Losers, Weepers

by Jessica Thomas

  Finally he spoke. “Mitch, we’ve got a freaking mess with a two-day-old unreported kidnapping here. Now listen.” He gave a surprisingly brief but cogent report, ending with the news of Reed’s disappearance. “So we have no idea where he is. I’d say he left the house close to thirty minutes ago now. I hope he is still in town and meeting a white or light tan van, but he could be meeting a boat, or he could be headed for Boston. But concentrate on Provincetown. Tell Nacho to get his plate number, I forgot to ask the kid. Have her alert the state police and the locals down as far as the canal bridges. Tell everyone to exercise caution, Catlett is armed. I don’t know about the other two. Stay in touch.”

  He stood and drained his coffee cup. “Want to come?”

  “No. I want to eat my dinner and watch something silly on TV. Also if Harry or Dana should hear anything, they might try to reach me here. They don’t have my cell number.”

  “Good idea. Okay. Talk to you later.”

  Although it was early for dinner, I was hungry and tired and had just lined up the ingredients for one of my famous grilled cheese and tomato sandwiches, when the phone rang. “Is Sonny there?” It was Mitch.

  “No, he left about five minutes ago.”

  “Damn.”

  “Anything I can do?”

  “No. Thanks. Oh, God, Alex, if only we had known about this an hour earlier, we had four cars just inadvertently in position to bring them all in, neat as a pin. Maybe not the girl, but everybody else. Now we’re going to look like idiots. Why didn’t somebody clue us in?” He sounded petulant.

  “Because nobody knew. What happened?” I put the phone on my shoulder and started constructing my sandwich.

  “Well, uh, you know how sometimes two or three of our cars take a break around four up by the amphitheater, if things are quiet. Just coffee or a Coke, maybe a snack, you know.”

  “No I don’t know, Mitch. Why don’t you tell me?”

  “It’s a time-honored custom,” he said magisterially, “has been for years. We just catch up with what’s been going on, you know. And we are entitled to a short break. Well, we are. And we only take ten minutes or so, just a brief period to loosen up, and a little caffeine intake to keep us alert. We don’t really waste any time, you know?” He was having a hard time selling himself on whatever he was talking about.

  “This time-honored custom seems to have upset you, Mitch. But it is not me you have to explain it to.”

  “I’m not explaining it to anybody. I’m just telling you it may look a little strange on the surface. Four cars just happened to be there at once.”

  “And the bank was robbed at the other end of town?” I had the sandwich put together and got out the skillet.

  “Worse. In one car, Nichols was just leaving to go back into town, even though everything on the radio was routine. As he pulled out of the parking lot, an off-white van pulled up with two young men in it. They looked a little startled to see all the cop cars, I guess, but they parked anyway. One guy got out and stretched, looked at the scenery for a minute. They swapped drivers, got back in and left.”

  “And nobody stopped them? Well, no, why would they?”

  “Right. They did nothing wrong. They didn’t run or try to hide or anything suspicious. Maybe looking for a spot to have a little sex, and this sure wasn’t it, so they moved on.”

  I was using both hands to butter the skillet and almost lost the phone, as he continued. “Nichols and Brandeis left. Pino was still there, and Mendes was there in an unmarked. A couple of minutes later a maroon Lincoln pulls up with a man in it.”

  “Ummm.” I was licking some tomato juice off my finger.

  “He jumps out of the car and shakes his fist at them and yells, ‘You lousy cops. You tell that Peres creep if he’s gotten my daughter killed, I’ll kill him.’ He jumps back in and takes off.”

  “Didn’t it occur to Pino or Mendes to go after him or to call dispatch and have them warn Sonny?”

  “Frankly, I couldn’t blame them in a way, Alex. For one thing, they were startled themselves. And then, this guy was raving about his daughter. They thought maybe Sonny and she . . . well, I’m not sure what they thought. But they wanted to tell him in private. You know half the retirees in town listen to the police scanner instead of TV for their entertainment.”

  “Yes. I can understand. I really can. But, God, what a mess.”

  “I’m almost to the Catletts’s now. I gotta talk to Sonny.”

  I hoped Sonny was alive to hear it. I turned the heat down under my sandwich, flipped it . . . perfection. And poured myself another mug of hot coffee.

  The back door flew open with a crash that announced the arrival of Reed Catlett, pointing a pistol with a barrel the size of the Lincoln Tunnel. I don’t know why I did it. Maybe I was just tired and had had enough of the Catletts that day, or maybe I was just pissed to smell my beautiful sandwich burning. Anyway, I did it.

  I threw my coffee, still surrounded by the mug, into Reed’s face and then hit him on the head with the hot skillet. He went down without a murmur.

  The door crashed again to admit Officer Mendes, Ptown’s baby-faced rookie on the force, and perhaps the only person associated with the police to do anything well that night. He had cruised my house as a precaution, noticed the Lincoln parked up the street and come a-running.

  He cuffed Reed as he lay on my kitchen floor, now conscious, sort of, while Wells and Fargo took tentative bites of the still-hot sandwich from his hair, carefully spitting out the tomato.

  Just to be on the safe side, we called the EMTs, but Reed was fully awake and talking by the time they got there.

  Yes, he had been supposed to meet the kidnappers in the parking lot. Yes, he’d had the money with him. It was now in the trunk of his car. He hadn’t really meant to shoot me. He just hoped I’d discovered where Zoe was. He thought his nose was broken. By the amount of blood leaking onto his shirt and then spattering onto my kitchen floor, I agreed with him.

  The EMTs got the blood slowed down. They put some kind of goop on the top of his head, where there was a sizeable lump and probably a mild burn. Mendes pronounced him under arrest for carrying an unlicensed firearm and for trespassing and aggravated assault. And they all left.

  Fargo figured it was now safe to bark and began to do so, sounding like a killer dog if I ever heard one.

  “Fargo, shut up. The cameras are not rolling.”

  I looked around at the kitchen at the shattered mug and spilled coffee. The rather sickening remains of my sandwich was now tracked all over the floor, with both animals licking at it here and there. There was a small puddle of blood with a white towel casually tossed over it, and grease and tomatoes all around.

  A drink. I wanted a strong drink, and I wanted food I hadn’t scraped off of tile. I did not want to mop a floor and sweep up shards of a mug and scrub a charred skillet. I walked out, leaving the two animals stunned. I didn’t care.

  The Wharf Rat Bar had never looked cozier. Some of our tourists had departed vacationland, and mostly locals lined the bar and occupied a few of the tables. The Rat’s determined sea-going look of anchors and shells and oars and lobster pots that so pleased our visitors was back to its old tatty, dusty self for the natives . . . complete with a ship’s telegraph, frozen in time at Dead slow astern. If the Wharf Rat had an heraldic shield, that would be on it.

  I selected a table in the emptiest corner and ordered a drink I usually have sense enough to avoid—a very dry gin martini, straight up, with two olives.

  When Joe, the bartender, got the order, he grinned and called over, “Having a fun day, Alex?”

  “Shut up, Joe, or make it a double.”

  “Oooh, well pahdonn moi.”

  Someone slid into the chair opposite me, and I turned back, loaded for bear. Seeing who it was, I adjusted my attitude and managed a smile. “Marcia. How nice. It’s been a while. How are you?”

  “I am fine, my dear Alex, and will not keep you from your recovery.” S
he smiled, and I felt better already.

  Marcia Robbie was somewhere in her forties, probably closer to getting out than coming in. Her curly black hair had two dramatic white wings that somehow made her look younger, and very dramatic. She spoke perfect English with just enough of a different cadence to tell you it was not her first language. She was originally from Canada and owned a top-of-the-line antique shop not far from me. She had a sort of vague reputation for having a number of male lovers, but nobody could prove it, and I personally rewrote the script to read: there were a lot of men who would like to be her lover and therefore, in the way of men since condos were caves, insinuated that they really were.

  “Is it true that Zoe Catlett either ran away from home or is kidnapped?” she asked.

  “Now where would you get that idea?” My martini arrived. I sipped it. Joe had done me proud.

  “Ah, Alex, you know I am the original operator of the jungle drum network. Is it true?”

  “Please don’t spread this around, Marcia, no matter what you may have heard. Unfortunately, it could be true.”

  “I thought she looked . . . strange.” Marcia actually offered me a cigarette!

  I took it, my faith in humanity restored, and asked, “What do you mean? Have you seen her?”

  She sipped the drink she had brought to my table. “Thursday night, something after nine, I was walking Napoleon.” Napoleon was her marvelous French bull terrier, who looked frighteningly ferocious and couldn’t even spell bite. “As we walked, a light-colored van went by, a rather noisy machine. I thought it was Zoe in the back, looking out nervously. I believe she ducked as they passed us by. If it were she, she did not want me to see her.”

  “I don’t suppose you noted the plates?” I had little hope.

  “Damn. How silly of me. I shall keep my day job. I will never be a detective. No, I never even thought of it. I am so sorry, and they were right in front of me.”

  “Don’t feel bad. Most people don’t get the numbers. They’re too busy watching whatever is happening.” I waved at Joe and made a circling motion with my hand. He nodded, and shortly our refills arrived.

  Marcia looked thoughtful. “She certainly was not gagged. I would have seen it. I’m sure she did not yell, or I would have heard her. No, I am almost positive she ducked down on the seat.”

  “That would have made sense at that point,” I said. “That early in the game it was all still some silly idea of hitting Reed up for a big handout to allow Zoe to go to New York and enroll in drama school. Do you know Reed and his new wife?”

  Marcia sipped her drink and smiled. “I’ve known Reed for years. Perhaps a little protective of his wallet, but I understand he can be generous when the occasion calls. He asked me out a couple of times, but I declined. He was very polite, but somehow, I was a little afraid of him. He brought the new wife by the shop not long ago. She has no finesse, no class, no hope.”

  I roared. “Maybe we could tattoo that on her forehead. It certainly fits.”

  Marcia smiled, but her eyes were serious. “Watch her, Alex. She is out of her depth with Reed and his friends. She knows it. That makes her dangerous.”

  “She certainly has been obstructive around Zoe’s little caper, which I’m afraid has now turned into the full monty . . . probably no longer a joke with her, either. Incidentally, have you noticed any empty houses or shops out your way?”

  She thought for a moment, then shook her head. “No, the houses all have locals in them, or are B and Bs still open. I think all the shops are open, too. I’ll have a look around.”

  “Don’t try to get in it, if you find one closed. Don’t even pay attention to it. You could find yourself in there with Zoe. Just call Sonny pronto.”

  “Napoleon would protect me.” She stood up. “Like Fargo looks after you. Oh, Alex, one thing I did notice. The van had a little dent and a small smear of blue paint on the side door—on the passenger’s side. Does that help?”

  “Very much. There are dozens of vans around, but I doubt many of them are marked with blue paint. Oh, Marcia, you may be our lifesaver—literally.” I was already reaching for my cell phone, and when I hung up, Marcia was gone.

  I had another drink while I waited for my steak, with duchess potatoes and a plain lettuce salad. No tomatoes if you please. There were enough of them waiting for me at home.

  Dinner was delicious. Joe’s wife Billie Jo was a super cook. And in my indulgent mood, I ordered a glass of claret to go with it . . . a sturdy little wine, able to stand up to the beef yet not eclipse its . . . oh, well, you know.

  My after dinner coffee was accompanied by a brandy, sent along by Peter and the Wolf, who were at the bar, They owned a B&B that catered—in most any way you could imagine—to older gay men. They were also good friends, and ordinarily I would have waved them over. But I was willing to bet they had heard something or other about Zoe, and I was in no mood to play Inquisition. I just blew a thank-you kiss.

  As I walked home, I realized I was slightly drunk. Maybe a little more than slightly. At any rate, I was glad I didn’t have the car. I sang patches from “Singin’ in the Rain,” although a light fog was all I could muster, and that may have been in my head. I let the two irate pets out, checked their water, provided goodies and let them in. Looking around the wrecked kitchen, I gave a fast chorus of “Mañana,” retired to my boudoir and got rid of most of my clothes before I fell into bed.

  Chapter 9

  From far away, I heard my name. “Alex. Alex. Are you all right?” Someone shook my shoulder and my head fell off. I groaned. The voice moved closer. “You smell like a bottle of gin. And what the hell happened to the kitchen? Did we have an earthquake here?”

  “Yes, that’s it.” An earthquake was all I could think of to make me feel this way. “Is it Tuesday already? Have I been unconscious under the rubble? I think I may be badly injured.”

  Cindy plopped down on the side of the bed, and my stomach gave a gravity-defying lurch. “Oh, God! I’m dying.”

  “Before you go, tell me what happened.”

  “Tell me why you’re home three days early,” I said cleverly. Maybe by the time she did that, I could remember what happened to the kitchen. “Is everything okay in . . . wherever?”

  “Oh, yes. Just fine.” She reached across me and took a cigarette from the table. She does this about once a month, and it consistently amazes and, frankly, pisses me off. How do you smoke one cigarette a month?

  “So, what happened?” I thought of a cigarette, but graciously declined, although none had been offered.

  “So, I wasn’t needed on the voyage. Ergo, I came home.”

  “What the hell are you trying to say? And stop calling me Ergo.”

  “There was a cast of thousands. First, you have the core family. My brother Pete, wife Karol, two older kids and now kid number three, Hillary, who’s adorable, by the way. Then there was me, in the guest room, all ready to look after Butch and Abby, so the new parents could look after Hillary and still get some kind of rest.”

  “A solid plan.” I was beginning to regain consciousness. I wondered if there was coffee.

  “Quite solid.” Cindy rolled her eyes dramatically. “Until . . . until, first, my mother arrived. She knew my brother needed to get back to work, so she came along to help with Hillary, and there went the other bed in the guest room. No more private, quiet moments. And here came a lot of advice on how to raise children.”

  “Daunting.”

  “Oh, I didn’t give up. I am sturdy. I know my duty. I smiled, and Karol smiled and Pete smiled. And Pete and I drank rather a lot that night. Then Karol’s mother decided she’d better add her assistance now instead of next week as scheduled, and flew in unannounced from Ohio.”

  “On the wings of a pure white dove, no doubt.” I’d have been out of there in a nanosecond.

  “Something like that, yes. And there went my bed in the guest room. I was now on the foldout couch in the living room, more aptly named Grand Central
Station. I was bloody but unbowed. But when Karol’s sister arrived from Pennsylvania—or was it Transylvania?—I knew we would be sharing that miserable couch. I do not share miserable couches in living rooms with vampire bats. I ‘slept’ in an easy chair for a few hours, quietly left at dawn and made good time. However, I am tired. And not prepared for this.” She swept her arm around broadly, narrowly missing my nose.

  “Did you also by any chance make coffee?”

  “No. That mess in the kitchen—a chair turned over, God knows what all over the floor, Wells and Fargo actually huddled together in his bed. Your stuff tossed all over the bedroom. I was afraid you really might be dead. It must have been one helluva party.” She apparently couldn’t decide whether to look hurt or angry.

  I reached for her hand. “It was. But not the kind you’re thinking of. If you will make a pot of coffee—I believe the coffeemaker survived—I will shower and meet you in the dining room. I promise to tell all.”

  She looked unconvinced. “I suppose Cassie figures prominently in this and will swear to everything you say.”

  Cassie is my best pal and runs a chartered aircraft business. Right now I wished she and I were far up in the blue, headed most anywhere. On oxygen.

  “No, my love, Cassie plays no role in this. My witnesses include such paragons of virtue as my fourth-grade teacher, an architect, his evangelical wife and the entire Provincetown police force. Now go, before I put me out of my misery.”

  Coffee helped. So did toast. Fargo and even Wells forgave me. I told Cindy about the whole convoluted mess, including that in the kitchen. Her entire attitude changed when I told her of Reed and his jumbo pistol.