Losers, Weepers

by Jessica Thomas

  I closed my eyes for a moment. Wonderful. Harmon had tapped the super-wealthy, pillars of the town, Tellman sisters and Choate Ellis, president of the bank and vestryman of the Episcopal Church, as drug dealers. Sometimes I wondered how Sonny stood it.

  Harmon was moving right along to his next triumph in crime solving. “ . . . and I decided to have a beer at the Fisherman’s Dock for a change.”

  I took a healthy sip of my drink and turned what was left of my attention back to our detective extraordinaire. “You’re slumming, Harmon,” I teased.

  “Yeah,” he agreed. “Don’t tell Joe. But it was lucky I did. Mark Maddock was there. He’d already put away a couple, and he was layin’ it on thick to all his buddies at the bar.”

  It took me a minute to realize he was referring to Harry Maddock’s father and asked, “What do you mean, laying it on thick?”

  Would this day ever end? Seemingly, it was set to run forever-amen, even though I was not.

  “Mark was bragging that he had twenty thousand cool ones, and he said he well deserved them and then some after all the shit—I beg your pardon, Alex—that had been handed him all his life by folks who thought they’s better than him. I put it aside as just the booze talking, but one of his friends took him up on it. He asked Mark if he’d robbed Fishermen’s Bank lately. Now Mark, he looked kinda funny at first, like he might start a fight, but then he realized it was a joke and laughed and said he’d had some good luck at the track.”

  I was beginning to be intrigued. “Maddock must have had a heavy bet on the exacta or something to win that kind of money,” I said. “You don’t win twenty grand putting ten dollars on Speedo in the fourth.” I stood up. “Hold on a minute and let me freshen these glasses.”

  I got no argument from Harmon.

  When I returned, Harmon nodded his thanks, obviously thinking of something else. He looked up and nodded again. “Maddock wasn’t at no track. I saw him and another guy today carrying a couch into that upholstery repair place he works at.”

  “Maybe he meant another day,” I offered.

  He wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “It didn’t sound like it. Nope, I figure he has somehow got himself lined up with Choate Ellis and them two women. Maybe some nights he kinda borrows that big truck and goes into Boston or New York, lookin’ all innocent with Upholstery Repair painted all over the truck. I’m telling you, this is big-time, Alex.”

  I nodded. I’d agree to anything to get some solitary quiet.

  “The sad thing is, I think he’s got his boy, Harry, involved with him. While he was rambling on, bragging about his windfall, he said something about Harry was going to be proud of him for coming up with the money. I really do hope Harry ain’t in it. He is a nice boy.”

  “Yes, I hope so, too.” I sipped my drink carefully. I was so tired, it wouldn’t take much to put me right up there with Maddock. So how did the high roller leave it?”

  “He set the bar up with free drinks. I asked him if he wasn’t afraid he’d spend Harry’s part of the money, buying us all drinks. He said he guessed he could spare a few drinks out of twenty thousand dollars. I said I guessed he could, too, and after my drink, I just left. It looked like the rest of them was settling in to get a lesson in picking winners.” He chortled at his own wit.

  “Do you think he was lying about having the money? If he wasn’t, where do you think he really got it?”

  “He had a wad on him, all right, and they looked to be mostly fifties and twenties. I’d figure at least a couple of hundred. More like three. He sure didn’t have twenty grand on him. Of course, it could be at home or someplace else. He’s got to be involved in drugs in a big way, Alex. That kind of money, maybe he brings it in hidden in the stuffing they use for upholstery. So if you see Sonny before I do, you be sure and tell him about these two new important connections in town.”

  “Oh, I will, Harmon. And I know he’ll be grateful.”

  He stood and thanked me for the beers with his usual politeness and left, detouring obediently through the garage for his tomatoes and peppers.

  I sighed. Two new drug connections. Thank you, Harmon. I wish they were all that easy.

  I thought of how Sonny would love Harmon’s latest discoveries in crime and smiled as I nibbled at the orange slice I had put in my drink. There were a couple of cherries in the glass, too. In fact, if it hadn’t been embarrassing around others, I would have put in four or five. I loved them. Cindy had suggested I simply drain the juice off a bottle of them, soak them in bourbon and eat them flambé with a spoon for dessert. I was pretty sure she was kidding.

  The story of the Tellman sisters and Choate Ellis was typically, outrageously Harmon. Although shipping drugs in bales of couch stuffing might not be a bad idea, at that. Occasionally our Harmon was quite creative. The rest of the Maddock story began to bother me.

  For one thing, this was not a characteristic Harmon tale. Here, he had actually seen a sizeable amount of money. More than Maddock was likely to have normally at any one time. Was Maddock in some way connected to Zoe’s disappearance? I wondered if he knew Reed from years back and was acting as some sort of go-between. Or had he perhaps seen something? Or did Harry Maddock know more than he was telling about something, and had he let it slip to Mark, who then blackmailed somebody for the big money?

  I brought myself back to earth. Of course, flashing a few big bills in a bar was no proof Mark actually had twenty thousand dollars. And I wondered why he had bragged that he had twenty thousand dollars, when all the gallery records indicated that slightly over twenty-five was missing. Most people who boast about money tend to brag up not down. But I rather imagined he did have some sizable amount, for the simple reason that he hinted at Harry’s college expenses.

  It would have seemed more realistic to me if Mark had claimed he planned to buy a boat, a new car, even a new house or a trip. Most likely to bet it all on his lucky horse tomorrow, now that he was on a roll. And come out a millionaire . . . in his dreams. Right up to the moment when he lost the last hundred dollars. According to his wife, college was not high on Mark’s list of important expenses, hardly to be bragged about to his bar friends unless he really had it. At least for today.

  I munched a cherry. Maybe Mark had felt more guilt than he had admitted about not providing at least some assistance for Harry’s education. Maybe Mark, Betsy, Jan and Choate were planning to run the Cali Cartel out of business.

  I must have said the last sentence out loud, for I received a snappy reply.

  “How long have you been in the sun? Or are you just drunk on cherries?”

  “Not long and no. Harmon was just here. You know what that does to one’s coherent thought process. Hello, darling.”

  Chapter 18

  I had left a bevy of phone messages around town for Sonny. I wasn’t the only one in the family who frequently ignored or misplaced their cell phone, and thus far, I’d had no reply.

  Cindy and I were both tired and were quite happy to sit down to one of those tossed together dinners that sometimes seemed better than planned ones.

  She was delighted to learn that Charlie’s reputation was intact, even though a portion of money was still missing. Apparently, if Harmon had overheard Choate properly, the books balanced. The cash, of course, was still missing, but it made no sense to think that Charlie had anything to do with the theft. Other than be killed by the thief, of course.

  I told Cindy about Harmon’s latest drug cartel. She was almost rolling with laughter and teased me—I hoped she was teasing—that she was going to tell Choate first thing in the morning.

  I bribed her into silence by telling her about Ellen’s and Charlie’s casual infidelities.

  “Somehow that doesn’t surprise me,” she said quietly. “It saddens me, but it doesn’t surprise me.”

  “Why?” I popped the last bite of salad into my mouth. “They’re no different from us, and we don’t cheat.”

  “Yes, they are—were. They were together a long
time, and some people don’t handle continuity well. Even their careers were different from ours. I work for a bank, where every penny must be in the right slot, both for the bank and for the customer. You are out there every day, upholding the law and trying to catch the people who don’t. And I’m not teasing you about that.” She stood up and started to clear the table.

  I looked up at her, confused. “But they were both honest. The bank just proved that Charlie was. And Ellen’s reputation is pure as snow. I’ve never heard of her in a slimy deal.”

  Cindy nodded and began putting dishes in the washer. “I don’t mean they were dishonest. I mean, they were both in wheeler-dealer jobs, where half the sales effort is social, where a lot of big money changes hands with a lot of little side deals thrown in. It’s just a different milieu than yours or mine, where something is legal or it isn’t, and at closing time the books must balance.”

  “I get you now.” I leaned back in my chair and lit cigarette number eight. It had been that kind of day. “Maybe they felt their jobs were so continuously stressful, they had the right to a little additional recreation.”

  “Maybe. Haven’t you ever been tempted?”

  I took a slow drag on my cigarette to give myself some time to decide how to answer. Truth? Lie? Truth.

  “Once.”

  Cindy returned to the table and took one of my cigarettes, a sure sign she was jumpy. “It was Maureen, wasn’t it? She was bound and determined she was going to get you.”

  “Yes, but I figured out it was nothing to be flattered over. She just wanted another notch in her well-carved belt.”

  “Still, she was lovely to look at, and very sexy. No wonder you were tempted. What stopped you?”

  I was getting uncomfortable. Why the hell had I started this?

  “It’s simple. One day she made a major pass at me, and I had immediate visions of a very exciting afternoon. Then my brain turned on and I knew I would spend days—maybe years—of regret and self-hatred. Regret at losing you and self-hatred for not living up to my agreement with myself.”

  Sonny never did return my phone call, but he picked that moment to walk through the back door. I was extremely happy to see him.

  We retired from kitchen to living room. I felt the need for comfort. Sonny and I flopped on the couch, while Cindy remained upright in one of the wing chairs. Sonny had carried in the coffee tray and we all helped ourselves to some needed caffeine.

  I gave him the report of my day, and he was impressed with my endurance if nothing else.

  “The Tellman sisters and Choate Ellis,” he mused. “I would bet Father Jameson will be Harmon’s next victim. No one else is left. He’s already tagged that lady who runs the day care center.”

  “There must be a bishop who visits occasionally. He could bring the drugs with him in that tall hat they wear,” I supplied dreamily.

  “Wake up, Alex. It isn’t bedtime yet.” Sonny handed me my mug of coffee from the coffee table. “Some of what you picked up today is very interesting. I’m just not sure where things all fit. In fact, I’m not especially sure where anything fits. Maybe it’s all just a bunch of gossip and neurotic people. Or maybe it’s a conspiracy to drive the Peres kids crazy.”

  Cindy lit another cigarette from my pack on the coffee table. I hoped she wasn’t getting back into old habits. “I think you both need a vacation,” she said. “Start with Reed. If he killed his wife, he’d hardly flinch at diddling around raising money for his daughter’s ransom, hoping the price would go down. Or maybe he paid Mark Maddock twenty big ones to kill Zoe so she can’t embarrass him anymore.”

  Sonny sat up. “You know, you could have a—”

  “Be quiet. I’m not finished. Maybe Harmon got it backward about your Tellman saints. Maybe they were on the wharf, paying someone to kill Charlie because she discovered those two young men are up in the barn painting over stolen masterpieces, which Dan Portman flies in aboard his Gulfstream and Jan peddles in New York on those trips of hers.”

  “My God, Cindy!” I put my mug back on the coffee table. “We could spend years unraveling this mess. Painting over masterpieces. What a can of worms that opens up. And Dan Portman has a reputation of being as honest as Abe Lincoln . . .”

  “ . . . who slept with a young soldier when his wife wasn’t around.”

  My lady was on a roll.

  At that point, the phone rang. Cindy reached to the table beside her chair and picked it up. “Hello. Oh, yes. She’s right here. Hold on.”

  She handed me the phone, whispering, “Jan Tellman.”

  “How timely. Should I ask her about the masterpieces?” I whispered back, and then aloud said, “Hi, Jan. This is Alex.” I motioned for Cindy to push the speaker button.

  “Alex, we’ve had two rather strange things happen today, and the more we thought about them, the more we thought we’d better see if you, too, felt they were important.” She sounded tense.

  “Sure, Jan, what happened?”

  “Well, first of all, at the bank this morning, the forensic accountant Choate had called in, gave us his report. Going back several years, he finds no indication whatsoever that Charlie Cohane misappropriated a penny of the gallery funds. One or two very minor errors anyone might have made, but no evidence of theft, whatsoever. We were delighted. Of course, the money from the safe is still missing, and we may never find it, but we certainly don’t think Charlie took it. We were so fond of Charlie. It had been terribly painful to have even the slightest suspicion she had taken any money that wasn’t hers. We feel as if we’re breathing normally again.”

  I didn’t tell her we were already privy to that confidential information—courtesy of the town’s beer-guzzling character. “God, what a relief!” I exclaimed dramatically. “Ellen and Charlie’s mother will feel as if you took a ton of bricks off their shoulders—not to mention their hearts.”

  “Yes, we plan to call them both shortly. But first, there’s a new mystery.”

  The three of us looked at each other and grimaced.

  “Oh? What’s that?” I managed to ask neutrally.

  “A woman named Marie Santos called us earlier today. She had found a piece of paper with the gallery name on it, caught among some flowers in her front yard. She assumed someone had just tossed it carelessly away, or possibly that it had blown off a garbage truck or something of the sort, and she started simply to put it in her own trashcan. Then she noticed it was a bank deposit slip and thought it might be valuable, so she called us.”

  Jan paused, as if taking a sip of something. I certainly felt that I could use a sip of something at that point. She continued. “Betsy went over to her home on Medeiros Street and picked it up. Alex, it is a deposit slip for $25,130 cash, which is approximately what we found was missing from the safe. It was made out on the day Charlie died, and it was—as usual—signed by her. What on earth do you think?”

  I thought that twenty-five thousand had been in more places than Jack Kennedy had been in beds. I took a deep breath. “Jan, I frankly don’t know what to think just offhand. Let me talk to my brother about this. Hang on to that paper. Does anyone else know about this?”

  “No.”

  “Keep it that way, and get the slip into a safe place. I, or a policeman, will pick it up in the morning. Thank you so much for calling. I’ll be back to you, Jan.”

  “I understand. Good night, Alex, and thank you.”

  “Good night.”

  We all started talking at once, and then we all quit. “Will this day ever end?” I wailed. Hadn’t I said that before? “All we ever get are more questions. We never get any answers.”

  Cindy was on her feet and headed for the highboy where we keep the booze. “Here.” She handed out small splashes of brandy. “This will either wake us up or put us to sleep. I don’t much care which. I’ll make some fresh coffee.”

  Sonny spoke slowly. “The deposit slip is dated and presumably signed the day of Charlie’s death. The gun was found on the floor beside he
r. The safe was open. The money was missing. How do we get them all back together?”

  He sipped his brandy and went on. “Where’s the money? It’s not in her—I guess now I should say Ellen’s—house. Charlie has no safety deposit box in any bank on this end of the Cape. It’s not in her personal account at Fishermen’s Bank. With their permission, we’ve searched Mrs. Cohane’s place, Ellen and Charlie’s premises, and the gallery. It’s not at any of them. Either she gave it to an accomplice to hold, or somebody else stole it. Either way, Mark Maddock comes to mind.”

  I shook my head. “It’s hard to see Mark Maddock and Charlie as cohorts. He drinks too much, he gambles and he is a blabbermouth. By tomorrow morning, the whole town will know Mark Maddock somehow came into a bundle. That’s a bit dangerous if you’re going to stash your stolen goods with him.”

  “Yeah, I suppose.” Sonny yawned. “And you forgot to mention, Mark’s dumber than dishwater. If he was selling drugs, he’d put them in a little bottle with his name and phone number, so you’d remember where to get your next stash.”

  I was too tired to laugh. “Anyway, Mark’s wife says he ain’t fond of gays. So Charlie doesn’t seem a very likely chum for him. In any case, if she gave it to an accomplice, why make out a deposit slip?”

  “Maybe it was someone other than Mark as an accomplice. Maybe someone she did business with.”

  “Charlie was as close-mouthed as they come. I doubt she would have had anyone for a partner in crime, as it were.” I set my coffee down with a bang. I was tired and getting irritable. “Surely, she didn’t have a cooperative teller who would verify the deposit and then claim the bank lost it.”

  Cindy sipped her coffee. “Emily Bartles was there. She could be the accomplice. Motive and opportunity, right there.” She sounded right out of Law & Order.