brought in two pills for the headache when she delivered my bacon and eggs. Hospital food had improved since my last time visiting a friend years before. Starving as I was, I wolfed down the breakfast.

  “Could have at least saved some for me,” Rubia said, getting up from the recliner. She stretched and yawned, her eyes bloodshot.

  “Figured you’ve already been to the cafeteria three times.”

  “Twice. But it’s been almost an hour since the last time.”

  There was an awkward silence. Rubia worked at moving the chair back from reclining mode to the original configuration. She completed the task and sat back down.

  “Thank you. You saved my sorry butt. How did you know I was in trouble?”

  “When you didn’t show up at nine, and then not at nine thirty, I knew something was wrong. That’s not like you. I called about ten times. When you didn’t answer your cell, I closed the bar down and went straight to your house. I used my key and saw you lying in the middle of the floor, a trail of puke from the chair to where you were flat on your face. Wasn’t pretty.”

  “I can imagine.”

  “Kind of pushing the bounds of friendship, a scene like that.”

  We exchanged looks, saying nothing, conveying everything.

  “Cop came in earlier while you were still asleep,” she said, breaking the silence. “He said a PG&E inspector checked your furnace. Somebody had stuffed some insulation into something called the flue exhaust stack in your heater. There was a hole in it, too. That’s what caused the carbon monoxide to escape. Cop said the paramedic told him that another twenty minutes, and you would’ve been dead.”

  I wanted to say something witty, but wasn’t up to it. I felt crappy, and I was angry. I was up against someone who lived by values and beliefs outside the bounds of a decent society. This was someone who would do anything for his own self-interests. “I know Garrett Bate did it.”

  “The real estat
e dude that offed his wife?”

  “Yeah.” I told her everything I’d found out so far, up to, and including, learning he had a twin brother who lived in Salem.

  “Sounds like you got him dead to rights,” she said.

  “No, not at all. I mean, I think I know how he did it. The problem is I can’t prove it. Nobody can.”

  fourteen

  Rubia drove me home from the hospital. My head felt a little heavy, but the dizziness and nausea had ended. I went to the utility closet and examined the punctured flue. PG&E had taped a red danger card next to it, warning the furnace needed to be repaired by a professional and examined by a gas company technician before it could be operated again. The pilot light had been turned off, the inlet valve shut tight. A similar danger card had been affixed to my thermostat.

  I checked all my doors and windows for signs of forced entry. Next to the outside doorknob on the French doors leading to the dining room, I noticed a small indentation on one of the doors where it met with the other door. It was as if someone had inserted a narrow screwdriver to push back the latch bolt. The indentation could’ve been old. I couldn’t be sure. It didn’t matter. I knew what happened.

  I phoned Royle. He said he’d make a couple of calls and get back to me. While I waited, I called Alex Melia at Cal Farm to update him with the latest developments. I spent the rest of the morning making appointments with a security company for an alarm estimate, and with a heating and air conditioning company to repair my furnace. Just before noon, Royle called me back, and I was out the door.