Bentley Dadmun - Harry Neal and Cat 09 - Dead Dead Dead, the Little Girl Said

by Bentley Dadmun

  I smiled and said, “Sure you don’t want to go to Gretchen’s for a leisurely lunch? I’ll buy.”

  “Listen, let’s try to accomplish something today, all right?”

  “Is that an order?”

  She regarded me silently for maybe ten seconds. It was hard, but I held the flat green eyes and waited. Finally she broke off and said, “Good point. I tend to obsess on things, no offense.”

  “None taken.”

  She was wearing a purple sweatsuit that was at least two sizes too large, and her pale face was shrouded in large wraparound sunglasses. I remembered her coming out of the weight room, a hundred and twenty-three pounds of warm wet muscle wrapped in Spandex, and sighed and ripped off a hunk of Kashi Bar.

  With half a bar hanging out of her mouth Priscilla put on her helmet, stood, looked down at me and said, “So what’s the plan, Stan?”

  “I thought we’d talk with Mrs. Watson.”

  “Why? It was her husband that Frank was friends with.”

  “True, but she might know something of value and we should check it out because of what Sarah said. Plus, Watson disappeared around the time Frank died. It’s a long shot, but that may not be coincidental”

  I walked to the rail fence that circled the park and looked down Main Street. Ambling up the street, slapping meters as she passed them, was Betty. I walked back to the tree and sat. “We’ll see if Mrs. Watson is home later. First I want to talk to Betty Worthen.”

  Priscilla snorted and said, “Ona would like to do more than talk with her. Forty-five bucks worth of tickets in a month. Ona would like to cut her off at her fat knees.”

  I laughed. “All anyone has to do is put a dime in the meter, Betty is just doing the job the town expects her to do.”

  Priscilla let out a low grunt. “She’s a fanatic, one day we’ll come to the park and find her hanging in a tree.”

  I finished my drink, put Cat in the sling, and walked across the street. Betty was writing out a ticket on a red BMW with Maine plates. I tapped her on the shoulder and said, “I know a person who thinks you’re going to be found hanging in a tree someday.”

  Betty chuckled and adjusted her cap. “Really. I bet it was someone who just couldn’t be bothered to cough up a dime and gets pissed when I write a ticket and they have to give the town fifteen Georges.”

  “Forty-five Georges.”

  “Oh hell, you’re talking about Ona Fuller. If looks could kill, I’d be one fried chicken.” She smiled and said, “You’ve been pedaling around town with that niece of hers. That little one will do a number on you, Harry. She wears those baggy sweat clothes, but I’ve seen her work out at The Muscle Stop. I tried her aerobics classes for a week and damn near died. She may be petite, but she’s all muscle and veins.” She grinned and punched me on the chest. “She ever wrap those legs around you, Harry, you’re a goner.”

  “For God’s sake, Betty, Priscilla’s young enough to be my daughter. Frank was her grandfather so she’s helping me with the thing.” To get her off the subject I pretended to poke her in the eye and said, “How would you like to make another sixty dollars?”

  “A hundred and twenty extra dollars in a week? You bet your buns. Who this time?”

  “Charles Watson.”

  Her little eyes widened. “You think there’s a connection?”

  “I have no idea, they knew each other and it’s something I should look into. Are you sure you won’t get in any trouble?”

  “Naw, I spend a ton of time in the station alone, so it’s a piece of cake. You gonna be around tomorrow?”

  “Sure. In the afternoon?”

  “You got it. Say hi to the muscled one, and tell her to give Ona some dimes.” She laughed, pulled on Cat’s ear and headed up Main Street, waving at people and slapping each meter as she passed it.

  At a payphone I looked up Watson and found a C. T. Watson listed. “Okay,” I said. “Apparently she’s still here.”

  Priscilla picked her bike off the ground and straddled it. She looked at me, cleared her throat, started to say something, stopped, cleared her throat again, stared at the ground and said softly, “You know, Harry, with Ona and Eva having Sarah at the house maybe I could stay at your place tonight, give them a chance to get caught up on stuff.” Slack faced and dead eyed, she looked at me and waited for my answer.

  Damn. They managed last night didn’t they? And it’s a big house. Hell. I took a deep breath and keeping my voice neutral said, “Sure, all right,” and jammed on my helmet, swung a leg over the bike, scraping my shin along the pedal in the process. We coasted out of the park, Priscilla leading, and me trailing and being quietly stoic about my burning leg.

  Mrs. Watson lived in a condominium complex squatting on a barren hilltop west of town. Ten years ago the hill had been thick with second growth timber, supported hundreds of furry critters, and sported two fast running creeks. Now there were the condominiums, perhaps thirty emaciated white birches, and lots of black top. I have no idea what happened to the creeks and I avoid thinking about what happened to the critters.

  We locked out bikes to a wrought iron railing and walked a brick path to a door that looked like it could withstand the wrath of a lustful Mastodon. In the center of the door was a large brass door knocker in the shape of a poodle, which Priscilla ignored and smacked the door with the ball of her hand. Seconds later we heard a whirling sound and looked up at a video camera peering at us from a dark corner of the eve. Priscilla poked me in the ribs and said, “Whenever I see one of those damn things I wanna grab my woo hoo and do a Madonna at it.”

  I pushed that image out of my mind and said, “I don’t think that would get us in the door.”

  “I bet the place is full of furry white rugs.”

  “We may never find out. She may think we’re bums.”

  She looked up at me and fluttered her eyelids. “You maybe, but me? Even a retard can see that I’m an enchanting piece of work.”

  I was about to come back with a brilliant retort when the door opened four or five inches, revealing dark space. After a moment, a quivering voice said, “Yes? What is it you want?”

  I shot the space with my best smile and said, “Mrs. Watson? My name is Harry Neal and this is Priscilla Matson, Frank Jankey’s Granddaughter. We would like to talk to you about him and your husband if we may. We won’t take up too much of your time.”

  After a moments silence the voice said, “It was my husband who knew Mister Jankey.”

  “Yes, we know, we’re attempting to retrace Mister Jankey’s actions prior to his death and we’ve learned that your husband may have seen him just before he died. There’s the possibility that his death and your husband’s disappearance might be connected in some way.” The last statement was an embellishment perhaps, but productive if it got us in the door.

  The door opened wider, and Mrs. Watson, her eyes flickering from me to Priscilla and back to me, scrutinized us like we were so many slices of boloney on a scale. She was a classic matron; large, with a full bosom, a handsome seamed face, and lots of stylishly curled blue white hair. Her considerable bulk was wrapped in a white dress with yellow and red swirls.

  “Perhaps you would like to come in. You may leave your helmets in the entryway.” She aimed a shaky finger at Cat’s head and said, “Is that animal sick? I’m afraid I can’t allow a sick animal into my home, it might infect Mandy.”

  “She isn’t sick,” I said, “She was hit by a car.”

  Mrs. Watson stared at Cat a moment, pursed her lips and said, “Oh, very well.” We obediently left our stuff in the entryway and followed her into a living room crammed with coffee tables, two armoires, two huge wing chairs, and a couch that must have been twenty feet long. The furniture was brilliant white with blue filigree and Priscilla was wrong, the thick carpet was a very pale blue that matched the filigree.

  Mrs. Watson pointed at the wingchairs, which faced the couch. As Priscilla sank helplessly into her chair she gave me a startled look and
giggled. I wallowed about in the other one trying to find a comfortable, dignified position, gave it up, flopped back and crossed my legs. Mrs. Watson perched on the edge of the middle cushion of the couch, folded her hands in her lap and said, “Perhaps you could tell me what you are doing.”

  I started with Eva’s ad and gave her a brief account of our actions. When I was through she raised her penciled on eyebrows and muttered, “Hmmmm, perhaps you would like a glass of wine?” We nodded. She inhaled deeply, then with a whoosh of exhaled air, lurched up, smiled shyly, and left the room.

  I looked at Priscilla and smiled. Slumped in the huge chair she looked like a scolded child waiting for her father to come home.

  Mrs. Watson returned carrying a tray with glasses and a bottle of wine on it. The glasses were crystal and the bottle was unlabeled. She set the tray down, and with a trembling hand, filled the glasses and passed them to us. I noticed that her hands were mottled with brown spots and laced with lumpy veins. When she turned her back I glanced at the back of my hands. Smooth veins, no brown spots. She returned to her perch on the edge of the couch, managed a smile, and raised her glass in a toast. The wine was excellent, no cheap grape in this house.

  “I wish I could help you, but I can’t think of anything to add. Charles went out one Saturday and never came back. Not a day goes by that I don’t think about him. He’s dead of course, but it’s the not knowing what happened that’s so bothersome. He was quite fond of your grandfather, Priscilla.” Suddenly she clapped a hand over her mouth. “Oh! My manners! I forgot to introduce myself, can you imagine? Helen, please call me Helen. Dear dear, my memory, it’s so painful growing old.”

  “Do you know if your husband saw Frank before he died?” I asked.

  “No, I don’t. If he did, he didn’t mention it, and he usually did when he saw Mister Jankey.”

  “Where was Charles going that day?”

  “His habit was to run errands on Saturdays. Usually items from the grocery store, we were having people over that night, and a stop at the bank. And he said he might stop at a restaurant he liked to frequent. He enjoyed talking and drinking a beer or two with the people there. In fact he deliberately dressed for the restaurant, old black slacks and a brown sweater that I gave him soon after we were married. I would never go in the place but Charles said he liked the atmosphere, he said it was like a restaurant his father used to take him to when he was a child.”

  “Gretchen’s Kitchen,” Priscilla and I said together.

  “Why yes, Gretchen’s Kitchen. Charles said the place made him feel warm, and he did enjoy talking to the people there.”

  Helen poured herself a third glass of wine, stood up, and with a steady hand topped off our glasses. A black lab with a gray muzzle ambled into the room and sniffed at Priscilla. Cat took one look at the dog, pulled back into the sling, and did her best to intimidate it by spewing forth with hisses and yowls. The dog cocked its head, ambled over, stuck her nose in the sling and snorted. Cat hissed and whacked the dog on the nose with her good paw. The dog barked once, stared at the sling for a moment, then backed up and laid down at Helen’s feet. She bent and scratched the dog’s ears. “This is Mandy. She is a true love and I don’t know what I’d do without her. She keeps me trim by taking me on long walks.”

  I put a hand in the sling and stroked Cat’s head. She gave my finger a soft bite and slapped the top of my hand with a paw. Mrs. Watson stopped fondling the dog and looked at us. “Mrs. Jankey’s ad offers a five thousand dollar reward, Mister Neal. Ifif you will deviate somewhat in your investigation and also try to find out what happened to Charles, I too, will pay you five thousand dollars.”

  … . .

  GRETCHEN’S WAS CROWDED BUT WE MANAGED to snag a booth. Although Gretchen’s granddaughter and Clara Kosko were working, Gretchen was still about, chatting with the customers while her gimlet eyes scanned her domain in perpetual inspection. She drifted over, leaned against the booth and tossed a piece of sirloin at Cat, who was on station by the napkin holder. She folded her arms, gave us a bright eyed smirk and said, “Got a deep fried chicken platter that’s real good. Or you can feast on the chicken fried steak with a side order of fries. Or, maybe you’d like to splurge and have the Special of the Day, a double cheeseburger topped with three strips of bacon and a piece of ham. I call it the McGretchen.”

  “My arteries are occluding just listening to you,” I said. “How about a liter of wine and a bowl of those pretzels you hide under the counter.”

  “Ah Harry, you sure know how to live. Come into a fine restaurant at Busy Time, take up a booth for four when there’s one and a half of you, and all you order is a drink and a free bowl of pretzels.”

  “Listen,” Priscilla said, “Do you remember Charles Watson?”

  “Sure I do. He used to come in here sometimes, usually on a Saturday. He was a rich type, but liked to think he was one of the guys. A little uppity but nice at heart. He liked the joint, said one time it made him feel warm.”

  “Was he in here the day he disappeared?” Priscilla asked.

  “Yep, won’t ever forget it. He came in, had two beers, and chatted with some folks, then he leaves and no one has seen him since.”

  “Do you remember who he talked to?” I asked.

  “I do. It was a slow day and the only people here that he knew was the Millers. He sat in the second booth and bought them lunch. Don’t know why he bothered with them, they’re something else, that’s for sure, but he did.”

  “The Millers were it?” I asked.

  “Yep, he talked to them whenever they both happened to be here. Usually he bought them beers, sometimes lunch. They thought the world of him, and when he disappeared they were pretty upset, like he was their kin.”

  She went behind the counter, came back with a liter of wine and a bowl of pretzels and left. I filled my glass and drank. “If you do this thing and find the two of them, its ten grand in your pocket.” Priscilla said.

  I nodded and said, “Significant money.”

  She pulled a straw from the dispenser, tore off one end of the paper wrap, put the exposed end of the straw in her mouth, pointed it upward and blew. The wrapper shot off the straw, sailed across the room and tapped Gretchen behind her left ear. Gretchen turned, gave Priscilla a look, and turned back to the grill. “One and a half my butt,” Priscilla muttered.

  To switch her focus, I cleared my throat and said, “Do you think you’re going to stick with this until it’s resolved one way or the other?”

  Her head jerked around. She gave me the same look Gretchen just gave her and said, “Of course I am. What the hell kind of question is that?”

  “Well then, since it appears you’re not going to get bored and quit, if we’re successful we’ll split the money, 50-50 as they say in the movies.” Her gaze softened. She looked at me a moment, then bent her head and sucked up wine. “You happen to know the Millers?” I asked.

  “No, but from the way Gretchen talked, they must be a piece of work.”

  Gretchen came to the booth and put down two huge pieces of lemon meringue pie. “No fat in that pie, Harry, just sugar to keep you warm tonight.”

  I smiled thank you, squeezed her hand and said, “Would you happen to know where the Miller’s live?”

  “They’ve got a place near the end of Seven Rocks Road. You can’t miss it, last place on the left as you’re going out, probably nine, ten miles from here. It looks like it cost maybe a hundred and twenty three dollars to put together.”

  Halfway through our pie I said, “So what say we drop in on the Millers tomorrow?”

  Priscilla nodded and said, “Sure, then we’ll see if your fat friend has the police report on Watson. Listen, what if talking to the Millers and the stuff Worthen gives you come to nothing. What’ll we do then?”

  “Let’s worry about that when and if it happens. For now let’s just take it one step at a time and try to obtain a bit of information, then another and another. One may lead to the other, b
ut it may not. Since we don’t know where we’re going, all we can do is try to keep finding those bits and putting them together and hope it all pays off.” Bits of information made me think of Young Tommy and I made a mental note to hunt him up soon.

  “So maybe we end up with zilch.”

  “That’s right.”

  “And Eva dies never knowing what happened to the only man she ever loved.”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  … . .

  FOR ONCE I WAS HEADING HOME in daylight. There’s a trail through the woods that I sometimes like to take, but I was sore from the three sets on the machines, and since Priscilla was tagging along I opted to stay on the road. I pedaled along, stiff, sore, and irritated. My solitude and cherished rituals were being disrupted and it made me uncomfortable. The fact that I had done the disrupting didn’t help. So why didn’t I just say no? Perhaps I’m a lonely old man and don’t realize it. Perhaps playing the reticent introvert is just a farce, another folly that squanders the time of my life.

  We coasted past Annie’s house and the attached barn and stopped at the gate. After a brief struggle I got the damn thing open and we pushed our bikes through and I managed to get the thing closed again without hurting myself. There were two history magazines in my mail box and I cheered up a bit. At least I’d have something to read tonight. As we entered the grove Priscilla spoke for the first time since leaving town. “Hey Harry, when you come home at night, how do you avoid all the cow shit?”

  “I’m like a bat, I have built in sonar.”

  “Sonar? For cow shit? What does it do? Go Moo Moo Moo, when you’re about to go ankle deep.”

  “Actually it’s instinct. After so many trips across the pasture I just know and avoid.”

  “That pasture’s a minefield, they should put diapers on the moo moos.”