02-A Book to Die For (2014)

by Richard Houston

  I took a long sip of my forty-dollar wine from Bonnie’s crystal, making sure my little finger stood out prominently.

  “They told me Sauvignon Blanc had just the right acidic blend to match the astringent essence of our meal. You must give it a try, my dear.” It was enough to make her smile again, but not enough to put down her Jack Daniels.

  “Seriously, Jake. Stay away from that bitch. Pulling shit like this phony restraining order. She’s trouble.”

  Fred didn’t take his eyes off her. He sat next to her like one of those concrete lawn statues, waiting quietly for her to slip him another piece of basil chicken. Evidently she didn’t care for the gourmet meal any more than I did. I had forgotten to mention to her that he was on a no people-food diet.

  “I should have never stopped,” I said while looking scornfully at Fred. “He served me when I pulled over across from Troutdale.”

  She reached for a coaster from the far side of the table, then sat her glass on it. “Troutdale? Why did you stop there?”

  “I wanted to see the scene of the crime close up, Bon. I know it’s changed since they tore down the old resort, but I needed to see it anyway. You know, to get a feel of it.”

  She picked up her glass again and held it with both hands as though the cold liquid would give her some warmth. She was looking at me, but I could see by the vacant look on her face that she was somewhere else. It didn’t take a genius to know where that somewhere was. “I’ve got some news clippings in her hope chest. Let me go get them for you,” she said, getting up. This time she set her glass on the kitchen counter on her way to an upstairs bedroom.

  My statue came to life after Bonnie left. He was at my side begging before she was out of sight. It was my turn to feed him, but not before lifting my wine glass and wiping up the water ring it had made. I had been so upset about the summons that I completely forgot how much she cared for her antique table.

  “You’ve got to be the best composter on the market, Freddie,” I said, watching him gulp down the now-cold meal. “How can you eat that?” The sense of smell, they say, plays a great part in how humans perceive something will taste. The chicken smelled and tasted a whole lot better when it was hot. Now it was quite bitter.

  Fred was licking his lips for more when Bonnie returned. She looked down at the makeshift coaster I’d made from another napkin, and smiled.

  “Thank you, Jake,” she said. Then, before I could say you’re welcome, she continued, “We kept everything we could find on the accident. It’s all in this shoebox. Got some pictures in there too.” She pushed her whiskey aside and very gently placed the box on the table between us.

  “Pictures?” I asked, watching her open it and begin pulling out yellowed newspaper clippings.

  “Greg took them. He was obsessed with finding the driver. He thought he might be able to use pictures of the accident if they ever found the creep that ran Diane off the road.” She laid the news clippings on the table and went back to the box, flipping through a stack of old Polaroids. “Here’s one. It shows where she was hit.”

  “Not much more than a scrape, Bon, but I guess it was enough to make her leave the road.”

  “And here’s a close-up. You can’t see it now, but the other car must have been a dark blue.”

  “I’ll take your word for it,” I said, holding up the faded Polaroid to the light. I put the picture back on the table after trying to spot the blue paint without success. Then I selected one of the news clippings at random. It looked to be from the forties about some movie stars standing next to a big Duisenberg. A Troutdale valet was holding the door for a stunning blonde whose long hair covered one eye.

  “That’s Veronica Lake, Jake. She was huge back then.”

  “I’m surprised she can see with only one eye,” I joked.

  “They called it a peek-a-boo in the forties. Some stars still use it. I don’t know what they call it now.”

  “Why the old resort, Bon?” I asked, putting the clipping back.

  “Huh? Oh, you mean why did Greg keep those old pictures of Troutdale? He wanted pictures he couldn’t get from the road. They had the place fenced in so trespassers couldn’t get in, not that it stopped the squatters.” She reached into the box, looking for something.

  “Here it is. Squatters Caught Vandalizing Old Resort,” she read aloud before handing me a newer article.

  “Squatters?” I asked.

  “Greg thought they might have seen something. He tried to track em down, but they were gone by then.”

  The caption below the pictures identified a long-haired boy with a tie-dyed shirt and his similarly dressed girlfriend as Robert Folsom and Linda Harkley. It said they were being arrested for vandalism and vagrancy.

  “Vagrancy? There’s a charge one doesn’t hear any more,” I said.

  Bonnie rummaged through the box and came up with another clipping on the couple.

  “They only did it to scare them. Greg said the vandalism charge was for a hole in the fence, and the cops couldn’t prove they made it. See here. The parents are picking them up at juvie. They ran away again before he could talk to them.” She flipped pictures and cards aside like she was searching for something important.

  “And here’s another picture of the accident. Greg thought it was strange that the only damage to her car before she hit the tree was that scrape.” Diane’s car was squashed from the front bumper to the front seats.

  I took a quick glance, then put it back in the shoe box and reached for the lid.

  “Are you sure the blue-paint scrape was made during the accident?”

  “Now you sound like the cops,” she answered, pulling the shoe box to her chest. “They said the same thing and wouldn’t even look for another driver.”

  “I’m sorry, Bon. I didn’t mean to bring back bad memories, but for the record it is entirely possible to push another car out of control with a small bump. I see it in police chases all the time on TV.”

  My statement made me laugh. “I mean I used to watch it on TV. Thanks to Xcel, I now do a lot more reading and writing without wasting my time watching the tube.”

  She didn’t laugh at my joke, but it seemed to put her more at ease.

  “Thanks for believing me, Jake. I was beginning to think me and Greg were the only ones who thought it was a hit and run, and now it’s only me.”

  I picked up my now warm wine and downed it, then nudged my sleeping dog with my foot. It was time to leave.

  “Can I take those with me, Bon?” I asked, pointing to the shoebox. “Unless those two fell off the edge of the earth, there’s got to be some record of their whereabouts.” I didn’t bother with the leftovers. Although Fred would eat anything, it was too rich for him or me, but I did take my forty-dollar wine.

  There was a record of the vagrant teenagers; over a million records. I found two million for Robert but only twenty-three thousand for Linda when I searched the web later that night. Because there were fewer hits for her, it took much longer to find them. Women have a bad habit of changing their last names. I had to search marriage records then search for all the different Linda Harkley’s using their new names.

  I started calling the list of six locals the next morning. “Hi, is this the Grabowski residence?” I asked after the third call. The first one had been picked up by voice mail and the second thought I was trying to sell her something.

  “Do I know you?” It was a woman’s voice, neither loud nor soft, but guarded.

  “No, but I’m sure you heard of my client, Bonnie Jones. She has hired me to put some closure to her daughter’s accident before she dies.”

  The line went as quiet as a phone line can without going dead. “The one on Upper Bear? My God that was so long ago. How the hell did you find me?”

  “I checked the marriage licenses issued in Colorado for Linda Harkley and saw you married James Grabowski about ten years ago. Good thing you didn’t get married in Vegas or I’d still be searching.”

  “I should
’ve changed it back years ago,” she said. “The bastard don’t even pay his child support.” There was another long pause before she spoke again. “Is there anything in it for me? This shit they give you for welfare don’t buy much now days, you know.”

  “How about some pictures of dead presidents?” I asked while wondering where I would get the money. The last cash I had was the hundred Margot had given me for not working on her book. I spent that on Julie’s dinner.

  “What the hell do I want them for? Bring cash or don’t bother.”

  “Cash it is. Can I come and see you tomorrow, Linda?” I couldn’t get Jackson’s pictures until Monday, but I didn’t try that metaphor on her again. I crossed my fingers hoping she would wait until then.

  “Hell, yes. Just make sure you bring frigging cash. I don’t want no checks or pictures.”

  “Hey, Fred, old friend, how about lending your master a hundred bucks?” I asked Fred after hanging up with Linda.

  When Fred didn’t give me the money, I decided to walk down to the mailboxes. I needed the fresh air to think, and there was always the slim chance one of my publishers finally got around to send me my royalties.

  Fred and I took the long way down the hill. I didn’t want to run into Bonnie. I was afraid I might tell her what I was up to and mention the bribe. I knew she would be good for it, but it didn’t feel right. This was something I wanted to do for a friend. Taking money would make it just another job.

  I soon forgot about Linda when Fred came back with another stick. I threw it for him and let my mind wander to the propane tank and hose. My effort to tell Shelia the so-called accident wasn’t my fault had backfired in a restraining order. I knew there had to be more to it. I could understand if Johnson was behind it, assuming they were lovers, but this looked more like the work of Charlie Randolph. Why was he out to get me?

  Fred gave up with the stick by the time we made it to Bear Creek. There was a small pond with some ducks that were far more interesting than any stick. I left him to go swimming and crossed over our little bridge to the mail boxes.

  There was a letter from Xcel and another from CenturyLink. They were both marked ‘Last Notice’. To my surprise, there was also a check waiting for me. It was for an article I had written nearly a year ago. It wasn’t enough to get the lights turned back on, but at least I could buy Fred some dog food with what would be left over after paying off Linda.

  I was headed down I-70, headed for Lakewood, first thing Monday morning. I had made a pit-stop at the bank to cash the royalty check I’d received in Saturday’s mail. I winced when it dawned on me that half of it would be going to Linda. It took me over a week to write the article and now she would get half the fruits of my labor for a few minutes of her time. Fred stayed back to guard the fort.

  Linda lived a few blocks east of Federal in what was once a nice neighborhood. Now it was taken over by drug dealers, Asian gangs and junkies. I felt my Jeep was safe. It fit right in. Still, I thought better about locking it. The only thing of value inside the Jeep was an aftermarket stereo the previous owner had installed. If someone wanted it, they wouldn’t think twice about breaking a window to get to it. I decided to take that chance and locked it before heading toward Linda’s apartment.

  Her building was a two-story cube. It must have been built in the fifties when the style was utilitarian cheap. The only embellishment to the building in all those years was the addition of bars on the lower windows. Her apartment was on the second floor, accessible from an interior foyer. All the mail box doors embedded in the wall had been torn off and the place smelled so bad I wanted to vomit. I rang her bell, and when that didn’t work, banged on the door.

  “You got the money?” were the first words out of her when she opened the door.

  “That depends,” I answered, fanning the five twenties I’d got from the bank. “Tell me something I don’t already know and it’s all yours.”

  She turned and walked away from the door, leaving it open.

  “Can barely buy diapers with that anymore. Come in anyways. I’ll tell you about the Corvette and then you can get your sorry ass out of here before Johnnie comes back.”

  I took a look behind the door and quickly surveyed the apartment for her Johnnie holding a baseball bat. Maybe I’d seen too many crime shows.

  “Johnnie? I thought you said you had to go to work when I spoke with you yesterday?”

  A baby started to cry from another room before she could answer. She hurried off without saying a word. My first thought was to go back outside and puke. The place stunk worse than the lobby. Over the stench of cat pee and used diapers, I could nearly taste a sweeter smell I recognized from my youth.

  Linda was back before I could change my mind. She had a cute little dark-skinned boy clinging to her and suckling an exposed breast.

  “He was driving a shinny Corvette,” she said while patting the baby’s back. “I knew it was a vette cause Bobby told me. We would’ve told the cops, but they never asked. Just hauled our asses off to juvie and called our parents.”

  I had a flashback to Jonathan’s Corvette burning rubber down Santa Fe Street.

  “Do you remember if it had a split rear-view window?”

  “What the hell’s that?”

  “Was it a hardtop or convertible?”

  She shifted the baby on her hip.

  “Oh. No. I think it had a hard top.” The baby now had her other breast exposed.

  “Do you remember if the back window was one piece or two?” I asked, trying to look elsewhere.

  “Christ sake, I don’t remember. Can I have my money now?”

  The baby had had his fill and started to squirm. I wanted to leave before he decided to dirty another diaper in my presence.

  “One more question,” I said while holding out the five twenties. “Do you remember what color the car was?”

  She grabbed the money before answering.

  “Black, I think. No, wait. A real dark blue. I remember now cuz Bobby said it was a bitchin’ Daytona-blue and had to explain to me what that was.”

  I got out of there before Johnnie could come back and hit me over the head with his baseball bat. Linda had told me enough; Jonathan’s Corvette was yellow, but it could have been painted over several times since the accident.

  Instead of going west toward home when I hit the Sixth Avenue freeway, I went toward Denver. It ended by Kalamath and that was only a block from Santa Fe. The gate to Jonathan’s yard was open so I drove in and parked right next to his Corvette. He was locking his office when I got out of my Jeep.

  “Didn’t think you’d show your face around here. You come back to return my propane bottle?” He asked while walking over to me.

  I made a quick sweep of the yard before answering, just in case he wasn’t alone. I still had time to hop back into my Jeep and make a run for it.

  “I didn’t steal it,” I answered, trying to read his face. “I needed to get some pictures so I could list it on Craigslist for you. I sent you an email.”

  “My router’s down. Haven’t read any emails in a week.” He seemed a little less hostile. “Get any response from it? I need to get rid of those kettles. Got a payroll coming up.”

  “No. I put your email in the ad and opted out of them replying to me. I also put your phone number so they can contact you that way too.” I had thought about making a gesture of paying for the bottle, but changed my mind at the mention of his router being down. I knew from experience it meant he didn’t pay the bill and I was afraid he’d accept my offer.

  He studied my face a few seconds before answering. “Hey, I gotta go. We’ll talk about this later when you return my bottle.”

  I couldn’t let him get away without doing what I came for. “I wouldn’t if I was you, Jon.” I said pointing under the Corvette. “You better check your fluids before you go blowing a six thousand dollar motor.”

  He was halfway in the car by the time I finished talking. I didn’t wait for him to answer and
went to the front, placing my hands on the hood.

  “Why don’t you pop the hood and I’ll check it for you?”

  My bluff worked and I heard the latch click open. I opened the hood in record time and went straight to the radiator cap. It was all I needed. I could see the fender wells and firewall still had their original Daytona-blue paint.

  “I don’t see anything,” he said from behind me.

  I replaced the cap and then checked the oil. He was watching me now. “Looks good here too. Must have been a reflection.”

  He got between me and his car then shut the hood. “What was that all about, Jake?” he asked.

  Evidently my subtle subterfuge wasn’t so clever. It was time to come clean. “I’m trying to help your aunt track down the guy who ran Diane off the road, Jonathan. I just found out he was driving a Daytona-blue Corvette, just like this used to be before someone repainted it.”

  His hesitation suggested I hit a nerve. Was he trying to hide something or just scanning years of memory microfiche? “My God. Do you think it could be Lonnie?”

  “No,” I answered. “He told me he didn’t get it until recently, when his uncle died.”

  Jonathan must have found the memory he’d been searching for. “That’s true. He didn’t own it until last year, but I remember his uncle let Lon use it on prom night.”

  “Prom night? Then he probably had a date.” I said.

  Jonathan actually smiled for the first time in the short time I knew him. It wasn’t a nice smile. “You bet your ass he did. He married her six months later when her belly showed what they had been up to.”

  “That’s fantastic, Jon. Do you know her name?”

  “Does the name Shelia ring any bells?”

  Chapter 10

  Julie’s state owned SUV was in my driveway when I got home. She was playing catch with Fred using a stick. I stayed by my Jeep and watched the show. I know they saw me, but they were having too much fun to stop. She gave the stick one last throw and came over to greet me.