Final Price

by J. Gregory Smith

  Nelson stared out the front window. “Who’s next?”

  CHAPTER 18

  Press On

  Greenville, Friday morning

  Shamus continued to bask in the afterglow of the previous Monday night. He rose early to work on his “scrapbook,” the large corkboard on his bedroom wall. The number of articles climbed. The “Senseless Slaying in the Suburbs” piece was good. His favorite was the latest “Blarney Stone.” He chose well.

  He took his copy of the Daily Post and placed it next to Gran’s picture. Gran Ryan’s fiery red hair contrasted with her cold blue eyes. He went to the freezer and removed her cremated remains. Water condensed on the chilled exterior of the urn. He read aloud from the article. She would be so proud of him.

  Blind Blues?

  By Patrick Flannigan

  Does Wilmington have its own “Jack the Ripper”? The latest string of murders in our fair city may not be the unfortunate series of random events Police Colonel Byrd would have us believe. Sources close to the “Blarney Stone” reveal the killings may only be the beginning.

  Why is the state so reluctant to address the possibility? Repeated calls to headquarters were not returned by time of press, and this reporter spoke directly to the lead investigator, Paul Chang, who refused comment. While we’re glad to see that the rank and file so readily follows orders, we have to ask if the citizens don’t deserve more.

  We don’t want to start a panic, but if the very department sworn to serve and protect can’t even detect a problem, how will they hope to solve it?

  Stick with the Stone, readers. It might be a bumpy ride.

  Shamus got the giggles but finished the piece. What a marvelous start. He loved the dig on that oaf Chang. When Gran sent him another Taker, he would feed this Flannigan a bigger taste of the larger design.

  Shamus put the urn back in the freezer. His elbow still hurt, but he took the pain like a man and bore the injury as a silent badge to his courage in combat. He’d bested the man of the house and had the scars to prove it.

  After the story had broken, at work he thought he was in trouble when Hank dropped a copy of the paper on his desk. The article on the murders showed a color picture of the dearly departed heavies. All smiles in the shot, not so in the end…

  “Hey, man, aren’t these your people?” Hank had stabbed his finger at the picture.

  “My God. You’re right. I thought the name sounded familiar, but these folks didn’t buy from me.” Shamus looked out the showroom window for police cruisers.

  “Small town, man. Looks like you can cross them off your follow-up list.”

  “Hank, that’s not funny.” Yes it was!

  Shamus could laugh all he wanted at home, but he was going to have to be careful around people. Remember, the Hubberts were a hard-working couple who didn’t deserve…couldn’t even finish the thought. Next time, think of Gran.

  Once he knew he was in the clear, he caught fire all week. Not only had he logged three sales so far, with Saturday still ahead, but he had at least three more that showed promise, including the nice older lady who made the porcelain vases for a living. He knew he was going to have to romance Myrtle Maynard to sell her that minivan.

  He thought also of Rick Midori, the nervous ferret of a man interested in Honda’s most environmentally friendly offerings. The guy especially wanted to know about their hybrid cars, the ones that ran on gas and got an acceleration boost from an electric motor.

  But when Shamus had approached him, Midori practically put up a brick wall. His beady eyes darted around, and he had a disgusting layer of sweat on his upper lip.

  “I’m merely looking. I work in sales, and don’t you worry. If I consummate a transaction from this establishment, you will receive full credit. I’m well acquainted with this industry’s compensation structure. Rest assured. Your commission is secure with me.”

  Did he want to buy a car or screw it?

  While they test drove an Insight, Shamus clamped onto the armrest and waited for a chance to get in a word. Midori had droned on about where he worked, what he did, where he’d gone to school, and detailed his membership in the chess club in high school. Normally he could tune out a babbling customer. Midori demanded interaction.

  “I’m sorry, do you know what ‘punctiliousness’ means? Don’t be embarrassed. We all can grow.” Midori had handed Shamus a pocket dictionary and insisted he look it up. Shamus pretended to do so and fought down the urge to find out how well Midori could drive with the little book crammed down his throat. That had led to a thought about Maisy and a new struggle to hold back the giggles.

  Midori was supposed to come back tonight, and Shamus couldn’t wait to close Mr. Punctilious. He knew Jake had prepared some strong numbers to wrap it up.

  Shamus switched on the radio and caught the last of a news item on the Hubberts. Cool! Have to listen again at the top of the hour. It made him tingle all over because the media coverage had picked up on his extracurricular activities.

  He wasn’t worried. He knew the police couldn’t use much of what they might find, since he had no record. Not here, not in Ohio, not anywhere. No fingerprints, never arrested, not even a speeding ticket.

  Gran never wanted to share her control when she was alive. Now she wanted to work with him! He had to admit they made a good team.

  Shamus was struck by some of the television interviews of the Hubberts’ neighbors. One of them actually said they “couldn’t imagine why someone would do such a thing to people like the Hubberts.”

  Shamus couldn’t imagine why someone hadn’t done something like this to those cud-chewers before. He didn’t expect the greater public to understand. No thanks were necessary.

  He pinned up another article, this one from the much less prestigious Community Events, but it included a quote from Chang. He gave out a number to call in case anyone had information. Must mean they didn’t have any leads. Good.

  His elbow ached when he placed the article high up on the corkboard. It hurt less when Shamus pictured how much more the hammer did to Doug. He would have liked to keep the tool for a trophy, but that was a bad idea. He wore gloves, but it didn’t make sense to leave a key item like that around. Just in case. Likewise, he made a large collage out of lingerie models from Victoria’s Secret catalogs on a piece of white cardboard to cover his newspaper articles.

  He shivered when he thought about how long Gran would have made him sit in the old icehouse if she ever saw these dirty girls. She’d have left him on the ice cake in his underwear for at least an hour to “cool his spirits.” To this day, whenever a customer yelled at him he could feel the wet sawdust on the back of his legs.

  Not to worry. From her vantage point in the freezer she wouldn’t get a glimpse of the ladies, even when he went for late-night ice cream.

  On Tuesday, Shamus placed all the clothing he’d worn to the Hubberts’ house in a paper bag and drove to an old apartment building in Wilmington that still used an incinerator.

  On the way back he took the hammer (which wouldn’t burn and might be discovered), and in a moment of inspiration he threw it over the fence and into the reservoir for Wilmington. Let the whole city get a little taste of his power!

  Shamus tacked up the collage of his “girlfriends” and got dressed. He was working the one o’clock to closing shift.

  He remembered that Rick Midori worked somewhere close by. Midori was an antiques and estate appraiser. He established the value of personal property such as furniture and old china and silver. The office was in Greenville and not far from where Shamus lived. Given the Chateau Country further up Route 52, the office was probably in the right place. Shamus hoped to spot something that would help him bond with Midori.

  He eyed the address on the wall and followed the lane until he saw the wooden sign for Felton Appraisal Services. Then he saw something else that stopped him cold. There, a few rows over, was a shiny Honda Insight in Navy Blue Pearl.

  He couldn’t see the back where t
he license plate would be visible. He felt his pulse start to race in his throat and cruised past then looped back to the next row of parked cars. He slowed and his trained eye picked out the paper temporary tag. He saw from the expiration date it had been purchased yesterday, and the bracket advertised Marlo. His temples began to ache.

  He exited the shopping center and aimed his old Accord down Route 52 toward Wilmington. He wouldn’t be able to sell anything until he got the answer to his question.

  At the dealership, he grabbed Midori’s info folder and dialed the work number. “Felton Appraisals, Will Felton speaking.”

  “Yes, hello. I have a client with a considerable amount of family silver that will be going to probate, and he would like an accurate estimation of its value.” Shamus hoped he sounded like an attorney.

  “We’d be happy to accommodate your needs. I’ll put you thorough to Rick Midori, who specializes in silver. And your name?” Felton asked.

  “Jack Ripton.” Shamus stifled a giggle. Greedy weasel wouldn’t dodge a call from the Ripper, would he?

  “One moment.”

  “Rick Midori speaking. How may I be of service?”

  “Rick, hi. Shamus Ryan from Patriot Motors, how are you today?” Oh, if he could only see the confusion on that snotty face.

  “Uh, I’m quite well. I was led to believe you were someone else.”

  “Just kidding around. Anyway, are we still on for seven o’clock tonight?” Shamus didn’t care if Midori believed his dodge. He needed answers, dammit!

  “As to that. Your call, despite the subterfuge, was propitious.” He paused. “You know, propitious?”

  It means “no sale,” you arrogant, ass-wipe, dead man! “Go ahead.”

  “Regrettably, I won’t be able to come in tonight. Can we reschedule for next week? How about next Monday, in the evening? You work evenings, I presume? I won’t even darken the doorstep if you are not present. You have exclusive province over my business at Patriot.”

  “No problem, Rick. We’ll see you on Monday. Why don’t you leave a small deposit on the car so it won’t get sold over the weekend?”

  “No, no. I prefer to remain subject to the whims of fate.”

  “Okay then. We’ll see you on Monday.” Shamus forced a smile. Lying piece of crap. Just to be sure, a “whim of fate” would check his house after work. He lived out in Greenville, in the carriage house of one of the large estates. Shamus felt his muscles clench tighter and tighter for the remainder of his shift.

  “How’d you make out today?” Mark Dey tapped him on the shoulder. Shamus jumped and fumbled with the buttons of his sport jacket.

  “Huh? I was thinking about something.”

  “I used to do that, but I found it just got in the way.”

  “Yeah, right. I should have stayed in bed; I couldn’t sell anybody today.” Shamus picked up his keys.

  “It happens. I sold one guy today, another mini-deal. Big whoop, but at least it will cover my time. I hope we’ll have some good traffic tomorrow,” Mark said, and he walked with him to the door.

  Shamus started his car and turned up Pennsylvania Avenue. The city lights slipped behind him, and the landscape grew darker, along with his mood.

  He passed the entrance to his apartment complex and the shopping center where Midori worked. Soon, the streetlights gave way to rolling hills and large houses. Lawns became grounds, and the houses hid beyond vast driveways. Some owners would rent out the carriage houses to have another person keep an eye on their property.

  Rick Midori had lucked into a sweet deal. Undoubtedly, he was well acquainted with the upper-crust set, given his line of work, and he took full advantage. Shamus turned into the long driveway. Even at night, he could see that the grounds were immaculate. The main house was dark, and he hoped the owners were away. The carriage house was tucked in among some large trees.

  Shamus could see a light on, and he prepared to turn his car around quickly though he saw no sign anyone moved inside the cozy little house. He didn’t even have to get close before he glimpsed the distinctive outline of the small car in the moonlight. Nothing else shared the aerodynamic shape of the Insight.

  Somebody needed a house call.

  CHAPTER 19

  Reservation

  Newark, Delaware

  Nelson got into Chang’s BMW. “You know I don’t like surprises.”

  “This place has the best Mandarin food you’ve ever tasted.”

  Nelson tugged at his collar. “Couldn’t you find a place where I don’t have to dress up?”

  Chang could see that the brand-new oxford shirt chafed him, but at least he looked presentable. His own suit fit like it was made for him, which it was.

  Chang sped around slower cars. Horns blared and headlights flashed.

  “You trying to get pulled over?”

  Chang pointed to his wallet where he kept his shield. “It’s my prerogative.”

  “Where are we going?”

  “Shu’s House of Mandarin Delight.”

  “That sounds familiar…Hey, isn’t your mother’s helper or whatever named Shu?”

  “Now that you mention it…”

  Nelson looked like a trapped animal. “No. Turn around. I’m not having dinner with your mother.”

  “I knew you’d say that. She wants to meet you.” Chang wished he knew why.

  “She’s lived a long life without my company.”

  “At least you’ll get a great meal out of it. Shu’s old-school authentic.”

  “Why me?”

  “She won’t say. I shouldn’t have told her we’re working a case.”

  Chang parked in front of the house, and before they reached the door Shu opened it. He wore a traditional “folk suit” made of black silk with a Mandarin collar and frog buttons down the front. Shu bowed.

  “Good evening, Master Paul. Welcome, Master Rogers.” Nelson bowed back. Shu bowed again and so did Nelson. Chang pushed Nelson through the door.

  Shu led them into the house. Chang smelled pungent sandalwood incense. He watched Nelson scan the rare jade figurines in a display case.

  “Are those…” Nelson’s eyes grew large.

  “Han Dynasty, we think about 100 BC.” Chang marveled at the way Nelson absorbed and retained information.

  “This puts your collection to shame.”

  It did. Chang liked his own pieces, but they were leftovers compared to the treasures here. “My father never lost his eye for quality. I wish she’d keep them safer.”

  “Come, gentlemen.” Shu gestured toward the double doors that led to the dining room.

  Chang stepped into the room and smiled at his mother, who sat at the head of a long rosewood table. When she stood, he could see her long flowing silk dress. It was dark blue and decorated with pink plum blossoms. She wore a necklace with a white jade pendant of a dragon. Fitting, Tai Kai could mean “Dragon Queen.” He may have had his father’s face, but he got her temper.

  “Thank you for coming to my home, Mr. Rogers. I am happy to meet you at last.”

  “Please call me Nelson.”

  “Okay. I older, so call me Mrs. Chang.” She gestured and Shu disappeared. He returned with a tray of steaming soup bowls.

  “Bird’s nest soup,” Shu said.

  Nelson frowned.

  “Eat. It not kill you,” she said.

  Nelson sampled the broth. “This is good.”

  “I told you. Shu almost worthless, but he can still cook.” She slurped her soup.

  Chang drained his bowl. Perfect balance of spices. Shu stood by, and Chang could see the glimpse of pride on his impassive features. The old man was long immune to his mother’s barbs. Shu cleared the dishes.

  “Peking duck next. Traditional, not American,” Tai Kai said.

  “That means Shu leaves the fat on the skin. It’s the best part,” Chang said. Shu was an artist, and Chang wished he could taste his cooking more often.

  “You have dinner with your mother,” she prodde
d Nelson, “or do you make her eat alone like Paul?”

  Nelson paused and looked at Tai Kai.

  “I never knew my mother. I grew up in an orphanage and foster homes in New York.”

  “Foster?”

  Chang explained in Mandarin. She nodded. Shu brought in the main course, and the three ate in silence. Chang savored the food and could just make out the strains of one of his mother’s Chinese operas from hidden speakers. His “American” ears never appreciated the gongs, shrieks, and drones.

  “Okay, you have excuse.” She paused. “Why you want to become policeman?”

  Nelson shrugged. “I always wanted to solve mysteries. It was the only thing I was good at.”

  “Paul tell you why he turn back on family?”

  Here we go. “Mother…”

  “You so proud. I tell him. After his Uncle Tuen killed, we want him to take over business. He know how, but he say no. Fight gang, make his father and mother leave. New York used to be civilized.”

  “Not everywhere,” Nelson said.

  “No. We leave jungle, he stay, grab tiger by tail.”

  “Not tigers. Rats,” Chang said.

  “Too many rats for one.” Tai Kai pointed with her chopsticks at the scar on his neck.

  “Or two.” Nelson stared at the tablecloth. Tai Kai turned her gaze toward him.

  “Paul say you work with him again.”

  “Just helping on a case. I’m not back with the police.”

  “You still crazy?”

  Chang sprayed plum sauce. “Mother!”