EQMM, February 2008

by Dell Magazine Authors

  With the handkerchief, I carefully pulled the compact out of my back pocket. I made sure I didn't get my fingerprints on it, even though I knew that by taking it I had compromised its value in court.

  For a second I thought the words had vanished, but more makeup powder had been pressed against the mirror while it had been closed. I gently blew the powder away. The words assembled themselves into Julia's voice.

  "I put my trust in you."

  The bathroom floor and walls tipped like a boat descending a wave. I pressed a hand against the wall so I wouldn't capsize, then put down the toilet lid and sat on the stool. My breathing came out as if someone was doing it for me and didn't know the rhythm I liked.

  She'd known she was going to die. May even have been dying when she wrote it. On the telephone that morning she'd said I was the only one she could trust, and I'd shown up too late to save her. On time for our meeting, but still too late.

  I took a few deep, deliberate breaths and rose carefully to my feet. I wrapped the compact up in the handkerchief and stuffed it in my back pocket again. Then I remembered the telegram. I sat down again and read it. News I hadn't expected. News that becomes tragic when somebody dies.

  When I left the Men's room and navigated my way through the empty dining room tables, the floor was still choppy.

  "You feeling okay?” Parrish said as I met him on the porch. “You look a little pale."

  "I'm fine.” I pushed open the screen door and we stepped out under the front portico and started down the steps.

  A man came running toward us from out of the darkness near the road that hugged the shore of the lake. A Ford truck built in the ‘thirties was parked at an angle on the grass, its driver's-side door still open. The man ran with an effortless grace and fluidity usually reserved for animals that choose flight over fight.

  "Sheriff.” He grabbed Parrish by both arms. His words came out awkward and flat. “Where is she? Is she okay?"

  His hair was closely cropped and as thick and brown as the hide of a deer. His work boots were untied and his clothes—a hunter-green work shirt and tan work pants—hadn't seen soap since Roosevelt's second term. The hands he used to grip the sheriff's shoulders were thick and scabbed.

  "Pete Gallagher, this is Darrow Nash.” Parrish tilted his head my way. Gallagher let loose of the sheriff and we shook hands. His grip was soft and weak like he was handling rice paper. You didn't need to kiss him to smell the whiskey.

  He turned back to Parrish. “Is she okay?"

  "No, Pete,” said the sheriff. “She's not. I didn't want to tell you over the phone, but Julia's dead."

  Gallagher stared at Parrish's face. The farmer's head bobbed slightly as if floating on the whiskey he'd consumed, waiting for the sheriff to wink, to smile, to do something to make it all one big joke. When Parrish didn't respond, Gallagher moved stiffly to the steps and sat down. I expected him to begin sobbing, but he never let out a sound. His face was expressionless, almost lifeless, like the facade of a vacant house.

  Parrish crouched in front of him. “You need anything?"

  Gallagher shook his head. His face was pale even in the timid glow from the porch light.

  "Pete, as hard as it might be, I need you to identify her body."

  Gallagher dropped his head and nodded. “Okay."

  Parrish hesitated. “How much have you had tonight?"

  Fleet Pete looked up. His spine hardened into granite but his head still floated free. “Enough to get me through this."

  "Is that your alibi?"

  "Alibi? I was at home, remember? That's where you called me.” He looked toward the lake as if it might share his irritation. Then he turned back to Parrish. “You think I did this?"

  "Pete, I'm the sheriff. I've got a job to do. For this county and for Julia."

  The granite spread to the farmer's thick shoulders and his balled fists. He stood up. “Just show me where she is."

  * * * *

  Eaves and the coroner were in the bedroom when the sheriff and I walked into Cabin Number Eight. The air inside had soured, leaving an aftertaste of heat and death. Gallagher waited outside until Parrish was ready for him.

  Parrish stuffed his hands into his pockets. “What do you think, Ernie?"

  Ernie was the coroner, a fat man whose nose whistled with each breath. He had a tuft of black hair on his head that was slicked back with too much hair tonic. He had a tuft of black hair on his upper lip that looked like a caterpillar. He wore a dark blue suit that might have fit him when he went to the prom a dozen years ago, but was now stretched so tight between his shoulders as he bent over the victim that you could have bounced a buffalo nickel off of it.

  Ernie stood up straight. His glasses were propped on his forehead but he settled them back on his nose to look at the sheriff. “No signs of a struggle. Pupils constricted. Empty pill bottle. Gotta be a fatal dose of narcotics."

  "That's what I've been saying,” said Eaves with a glance toward the sheriff.

  "What about the bruise?” I said.

  Ernie cocked his head like a spaniel. “What bruise?"

  "The one on her right cheek. And the red marks around her mouth and under her chin."

  Everyone leaned in for a closer look. Ernie propped the glasses back on his forehead and bent over Julia's face. “Well, I'll be darned.” He stood up with a self-satisfied smile, as if he'd been the one to spot the ghostly blemishes. He looked at me. “Ever thought of becoming a coroner?"

  "No,” I said nicely. “Have you?"

  His smile vanished. He dropped the glasses on his nose again, then picked up a camera off the floor and took one last picture, probably for his photo album. He stuffed the camera into a small satchel. “I'll give you my report tomorrow, Sheriff.” As he stepped past me, he gave me a look like something about me tasted bad.

  * * * *

  With Russ's wallet gone, the peddler begins to walk away.

  Russ grabs the man's arm. “Wait. I can get the money."

  He gives me a big, mischievous smile. “I know they say to never lend money to friends, Darrow, but...” He bats his eyelashes at me.

  "I don't buy plunder,” I say.

  "No, but I do. I'll pay you back. I promise."

  With a smile and a shake of the head, I give him the twenty he needs.

  As we walk back down an alley toward our hotel, Russ admires his gold coin. “This could be worth a fortune."

  "Or it could be a fake."

  "Yeah, but I like what it says."

  "Edwardus Quintus?"

  "No. What it means. It says, ‘Don't look too far down the road.’ It was struck in honor of a king who didn't live long enough to be crowned. It says what I always say, Darrow. Live for now."

  He slaps me on the back and lets out a laugh that echoes off the alley walls.

  The next week he mails the coin home for safekeeping.

  The week after that he's dead.

  I never got my twenty bucks back.

  * * * *

  Parrish opened the screen door and told Gallagher he could come in. Gallagher swallowed a couple of deep breaths, then stepped into the cabin. He and Eaves were brothers-in-law, but they said nothing to each other. They didn't even make eye contact. Gallagher wasted no time before he entered the tiny bedroom.

  He strolled in, walked up close to Julia, and stared at her face. Then he reached down and ran a gentle thumb over her right cheek. After a moment, he straightened up and turned toward the bedroom door, but kept his eyes on the floor. “That's her.” He strode out of the bedroom and headed for the screen door. Parrish and Eaves watched him go.

  I caught up to Gallagher outside. He had stopped to swallow some fresh air and was staring toward the black void of Lake Minnewaska.

  "Cigarette?” I said as I held out my open pack.

  He looked at the pack, then at me. It took him a moment to decide whether a free Camel was worth having to stand and make small talk with me. He grunted, then fingered one out of t
he pack. I lit his and one for myself.

  I watched him through the smoke. “Your wife?"

  "We were married for three years,” he said as if repeating something he'd heard but didn't entirely believe. He held his cigarette between his thumb and index finger, his gaze lost in the wide-open darkness of the lake.

  "How much of the three years were you together?"

  His eyes dropped down to study the Camel burning in his left hand. “Six months."

  "Had you seen her recently?” I gestured toward the cabin with my cigarette. “Before in there?"

  He gave me a sideways glance. “You a cop?"

  "No, just an innocent bystander."

  He gave that a thought. “Then it's none of your damn business."

  I let him feel good about sticking it to me for a very long two seconds. Then I hurt his feelings. “Are you left-handed?"

  He turned to face me. The granite began filling his shoulders again. “What kind of a question is that?"

  "A simple one. You hold your cigarette in your left hand. Most people smoke with their dominant hand.” I shrugged. “You do the math."

  He looked down at his left hand as if he didn't believe me. The Camel fumed between his finger and thumb like a guilty schoolboy. “Yeah, buddy, I'm left-handed.” He threw the cigarette to the ground and started back toward his truck parked near the lake.

  I let him take a few strides—another very long two seconds—to think he was home free.

  "You also used your left hand to touch the fresh bruise on her right cheek."

  He stopped ten yards away, then slowly turned to face me. “So what?"

  "So I was just wondering what kind of a man belts his wife."

  His breathing quickened and his body twitched as if waiting for someone to hike the ball so he could charge me.

  "Don't do it, Pete,” Parrish said through the screen door. Gallagher seethed but didn't move. “Answer Nash's question. Did you hit her?"

  Gallagher's fists clenched and unclenched as he glared at me. The buzz of insects filled the trees.

  "Did you hit her?” More insistent this time.

  The tension in Gallagher's body reached its peak. Sweat popped up on his forehead. Then, like an overly tightened watch, his springs finally sprung. He let out a long breath. His shoulders sagged by slow degrees as the granite inside him began to erode. “She came back to our house."

  "When?"

  "Tonight, around ten-thirty."

  "What did she want?"

  "She said she'd found her meal ticket—that's what she called it—and that she was leaving for good.” His words grew heavier as he went on. “I offered to go with her but she just laughed at me. She said I'd probably just run away again. That I'd been running away ever since high school. She said you"—he thrust a thumb at me—"were going to help her sell something."

  Parrish pushed through the screen door, followed by Eaves. The sheriff stepped off the front step and stood in the sparse grass, his thumbs hooked in his gun belt. Eaves stopped near me with his hands on his hips.

  "What happened after you hit her?"

  The granite crumbled and his head dropped forward. “She dug around for a family picture and left."

  "What did you do?"

  "I did what I always do. I ran away. Just like she said.” He sighed. He had started swaying slightly, as if the alcohol had finally reached his legs. “This time I did it without leaving the kitchen table."

  His bottom lip began to tremble and his hands began to shake. His words stumbled out as if they'd been strung together from different sentences. “I wasn't there when she needed me the most.” The sobs came in waves, churned up from somewhere deep within his hay-baler's frame, and he fell to his knees.

  Parrish rushed over and crouched beside him, massaging a hand over the former captain's back. “None of us were there when she needed us, son. None of us."

  The sobs continued to rattle Gallagher's body.

  Clare Henry came running across the lawn from the lodge. “Is he okay?"

  Parrish stood up. “Clare, can you take Pete inside? He might need some coffee."

  She bent down and Gallagher draped an arm over her shoulder. She put her arm around his waist. As they walked slowly back toward the lodge, he staggered beside her like an injured football player being led off the field for the last time.

  Parrish began massaging his neck again. His head was tilted forward as he looked over at me. “Hell, maybe it was accidental."

  Eaves snorted. “Finally."

  I used my tongue to work a sliver of rhubarb out from between two bottom molars. I shook my head.

  Eaves moved a step closer to me. “What more evidence do you need, Nash?"

  "None.” I pulled the compact out of my back pocket. It was still wrapped in the handkerchief.

  Eaves propped his hands back on his hips.

  Parrish stopped massaging his neck. “What the hell is that?"

  "A compact I found in Julia's purse."

  The sheriff aimed his eyes at me like there were bullets in the sockets. “I took you to be smarter than that, Nash. Smarter than to tamper with evidence."

  "There's writing on the mirror."

  Eaves opened his mouth and Parrish's eyes widened. Eaves spoke first. “What does it say?"

  I led them back through the screen door and into the main room of the cabin where there was light. I opened the compact with the handkerchief, blew powder off the mirror, and held it out for them to see. “It says, ‘I put my trust in you.’”

  Parrish took it from me, being careful to hold it with the thin white cloth. His jaw muscles throbbed as he studied the words. Then he passed it to Eaves.

  Eaves cradled the compact and handkerchief in one hand but kept his eyes on me. “What does it mean?"

  I took the compact from him. “Julia had been looking for a gold coin her father had sent home from London in nineteen forty-three. A coronation coin for Edward V that dates back to fourteen eighty-three."

  Eaves's jaw tightened.

  "She called me this morning to come out to help her find it. She must have found it before I got here."

  "But she doesn't have it.” Eaves propped his hands on his hips.

  The sheriff straightened up. “How do you know that?"

  Eaves didn't speak.

  I did. “You were looking for the coin, too."

  He hinted at a nod. “My mother showed me the letter a long time ago, but never told me where she'd hid the coin."

  I held up the compact.

  Recognition crept across his face like a looming shadow. “Let me see that.” He snatched the compact from my hand.

  "It's your mother's, isn't it?"

  "Yes."

  "She's the one who wrote, ‘I put my trust in you.’”

  "It almost sounds like a prayer,” Parrish said.

  "And Julia figured out what it meant. That the coin is hidden behind the mirror."

  Eaves drew in a long, deep breath and slowly let it out as he paced away from us, holding the compact in front of him as if he were Hamlet contemplating Yorick's skull, only without the monologue on death. He stopped in front of the wicker couch and held that pose for a moment. Then he turned toward us. As he did, he drew his .45 and aimed it at the sheriff. His eyes were aimed at me. “One of you makes a move and you're both dead. Nash, pull your gun out slowly and toss it on the couch."

  I did as I was told, but not quietly. “Julia found the compact at the house. You suspected she had the coin and followed her here. Then you killed her. You forced her to swallow pills by holding her mouth shut."

  "The pills were hers. She probably would have done it on her own. Now, Sheriff, it's your turn to disarm."

  Parrish threw his gun next to mine. “I'll bet you were shocked when you looked in her purse and couldn't find the coin."

  Eaves held up the compact. “I found it now."

  "You killed your sister, Glen. Your sister, for God's sake."

  "We s
hared no blood, Dan."

  "Just the blood on your hands,” I said.

  Eaves eyed me as he moved to the wicker settee and picked up my gun with the handkerchief. He tucked his own gun back in its holster. Then he placed the compact on the hard tile floor and ground his heel into it, snapping the plastic shell into a dozen pieces. He ground harder and I heard the high-pitched crack of the mirror. He bent down and gently fingered the pieces of the broken compact, never looking away from us. When he stood up, he showed us the gold coin and smiled. “You can't make me emotional about this. Julia and I were like strangers."

  "You shouldn't be smiling,” I said. “You killed her for nothing."

  "A rare coin isn't nothing. It's a fortune."

  "Not when it's a fake."

  Eaves leveled his gaze at me. “It's not a fake."

  I glanced down at the telegram sticking out of my breast pocket. “That's from the British Museum. I sent them a telegram this morning asking if any Edward V coronation coins had been stolen from the museum during the war or if any actually existed. They said no, that it must be a forgery. Forgeries were common during the war, they said, thanks to a lot of greedy Yanks."

  He studied the coin resting in his palm as if he were a numismatist. “It's real. It has to be real."

  Before he could look up, I charged him. His gun rose and fired but missed me. I hit him in the chest with my shoulder and drove him into the wicker settee. The thin wooden strips snapped like kindling and we crashed to the floor. The gun clattered across the hard tiles. He'd taken the worst of the hit and was struggling to regain his breath, but his arms kept flailing at me. I gave him a pair of rights that Joe Louis would have been proud of but they hardly fazed him.

  I was hoping Parrish would jump into the fray, but a glance showed me his body on the floor and blood seeping along the cracks between the tiles.

  Eaves regained his focus and the fight turned. He got a reversal on me and wound up on top. His fist caught me in the side of the head and forced stars into my eyes.

  Then I heard a scream. It wasn't mine.

  Someone said, “Eaves.” It must have been Parrish because it came out as a groan, one that was both a curse and an accusation.