Shoot the Moon

by Billie Letts

  He might not have taken the risk except for the antibiotics in his room. He’d been taking them since he was bitten by the keeshond, and though he was probably in the clear as far as infection was concerned, he knew the smart way to go was to finish the prescription.

  The crowd in front of the motel was larger than it had been the day before, but no one showed any interest in him or the truck turning in at the delivery entrance.

  After parking in back, he grabbed a toolbox from the bed of the truck, then went inside.

  On the way to his room, he passed the kitchen, where he saw a cook turning meat on a grill; outside the utility room he nodded to a woman pushing a laundry cart; in the hallway he dodged two small boys in bathing suits racing toward the pool; and he shared the elevator with an elderly man in a wheelchair. But not one of them paid any attention to the plumber passing through.

  He half expected to find his room turned inside out again, but at first glance everything seemed to be in order. His unopened suitcase was still on the luggage rack, his clothes still on hangers, his shaving kit on the dresser where he’d left it.

  When he sat on the bed to retrieve his prescription from the bedside table, he saw that the message light on his phone was blinking.

  Most of the calls he listened to were from reporters hoping for an interview; others came from townspeople who were either friendly or bizarre. One was a man named Cozy who phoned to invite him to a poker game at the VFW. Another came from an unidentified woman who described her unusual tattoos and the body parts they adorned.

  But the call that caused his mouth to go dry came from someone he knew quite well.

  “Dr. Albright, this is Charlene,” came the voice on the recording. “I am so worried about you,” she said as she began to cry. “Please, please call me as—”

  Mark disconnected without listening to the rest of the message.

  Somehow the news from DeClare, Oklahoma, had made its way to Beverly Hills, and he had a pretty good idea of how that had happened. All the same, he dreaded hearing it confirmed, even as he dialed the number.

  “Albright-Cushman Animal Hospital,” she said.

  “Hello, Charlene.”

  “Oh, Dr. Albright.”

  When he heard Charlene weeping at the other end of the line, he said, “Let me guess. The story’s in the Times. Right?”

  “Dr. Cushman said it’s in USA Today, too, but without the photograph.”

  “Are you telling me the Times printed my picture?”

  “I believe it’s the same one that ran on the society page last winter when you chaired the Humane Society.”

  “Jesus Christ.”

  “But you look good.” Charlene snuffled, crying at the same time she was trying to sound upbeat. “You’re wearing your tuxedo.”

  “Wonderful. You can’t imagine how relieved I am to hear that.”

  Either ignoring his sarcasm or oblivious to it, Charlene said, “Is it true, Dr. Albright? What they printed in the paper?”

  “I’d just as soon not go into that right now, Charlene.”

  “Oh, I understand. Really, I do. But if there’s anything I can do for you, anything at all . . .”

  “Why don’t you bring me up-to-date on what’s happening there?”

  “Well, of course, we’ve experienced a bit of a disruption since you’ve been gone, but nothing we can’t handle.”

  In the background Mark could hear a man’s voice—angry and insistent—the voice of his partner, David Cushman, demanding the phone.

  “Charlene,” Mark said, then louder, “Charlene,” finally yelling into the mouthpiece, “Charlene!”

  “I’m sorry, Dr. Albright. What did you say?”

  “Put David on the phone.”

  “Certainly, but before—” She was stopped in midsentence as the receiver abruptly changed hands.

  “Mark, how the hell did this happen?” David asked. “And more important, what are you going to do about it?”

  “And hello to you, too, David.”

  “Do you have any idea of the mess you’ve created here? Can you—”

  “I believe this conversation might be more pleasant for both of us if you could lower your voice a decibel or two.”

  At the same volume, David said, “You apparently had some information about this situation weeks ago, information you should have shared with me.”

  “But I didn’t know the circumstances then. All I knew was that—”

  “You might’ve given me a heads-up on this. If I’d had some warning—”

  “David, I don’t understand what your problem is.”

  “You don’t understand? Well, let me see if I can help you out, Dr. Albright. A reporter and a cameraman showed up here this morning. They barged into the office while Reese Witherspoon was picking up her Yorkies, minicam in her face as the reporter fired off questions about a murder.

  “I ran them out of here, but about the time they hit the sidewalk, Ms. Zellweger’s limo stopped out front and they started in on her. Of course, she had her driver pull away. Didn’t even take time to drop off her Abyssinians.”

  “And you think—”

  “Within the hour, we heard from Eisner, Aniston, Cage and Spelling. All canceled.”

  “Because my mother was murdered? What does that have to do with them? Huh?”

  “Mark, you know—”

  “I’m a vet, David, not some Hollywood agent or director or producer.”

  “It’s not about what you do or don’t do.”

  “Then what’s it about?”

  “A questionable background.”

  “Let me see if I understand this. Hollywood found out I’m Indian, a Native American, a Cherokee. So now I have a questionable background?”

  “Mark, you’re not operating a clinic in Podunk fucking Oklahoma, gelding horses and worming cattle. This is Beverly Hills, where appearance is everything. The people we deal with can’t afford to be associated with scandal.”

  “Right. No one out there’s been arrested for shoplifting or possession or child porn.”

  “Now you listen to me. I’ve got thirty years of my life tied up in this business. My reputation and my money are on the line here.”

  “I was wondering when you’d get around to talking money.”

  “Oh, now you’ve got a problem with money. Do you also have a problem with the Jaguar you drive or your house in Malibu?”

  “Look, David, this business in Oklahoma will be wrapped up before long.”

  “Are you being held there?”

  “Held?”

  “By the authorities.”

  “No. I haven’t done anything wrong.”

  “Then what’s to keep you from walking away from it now? Just pack up and leave?”

  “Goddammit, I’m not here on a vacation. I’m trying to find out—”

  The sound of running water from behind the closed door of Mark’s bathroom caused him to stop in midsentence. He cradled the phone soundlessly, then tiptoed across the room.

  Just as he came within reach of the door, it opened and an attractive, middle-aged woman stepped out.

  “Hello, Mr. Harjo,” she said.

  “Who the hell are you?”

  “Or should I call you Dr. Albright?”

  “I said, who are you? And what are you doing in my room?”

  “Lantana Mitchell,” she said, “and I’m here to help you find out who killed your mother.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  She started writing a book about it years ago, but she got sidetracked.” Mark finished the Coke Ivy had brought him when she slipped out of the pool hall to meet him behind the café. “Then, when she heard about me showing up, she dug out her old notes and got interested in the story again. At least that’s what she says.”

  “You sound like you don’t believe her.”

  “Oh, she seems serious about getting a book out of it, but I think she’s go
t another reason for being here.”

  “What’s that?”

  “She’s got some unfinished business with O Boy Daniels.”

  “Good business or bad?”

  “She detests him. I don’t know what it’s about, but she’s obviously here to settle an old score.”

  “Great. Rowena Whitekiller is too afraid to tell you what she knows, and Lantana Mitchell’s come back to carry out some kind of vendetta. Can’t imagine either one’s gonna be much help to you.”

  “Maybe not, but the Mitchell woman’s determined. She’s checked into the motel, and the way she talked, she’s in no hurry to leave. And I have a feeling that she just might dig something up.”

  “You really think so?”

  “Well, I’m no detective, and it’s pretty clear that the sheriff’s not going to help, so I say let her go at it. Let’s see what she can do.”

  Mark pulled off his Noah’s Ark cap and wiped his forehead with his shirtsleeve.

  “By the way, how’s the plumbing business?” Ivy asked.

  “Not bad. I’ve unstopped a couple of toilets, put in a new kitchen sink and dug up a busted sewer line. Dirty work, but it pays well.”

  Ivy took hold of one of Mark’s hands, pretending to check for blisters, but when she rubbed her fingers over his palm, they exchanged a look, both knowing that something had just changed between them. After a moment, he pulled his hand away. To cover palpable awkwardness, she said, “Yeah, you’re developing the tough skin of a real workingman.”

  “Hey, I wear gloves,” he said, following her lead.

  “I’m sure you do. Italian leather lined with cashmere.”

  “Shouldn’t I be getting Noah’s truck back?”

  “Oh, I almost forgot. Hap called. He wants you to come by his office.”

  “Did he say why?”

  “Nope. But he said you should use the back entrance because of the reporters hanging around out front.”

  “Okay. Where do I go?”

  “Take the alley just south of Main Street. His office is a two-story brick between the old movie theater and the bank.”

  “What am I supposed to do about the truck?”

  “Noah said he won’t need it until tomorrow morning. He said if you bring it back this afternoon, he’ll drive you to Mom’s.”

  “Then I’ll see you later.”

  Mark started for the truck; Ivy headed back to the pool hall, then stopped and turned.

  “Hey. Would you take a look at Mom’s hall toilet? After we flush, the water keeps running.”

  “Just jiggle the handle.”

  “And you call yourself a plumber.”

  Hap’s secretary looked as old as the antique desk where she sat, but then everything in the office looked ancient.

  “May I help you?” she asked, her voice like that of an older Katharine Hepburn.

  “I, uh . . . I’m here about the leak in Mr. Duchamp’s office.”

  “Why, there’s no plumbing in his office. You’re obviously confused. The restroom is down the hall next to the elevator.”

  “Well, I’ll need to talk to Mr. Duchamp, since he’s the one who called me.”

  “I haven’t seen you before,” she said, her tone suspicious. “Are you new at Noah Harjo’s?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “How long have you been working there?”

  “Not long. Now, if I could speak to Mr. Duchamp . . .”

  “No, I’m afraid that’s quite impossible. You don’t have an appointment. And Mr. Duchamp is not available without an appointment.”

  Just then, the door behind the secretary’s desk opened and Hap said, “It’s all right, Frances. I was expecting this gentleman.” Then to Mark, “Come in.”

  As Mark passed her desk, Frances made no attempt to hide her disapproval.

  “Have a seat, Mark.”

  “She’s tough.”

  “Frances? Yeah, she started here with my father fifty-two years ago. I inherited her. Good thing, too. She knows more law than I do.”

  Hap’s office, in contrast with the one dominated by Frances, was a hodgepodge of framed movie posters, comic book art, life-size plastic statues of Superman and Wonder Woman and a large rug adorned with Disney characters. And at the center of it all, Hap, wearing faded jeans, a plaid shirt with frayed cuffs and a haircut that made his head look lopsided.

  “I see you’ve gone into a new line of work,” Hap said. “Any chance you could take a look at the—”

  “I’ve heard all the plumber jokes I need from Ivy.”

  “Anyone see you come in?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  “Lots of people poking around town hoping to corner you,” Hap said.

  “Yeah, but they’re not looking for a plumber.”

  “But they’re desperate to find Nick Harjo. And they won’t stop until they do.”

  “Sounds like you have something in mind.”

  “How would you feel about a press conference?”

  “Would that end it? Make them back off?” Mark asked.

  “Oh, hell, no.”

  “Then what’s the use?”

  “Sometimes stirring up the media, putting yourself out there, can lead to some answers. Someone who has information might step forward.”

  “Why?”

  “They want their fifteen minutes of fame, want to be in the spotlight for once in their lives.”

  “So you think—”

  “There’s a slim chance the killer is still around. And if he is, this story making national news is bound to make him nervous. And besides, there’s almost always someone who was close to the killer, or someone who saw or heard something who didn’t come forward twenty-seven years ago, but who might talk now.”

  “What about offering a reward?”

  “Can’t hurt,” Hap said.

  “I’ll put up twenty-five thousand.”

  “I can kick in another ten. And I know a few others who’ll pony up. We can probably come up with fifty thousand. So when do you want me to set this up?” Hap asked.

  “The sooner the better.”

  “How about tomorrow morning, say, ten o’clock.”

  “Fine.”

  “We’ll do it here, outside, in front of the office,” Hap said. “I’ll write up a statement; you come early, look it over. If you feel it’s okay, you read it, but take no questions. After you’re finished, we’ll come in, lock the door. No reporters get in.”

  “Do you know Lantana Mitchell?”

  “Name sounds familiar.”

  “She was working for the Tulsa World in ’72. Spent a couple of weeks here writing for the paper.”

  “Oh, the gal who was sleeping with O Boy. Sure, I remember her. A real go-getter.”

  “She showed up this morning. Checked into the motel. Says she’s going to write a book about it.”

  “As I recall, she had a book published. True crime. I think it sold reasonably well, at least in this part of the country. So, what does she want from you?”

  “Information.”

  “Yeah, don’t they all. By the way, I’ve requested a copy of your birth certificate. But seems I wasn’t the only one. A woman I know in the Department of Vital Statistics said she had another request. And guess who it came from.”

  Mark shook his head.

  “Oliver Boyd Daniels.”

  “So he didn’t take the original from my room.”

  “Apparently not.”

  “Then who did?”

  “If we knew that, we’d be way ahead of the game.”

  Mark was on his way to return Noah Harjo’s truck when he saw the Hook ’Em Bait Shop just ahead, and since O Boy’s pickup was gone, he decided to pull in.

  Carrie Daniels was alone in the shop, where she was restocking canisters of insect repellent. If she recognized Mark from his previous visit, she gave no sign of it.

  “Help you?”
she asked.

  “Just stopped in for something cold to drink.”

  She went on with her work without conversation, and Mark had the feeling she was the sort of woman who was familiar with silence.

  He took a bottle of Chocolate Soldier from the cold case, opened it and took a long swallow. “You have Twinkies?”

  “Over there on that rack.” She pointed across the room.

  At the counter, he handed her a hundred-dollar bill.

  “Don’t you have anything smaller?” she asked.

  “Sorry.”

  “Well, I can’t change this.”

  “I can give you a credit card.”

  “We don’t take credit cards.”

  “Then how about I put this back in the cooler. I didn’t drink much.” He was hoping to make her smile, but her expression didn’t change.

  “Don’t worry about it,” she said. “The price of a drink and a Twinkie isn’t going to bankrupt this place.”

  “No, I can’t do that. You gave me a freebie when I was here a few days ago.”

  “Yeah, I know.”

  “I tell you what. Next time I’m in, I’ll pay you. In cash.”

  “Let’s just call it even. For the favor you did Kippy when you were here.”

  “How is your boy?”

  “The same. Kippy’s always the same,” Carrie said.

  “Seems like a nice kid.”

  “I didn’t know who you were before. But I know now.”

  “Guess almost everyone around here does.”

  “Can I ask you a question?”

  “Sure.”

  “Why did you come back to DeClare?” she asked.

  “I wanted to meet my mother. My birth mother.”

  “You didn’t know she was dead until you got here?”

  “No.”

  “Then why did you lie, say you were a lawyer named Alford or Alcorn?”

  “I didn’t lie to you.”

  “No, but you lied to my husband. And not many people lie to Oliver and get by with it.”

  “I’m sorry if I caused you trouble.”

  “You know, you seem like a decent guy, but you being here stirs folks up. Especially Oliver, him being sheriff and all. He’s not real happy when he’s stirred up.”