by Loretta Ross
“No, it was done several decades ago at least. There’s dirt built up in the cracks between it and the normal floorboards. Someone put it there for a specific reason.”
“So what do you think the plywood is covering? Is there something in the hole in the floor?”
“You could say that. I think it all ties together, the company president’s office, the plywood, and the fact that the room feels like a refrigerator.”
“Aaaannndd … you’re going to tell me some day?”
He grinned. “I think there’s an opening to the Cherokee Caves. It’s the cold air coming up from the caverns that chills the room. They were used to keep beer cold, remember? I’ve heard of other brewing families having private tunnels from their houses to their breweries. It let them go to and from work in bad weather without going outside. There’s probably a stairway with a door into the caves at the bottom. When they abandoned the brewery, they decided for some reason to cover the stairwell. Maybe they were afraid vagrants would get into the building through the tunnels and they wanted an extra layer of protection beyond just the door. And someone else disturbed it in the last year or so.” He pulled up another picture and zoomed in close. “Look at the nails.”
“They’re new!” Wren realized.
“They’re new and they’re driven into existing nail holes left by rusty nails with larger heads. See the rings of rust around each one?”
Wren sat back and thought about it. “Okay, so there’s a way that someone could have come into the room and switched Randy’s helmet. But I still can’t think of any reason for it. Why?”
“Yeah, that’s where I keep getting hung up, too. The only thing I can think to do is find the person responsible and ask them, as forcefully as necessary.”
“So what’s our next move?”
“Well,” he shifted, put his feet up on the coffee table, and shrugged. “It’s not exactly legal and it’s not exactly safe, but I know a way to get into the caves. Randy and I went in once when we were teenagers.” He huffed a laugh, remembering. “If Dad had caught us, he’d have skinned us alive. Anyway, I think that’s the next thing. I want to see if I can find that tunnel. I want to know exactly where it leads.”
_____
“It’s time for your medicine, Mr. Grey.”
Andrew Grey was sitting in the luxurious bedroom, next to the open window, breathing in the scents of hot asphalt and car exhaust that came in between the burglar bars. He had an open book on his lap, but he was staring at it more than he was reading it. He tried in vain to recall the maid’s name. He knew he asked her every day and every day she gave him his pills and he swallowed them and slept. When he woke up, he’d forgotten again.
“I’ve never read this book,” he said, bemused.
She took it from his hands, closed it, and set it aside. “You can read it in the morning.”
She handed him a glass of water and he swallowed several mouthfuls. He handed the glass back and she set it on the tray she’d brought and reached past him to close the window. “Do you need me to help you to the bed to lie down?”
“I need to visit the restroom. Where’s my cane?”
She gave him his cane and helped him rise. Slowly and awkwardly he made his way across the room and into the bathroom. When the door was closed behind him, he put his hand to his mouth and spit out the pills he’d tucked under his tongue.
_____
When he’d been in the Corps, Death had run every morning, at least a mile. Before active duty, he’d run his way through basic training and before that he’d put in miles and miles on the high school track and baseball diamond. He’d never particularly enjoyed running, but it was a basic part of his fitness regimen so he did it. It was familiar—working the night’s kinks out of his muscles with the early sun on his shoulders and the new day fresh in his lungs.
He stopped at the corner and leaned against a street sign, pretending to check his phone and trying to look casual.
The first six weeks after he was released from the VA hospital, he’d had to carry an oxygen tank with him wherever he went and he’d needed to use the electric shopping carts to make it through one of the big retail stores. It had been one of the most humiliating experiences of his life. The breathing exercises he did faithfully had helped a great deal, but his doctors had warned him that he would never get back to full lung capacity, or even get close.
It had probably been a mistake to walk to the convenience store for coffee and donuts, but it was only three blocks. Mule-headed pride prevented him from driving that distance.
He pushed off the sign and crossed the street. As he did, an older-model, light-brown sedan cruised slowly past him, then sped up when he glanced in its direction. His gut tingled with unease, and he told himself not to be melodramatic. Sometimes Afghanistan, with its ever-present dangers, intruded on Missouri. He had a tendency to be hyper-alert and constantly schooled himself not to jump at shadows.
GasMart was on the corner. The light-brown car pulled into the lot and parked next to the building. As Death passed the gas pumps, the driver got out and they approached the glass door at the same time from opposite directions. The soldier in Death went on alert.
The figure coming toward him was short and slight, with a deep tan and dark eyes, a pencil-thin black mustache, and a baseball cap pulled low. In the warm, humid morning he was wearing a sweatshirt jacket that hung open over a heavy sweatshirt and a pair of leather gloves. The right pocket of his jacket hung lower than the left and swung like a pendulum. He’d left his car running.
Death instinctively tapped at his own hip, but of course he wasn’t carrying. He’d left his gun back in East Bledsoe Ferry with Chief Reynolds. He was unarmed and winded and he was about to get caught in a convenience store robbery.
The best course of action would be to stay outside and call 911, but one glance at the robber and he knew that was out of the question. The man was watching him, his hand in his pocket. If he suspected Death was onto him, all he had to do was point and pull the trigger. A smart shooter wouldn’t even take the gun out of his pocket first. If Death had had the option of running away, he’d have taken it. Shooting didn’t necessarily mean killing, or even hitting. Most people weren’t nearly as good a shot as they thought they were. But running was out of the question and, as close as they were, even a lousy shot was apt to be deadly.
He reached the door first and went inside, feigning unconcern and watching the gunman in the reflection on the door. In his mind’s eye, he reviewed what he could expect to find in a convenience store that could be used for self-defense.
The counter was to the right. On his left were rows of shelves full of snack food and the odd assortment of groceries and sundries stocked by such establishments. The front wall was entirely windows with low shelves underneath displaying motor oil and engine additives. The back wall was taken up by a row of refrigerated display cases—soda pop and beer and sandwiches behind glass doors that served as poor mirrors.
At the end of the counter was a glass-sided grill full of breakfast sausages and hot dogs roasting on metal rollers. Beside the grill stood a condiment bar with salt and pepper, individual packets of relish and onions, and squeeze bottles of ketchup and mustard. Death crossed to it eagerly, grabbing the bottle of mustard, and turning to trade the faint reflection in the cooler doors for a direct view of the robber. As he did, the man pulled a .38 from his pocket and the teenage boy behind the counter screamed.
The gunman ignored the teenager and spun immediately toward Death, raising his gun as he turned. He held it in both hands, the butt of the gun cupped in his left hand and his right index finger tightening on the trigger. Death read his intention to fire in his body language and dropped, falling to his left as the shot rang out. The bullet passed over his right shoulder and shattered a cooler full of bottled beer.
He’d popped the top off the bottle as he fell and he came up spraying mustard at the gunman’s eyes. The gunman ducked away reflexively, still
firing, and bullets shattered random targets and took chunks out of the wall behind Death. Leading with the squirting mustard, Death aimed for his assailant’s nose and mouth. The thick, yellow paste covered the man’s airways and he clawed at his face in a blind panic, dropping his gun in the process.
“Stop or I’ll shoot!”
Startled, Death and the gunman turned to the teenager behind the counter. In the heat of their fight they’d both forgotten him. He had a gun of his own, an ancient revolver he held in both hands. He was trembling so badly that the barrel danced like water drops on a hot skillet. The gunman gave up and ran for his car.
Death dropped the mustard bottle and leaned against the counter, trying to drag in enough air to calm his heartbeat. “Kid,” he said, “just don’t, okay?”
_____
Wren came out of the bathroom toweling her hair dry. Randy’s home had a central air conditioner that was ancient but well-maintained and efficient, causing her to shiver in the chilly room. She’d been thinking about Death and his theory about the caves.
If he was right about the Einstadt family having a private entrance to the brewery through the caves, it made sense that the passage would lead to the Einstadt mansion. It had been built at the same time as the brewery. It could have been situated over a natural entrance to the caves, or an artificial entrance could have been dug.
That didn’t mean the current occupants were involved, or even that they knew the passage existed. Their end of the passage could exit in a remote location, such as a garden shed, and there could very well be some way to get from the passage to the main network of caves. In fact, there’d better be, or she and Death would find nothing on the clandestine caving expedition he was planning for later that day. If that happened, she had a strong suspicion they’d end up trespassing and making an unlawful entry into the brewery before the night was over.
Still, she was curious about Andrew Grey and his wife. With Andrew incapacitated and his wife effectively cut off—and wasn’t that an alien concept?—they had no part in allowing Death to see the inside of the brewery. It would be transparently disingenuous of her to bring them a small thank you gift as a pretext to meet them and get a look inside their home. Back home in East Bledsoe Ferry it wouldn’t be a problem. If she didn’t know someone, she was certain to know someone who did. And then, of course, there was Cameron and his connections through the paper. He knew everybody and everything that went on in a three-county radius.
Cameron. Hmm. He had been the first to find the picture of Randy at the school fire safety day, even if none of them had seen the significance at the time. Maybe he could snoop long distance.
The easy chair Wren curled up in still smelled faintly of a delicate, floral perfume and she knew without asking that this had been Death’s grandmother’s favorite seat.
I hope you don’t mind me sitting in your chair, she thought. And I hope you don’t mind me falling in love with your grandson. I’ll give up the chair if you want me to, but Death’s mine.
The A/C unit cut off and the room warmed around her ever so slightly, but perhaps it was only coincidence. She fished her phone out of the pocket in her dressing gown and dialed Cam. He picked up on the second ring. “How’s St. Louis? Have you knocked the Arch over yet?”
“Knocked over as in ‘robbed it’ or knocked over as in ‘boom’?”
“Have you done either?”
“Well, no.”
“Then what’s the difference?”
“Ha ha. Very funny. Have I ever told you how much I love a comedian in the morning?”
“I think you may have mentioned something once or twice. Something about dry heat and telemarketers and little kids leaving jacks and plastic building blocks in the carpet?” Wren growled for form and Cameron laughed.
“So to what do I owe the pleasure of your grouchy attention this morning?”
“I was just calling to check in,” she hedged. “How are my babies doing?” Cameron was watching Thomas, Wren’s pugilistic old tomcat, and Lucy, the three-legged hound she’d adopted.
“They’re fine. Why are you really calling?”
“What makes you think I have an ulterior motive?”
“Because I know you. I’ve known you for years. I think I can tell when you’re working your way up to ask me for a favor.”
Wren sighed. “I’m sorry, Cam. I don’t mean to take advantage of you.”
“You’re not. We’re friends, aren’t we?”
“Of course.”
“Well, that’s what friends are for. What do you need?”
“I wondered if you knew anything, or could find out anything, about a man named Andrew Grey and his wife. I don’t know her first name. He’s the descendant of the Einstadt Brewing family and he owns the brewery where Death’s brother died. He’s not in control of it right now, though, because apparently he had a stroke about a year ago. His wife is his fifth wife. She’s a lot younger than he is and he doesn’t trust her to manage his business affairs. He has a living will and, because of that, there’s a lawyer in charge of all his property. That’s pretty much all I know right now.”
“I’ve never heard of them,” Cam said, “but I’ll be glad to see what I can find out. Is there anything particular you want to know?”
“No, not really. Nothing I can think of.”
“Why do you want to know about them?”
“I don’t know. It’s not important. Just idle curiosity. You don’t have to do it if you don’t want to.”
“Hello? Newspaper reporter? Idle curiosity is my SOP. Give me a day or two to see what I can dig up and I’ll get back to you.”
They chatted for a few more minutes before saying goodbye. Death had been gone a long time on his coffee and donut run and she was starting to get worried. As much as she respected his independence and his determination to overcome, as best he could, his disability, she knew he tended to push himself beyond his limits. She dressed quickly, pulled on a pair of sneakers, and was just heading out the front door when a police car pulled up in front of the house.
Her breath caught in her throat and her heart froze, but then the passenger door opened and Death got out.
A middle-aged police officer got out of the driver’s side and came around the car. He was laughing and Death looked both perturbed and amused. Wren waited on the porch as they made their way up the uneven walkway, the cop trying to take Death’s arm and Death impatiently slapping him away. They came to a stop at the foot of the steps and Death looked up at her. “I have the worst luck in the history of the universe,” he said.
“I wouldn’t say that. The guy missed,” the cop said.
“Who missed?” she asked, alarmed. “Missed what?”
“Your boyfriend here just walked into the middle of a convenience store robbery.”
“Oh my God!”
“It’s okay, sweetheart. He didn’t get me.”
“Not for lack of trying,” the cop said.
Death glared at him. “I’m trying to reassure her. You’re not helping here.”
“Oh. Right. Sorry. I was distracted by trying to figure out how I’m going to write up my report with a straight face.”
Wren went down the steps, got Death by the arm, and dragged him back up onto the porch, as if by her side was the only place he could be safe. “Why is it going to be hard to write up your report with a straight face?” she asked.
“It’s just not every day that a would-be armed robber gets taken out by a badass former Marine armed with a bottle of mustard.”
ten
Wren, mindful of having asked a favor, convinced Death to let her call Cameron and give him the convenience store robbery story. He was as delighted with it as she’d thought he would be. “This is awesome! ‘Mustard-Weilding East Bledsoe Ferry Resident Thwarts Armed Robber!’ That’s a front-page headline right there. Go over the description of the robber for me again.”
Wren glanced at Death to see if he wanted to take that question, but h
e’d nodded off. She switched off the speaker and took the phone into the kitchen so as not to awaken him. “Police are looking for a Hispanic male, slight build, pencil mustache, mid-to late-forties, wearing jeans and a sweatshirt. He’s driving a late-90s model Oldsmobile Cutlass, tan or light brown, and he has mustard all over his face.” She giggled as she said it and Cameron laughed.
“Okay,” she conceded, “so he’s probably washed that off by now.”
“Can I get a closing quotation from the Colonel?”
“The Colonel? Oh, Lord! Colonel Mustard!” She slapped a hand over her own mouth to keep from waking Death. All at once her laughter morphed into tears and suddenly she was sobbing into the phone. Cameron didn’t speak but waited her out. “That man was shooting at him. He tried to kill him, Cam! He could’ve died this morning!”
“I know, sweetie. Where is he? I thought he was there with you.”
“He’s in the living room. I’m in the kitchen. He fell asleep. He hasn’t been sleeping well since we found out about the thing with Randy’s badge. This fight this morning just took everything out of him. Poor thing! He didn’t even get his coffee and donuts!”
“You could make him some.”
“I don’t have anything to cook with. I’d have to go to the grocery store. I guess I could—I probably should. I know the way now. I just hate to leave him alone.”
“Will it take you long? Is it very far away?”
“No, there’s a little store a couple of miles from here.”
“He’ll be fine. You could make him some spudnuts. And maybe a nice hazelnut latte to go with them.”
Wren laughed again, less hysterical now that the first storm of emotion had passed. “He’s a Marine, Cam. He takes his coffee black and strong enough to double as metal polish.”
“Blech. Well, to each his own, I guess. Listen, I haven’t had much chance yet to look into the Greys. It’s Jubilee Days this weekend and I had to cover the turtle races. I did find out that Andrew Grey is loaded. After Prohibition shut down the brewery, the family switched their focus to medicinal liquor they made at another location. From there, they went into pharmaceuticals. Andrew’s worth billions. He had a stroke fourteen months ago. There was a big stink at the time because one of his ex-wives tried to get a court order to force his current wife to allow her access to him. It dragged on for several months before they eventually settled the matter out of court. There hasn’t been anything in the news about him since. I’ll go further back and see what else I can find after the weekend.”