Rob Cornell - Ridley Brone 01 - Last Call

by Rob Cornell

  “Your modesty is wasted on me.”

  “This isn’t a philosophical debate, Sheila. I’m naked under this sheet.”

  “I suppose I’ll wait downstairs.”

  She left the door open on the way out.

  I quickly hobbled into a pair of jeans I found bunched up in a corner, snagged a Led Zeppelin t-shirt off a hanger from the closet, then joined Sheila in the living room.

  She stood in the center of the room, surveying the various shapes draped with white sheets. When I came in, she turned to me and crossed her arms. The pot and spoon were gone.

  “You must have an obsessive aversion to dust.”

  I scratched the back of my neck, looking at the hardwood floor. “Haven’t we had this conversation before?”

  “I’m not sure.” She waved a hand at the covered furniture. “It doesn’t appear so.”

  “Please don’t get on my case about this.”

  “It’s silly. You have this whole house—”

  “To myself. It’s more than I’m used to. Way more than I need.”

  “If it’s too much work, we could hire a staff. A maid. A chef. There is more to that kitchen than a toaster oven.”

  “There’s a toaster oven?”

  Sheila rolled her eyes, stalked over to one of the sheet-covered forms, and gripped the sheet as if she meant to yank it off.

  “Wait.” I rushed over, pinned the sheet down with a hand. “Leave it.”

  “It’s merely a wing chair, Ridley. It won’t run loose and mess the floor.”

  She did a pirouette, glided over to a covered couch, and whipped the sheet off like a magician revealing a shocking illusion.

  I felt my cheeks turn hot.

  “There,” she said and looked at me, chin slightly raised.

  I took a couple of deep breathes, reminding myself that she meant well. “What are you doing here so early in the morning?”

  “Early?” She offered me a view of her watch. “It’s almost one.”

  I squinted at the watch in disbelief. “Shit. I have to go.”

  “But—”

  I gripped Sheila by the shoulders and pecked her on the cheek. “I’m sorry. I told a friend I’d meet her almost three hours ago.”

  “Who?”

  I spun around a few times, looking for something without knowing what, or where to even start. The hectic night at the High Note, not to mention the lack of sleep, still had my mind fogged.

  “Old friend from high school,” I said.

  “A girlfriend?”

  I stalked into the foyer, scanned the floor, the walls. What the hell was I looking for?

  “Why? Jealous?”

  “Simply curious,” Sheila said and strolled in to join me. “I’m surprised she hasn’t phoned you.”

  I spun to face her and snapped my fingers. “Phone. That’s it. Where did I …” My gaze drifted over to the pair of pants I’d left on the stairs the night before. I bounded up the steps, dug my phone out of the pants pocket, and flipped it open to check for messages.

  “Aw, crap.” The phone’s screen was blank, and when I pressed the power button it refused to come to life.

  “Let me guess,” Sheila said. “Forgot to charge the battery again?”

  I tucked the dead phone into my pocket and thumped back down the stairs, pausing in front of Sheila. I raked a hand through my hair. “Do I look all right? No bed head or anything?”

  She pursed her lips and gave me that eyebrow lift again.

  I started to bolt for the door, caught myself. “Was there something you needed, Sheila?”

  She looked at me for a moment, seeming to think about it, then shook her head. “Just wanted to make sure things are going smoothly at the High Note.”

  “Picture someone jamming meat thermometers through your ear drums. Other than that, we seem to be misplacing a lot of booze.”

  “Misplacing?” Her eyes narrowed and she looked down at the floor as if calculating something. Sheila always looked to me like she was doing math in her head.

  “And,” I continued, “my only waitress is on the verge of quitting, probably right after she assaults me with her drink tray. If I didn’t have Paul and Holly on my side the place would probably end up in flames.”

  Sheila’s eyes widened. “Why is that?”

  “‘Cause I’d douse the place in gasoline and light it on fire.”

  “That isn’t funny.”

  I held up my hands. “Come visit at the bar sometime. I’ve got to bolt.”

  I dashed out. I was halfway to my car when I finally noticed the feel of concrete against my bare feet. I sprinted back into the house.

  Sheila stood by the open door, my sneakers dangling from the fingers of one hand.

  “Maybe I should put on some socks too, huh?”

  She lifted an eyebrow in response.

  I pulled to the curb in front of Autumn’s Ranch-style house and hesitated a minute in the car, staring through the passenger-side window at her front porch flanked by square shrubs and floppy plants, a sprig of colorful flowers here and there. When I was growing up in Hawthorne, this section of town had been all woods. Now they’d installed dozens of square blocks lined with houses you could only tell apart from the various shapes of their shrubbery.

  Autumn answered the door in a Minnie Mouse t-shirt, the bottom of the shirt covering most of a pair of ratted cut-offs. The casual attire surprised me. Though what was I expecting? A beige trench coat covering a lacy red teddy?

  “Hey,” she said and stroked back a piece of her hair that had come free from her ponytail.

  “Hey,” I said back.

  I watched her eyes. She seemed to watch mine.

  She stood aside and gestured me into the foyer. After I crossed the threshold, she closed the door, turned the deadbolt. Locking us in, I wondered, or the rest of the world out?

  Hanging on a wall to the right, a collage of photographs gave me my first glimpse of Doug’s face. A few of the pictures featured Autumn by herself, often with a hiking pack, the background various shades of nature—purple mountain silhouettes, exotic thatches of green, a winterscape with fine hairs of tall dead grass poking through the snow. Other photos showed a stranger’s face in close proximity to Autumn’s.

  As far as looks went, Autumn couldn’t have picked a guy more opposite than me—straight blonde hair combed neatly with a part, compared to my wavy brown nest; a round, boyish face instead of my sharp chin and cheekbones. In one of the pictures Doug had a fuzzy sweater tied around his waist by the sleeves. Angels would sit in on a poker game with Satan before a fuzzy sweater ended up in my closet. They made me itch.

  “That’s him,” Autumn said at my side.

  I turned away from the collage, a little embarrassed about get caught gaping. “Just as I pictured him.”

  “Yeah, right. I know what you’re thinking.”

  “He’s the next best thing to Matt Damon himself.”

  “Shut-up.”

  “Just being honest.”

  She gave me a little “huh” through her half smile, then turned and headed down a hall.

  I followed, and we passed through the kitchen, the smell of dish soap fresh in the air, a set of pans sitting in a dry rack next to the sink.

  We cleared the kitchen, stepping into the living room. Autumn gestured around her. “My humble abode. I’d give you the tour, but it isn’t much different than any of the others on the block. Welcome to suburbia.”

  “It’s nice.”

  “Nothing like Dad’s place. Nothing like yours. A step down, but I’m okay with it.”

  I smiled, not sure what to say.

  A couch sat to my right, a widescreen TV to my left. A remote control big enough to reprogram satellite spy technology lined up with one corner of the coffee table. A cozy setting, but we lingered in the center of the room as if the furniture around us was toxic.

  “You want coffee?”

  “No,” I said. “Why don’t we… we should go o
ver a few things.”

  I saw something change in her eyes. Her face flushed.

  A clock on the mantel ticked almost sixty times before I finally asked, “Have you gone through any of Doug’s things? Find anything unusual?”

  She shook her head. “He has an office upstairs.”

  “He keep his credit statements and stuff like that up there?”

  “Yeah. He’s pretty organized.”

  “Computer?”

  She nodded.

  “Do you want me to take a look?”

  She led me upstairs to his office, which stood across the hall from the bedroom. The bedroom door hung open. The queen-sized bed’s covers lay bunched at the foot of the bed. Creases in the sheets marked patterns made by two bodies. The smell of sleep, and maybe sex, wafted from the room.

  Autumn reached past me and pulled the door shut.

  “Sorry. Bedroom’s always a mess.”

  In the office, Autumn pointed out which drawer in the filing cabinet held Doug’s credit statements. A PC sat on a V-shaped desk fitted into a corner, the desk’s surface clean and uncluttered. All the pens and pencils sat neatly in a metallic cylinder that matched the metallic in-basket holding a few sealed envelopes. The in-basket matched the desk lamp; the lamp matched the desk.

  Pretty organized, or pretty anal?

  The PC was on, a screensaver shooting jagged color patterns across the monitor at hypersonic speeds. I sat at the desk and twitched the PC’s mouse to clear the screensaver. “You spend much time in here?”

  “This is Doug’s realm.” She pointed to the wall where a few framed articles with Doug’s by-line hung. “While technically he says he’s retired from journalism, I think this space keeps him connected to the work.”

  “Why the retirement if he misses it?”

  “He said he got sick of digging up all the bad things about people.”

  I turned the chair back to the PC and started clicking through Doug’s files, looking for word-processing documents or spreadsheets, maybe some photos. When I didn’t find anything in the obvious places, I used the PC’s search function to ferret out specific file extensions. It wasn’t what I found that bothered me, but what I didn’t find. Not a single document, spreadsheet, photo, music file, or anything else was saved on the computer besides software applications that typically came pre-installed.

  “How long has Doug had this computer?”

  “Few years,” Autumn said.

  “He mention having any problems with it, have to reformat or anything?”

  “Not to me. Why?”

  “Probably nothing,” I said.

  I ditched the computer for now, stood, and crossed to the filing cabinet. With Autumn’s help, I dug out Doug’s most recent credit card statements and brought them back to the desk. I had Autumn sit in the chair and scan the statements for anything unusual while I stood looking over her shoulder, only occasionally distracted by the scent of her hair. I almost missed the charge on a statement Autumn began to set aside.

  “Hold it.” I pointed to a line on the statement listing the company name as Zippy Gas, Inc. “What about that?”

  “Gas station,” Autumn said. “So what?”

  I slid my finger across to the column that declared where each charge was made.

  Autumn read the city out loud. “Detroit?”

  “Doug often spend time in Detroit?”

  “Why would he?”

  “That’s what I’m asking you.”

  “Detroit’s almost three hours away,” she said, the pitch in her voice raised. “What was he doing clear out there?”

  I stepped back, giving her space.

  She stood, turned around, in her eyes almost an accusation, as if I’d made this happen. The look quickly faded.

  “Guess I asked for this,” she said. “Why else would I have brought you over here?”

  “There’s no explanation that you can think of? Does he have family or friends out there?”

  “His family’s from out West. He doesn’t talk to them. I’ve never even met them.”

  “Friends?”

  She pressed the fingers of one hand against her temple and squeezed her eyes shut. “Not that I know of. I don’t know. Maybe.”

  “Let’s go through the rest of these statements.”

  We found nothing else unusual. Not even another charge outside Hawthorne. The charge in Detroit could have been either a fluke or a mistake from an otherwise careful man.

  After setting aside the last statement, Autumn sat at Doug’s desk with her head in her hands.

  I stood behind her, wanted to rest a hand on her shoulder. I pretended to be a professional and kept my hands to myself. “You could be wrong about him.”

  She popped out of the chair and faced me. Her fingers fiddled with the frayed strings dangling from her cut-offs. “What if I’m not?”

  I hesitated, knowing what I should say and what I wanted to say. Once more, I played the professional. “That part comes after my job is done. I can’t help you with that.”

  I was halfway home when I finally spotted the tail—a black Lexus sedan that was either brand new or had recently been detailed. Sunlight reflected off the car’s polished hood like a beacon, yet it had taken me this long to realize the car had been following me since I left Autumn’s subdivision.

  Man, was I rusty.

  I pulled to a stop at a red light and scoped out in my rearview mirror the Lexus sitting two cars behind me. I couldn’t get a good sight of the driver because the windows were tinted.

  When the light turned green, I pulled through the intersection, keeping one eye on the rearview to keep my tail in sight. If I wanted to lose him, I could floor it, though I’m not sure my Civic could outrun his Lexus if he wanted to make a chase out of it. It was midday on a Friday, not too many people on the road yet, so using traffic as a screen wouldn’t work either. A few quick turns down a side street or two would probably do the trick. But why was this guy following me in the first place?

  I decided not to play the game.

  To get to Autumn’s house from mine, you had to travel through Hawthorne’s commercial district. Restaurants and shops lined the street on both sides. I waited until I reached a stretch where parked cars jammed the curbs, then scanned each building as I passed. I found a coffee house on the left with its own small parking lot and jerked the wheel at the last minute, cutting across traffic, nearly clipping the front end of a Mini Cooper.

  My front tires thumped over the inclined entrance to the parking lot as I hit it going too fast. I braked the moment I cleared the street and watched my rearview until I saw the Lexus pass, then I pulled into an empty space.

  With no available street parking, if my new groupie wanted to stick with me he’d have to circle the block and pull into the parking lot. Then we’d have this out. No tailing bullshit.

  Twenty minutes passed with no sign of the Lexus.

  I checked my watch, decided I didn’t have time for my usual nap before opening the bar, and would have to settle for a caffeine buzz to get me through the night. I went inside the coffee house, ordered a large house blend, and found a window seat.

  A Muzak version of an Aerosmith song violined and fluted its way out of hidden speakers. I hung my head in sadness at the far reach of Muzak’s dark hand.

  Through the window, I spotted the Lexus pull into the parking lot. Autumn’s father, Lincoln Rice, got out. Our eyes met through the window as he approached, and a blip of recognition crossed his face.

  A bell rang when he swung open the door. He marched right to my table and sat across from me. He looked exactly as I remembered him—his gray hair long and worn in a ponytail, his tight-skinned face seared with a permanent tan. I’d only met him one time, but his face had etched itself in my memory. He was the last thing connected to Autumn I had seen before leaving Hawthorne.

  A hemp necklace threaded through some beads hugged his neck above the open collar of his pinstriped dress shirt. If he swallo
wed hard enough, the rope looked like it might break. A tiny gold hoop hung from his right earlobe. He still wore a gold wedding band, though I knew his wife had died when Autumn was only eight.

  Lincoln leaned forward, gripping the small round table on either side as if it were a giant steering wheel. His eyes narrowed. “I know you.”

  “I was a friend of Autumn’s in high school.”

  He sucked his teeth. “I’m not placing it. What’s your name?”

  “Ridley Brone.”

  “Brone,” he said as if chewing my name. “You’re Trina and Allen’s kid.”

  “You knew my parents?”

  He frowned. “Everybody in Hawthorne knew Trina and Allen. What I’m wondering …” He put his fingertips together, brow furled. “What were you doing at my daughter’s house?”

  “Like I said, we’re old friends. I was out of town for a long time—”

  “You’ve been back almost a year.”

  “Eight months.” I leaned back. “I thought you didn’t know who I was.”

  “You’re Trina and Allen’s kid,” he said, giving me a palms up shrug. “I’m sorry about what happened to them. Terrible accident.”

  “Accident?” I’d heard a few people call it that, and every time it got my blood hot. “They were murdered. Carjacking.”

  “As I understand it, the criminal never got the car.”

  “It wasn’t an accident, is what I’m saying.”

  Lincoln’s gaze flicked down toward my chest. “Nice shirt, by the way. Are you even old enough to remember Zeppelin?”

  I glanced down at my Led Zeppelin t-shirt, half in a daze from trying to keep up with this guy’s train of thoughts. “Not while they were together.”

  Lincoln closed his eyes and smacked his lips. “I saw them in seventy-six. You didn’t go to that one?”

  “I was three.”

  “Of course. Anyway. Back on point.” His eyes locked on mine. “My daughter is married.”

  “We’re just friends. It’s not what you think.”

  “How would you know what I think?”

  I didn’t bother to answer.

  “It’s how it looks, Rid,” he said, shortening my name like we were old pals. “It looks bad. Strange man sneaking out of my daughter’s house—”