Gretchen puts an extra thick slice of Swiss cheese over the soup and I love to nibble at the stuff while inhaling the smell of onions marinated in herbs.
Clara’s pencil quivered over her pad as her eyes floated over to Priscilla. Her face blank, Priscilla gazed up at Clara for a time, then, in one swift movement, she jumped up on her knees, waved her hand in Clara’s face, and in a thick southern drawl, said, “And I, Clara, want… No! I demand! That from this moment on, every word from every mouth of every goddamn lawyer on the planet be the absolute truth.” She sat back down, folded her hands, looked up at Clara and said softly, “And I also want a mug of wine and a bowl of French onion soup.” Clara gazed at her a moment, then put away her pad and pencil and shuffled toward the counter.
“Keep it up,” I said, “And Gretchen and her customers will catch on to what I already know; that you view the world from a decidedly skewered perspective.”
She rubbed her hands briskly as she looked at me. “Decidedly skewered perspective? You talk like that and you think I’m whacked?
Clara was surprisingly quick for once, and as soon as she drifted away, Priscilla picked up her bowl with both hands and held it. It’d been a long, cold ride back. I had thermal gloves, but she rode bare handed. “Don’t you have any gloves? It’s going to get colder and it’s a bit inconvenient to carry a bowl of hot soup where ever we go.”
“The next place I stop,” she said, and put a piece of Swiss cheese between Cat’s paws. Cat sniffed it and slapped it with her good paw, propelling it across the table onto the floor. Limping to the edge of the table, she looked down, then looked at me and mewed. I put her on the floor, and she bite into the cheese, shook it, and limped toward the stove.
Priscilla ducked her head and drank from the bowl. Then she looked at me and said, “So, Watson was carrying a bunch of gold coins with him.”
I nodded and said, “And according to the Millers, he always carried them. We’d better pay another visit to Helen Watson and ask about them.”
“What about the Satan’s Station stuff?”
“I don’t know. That’s another thing we have to talk to her about.”
“Listen, you think looking into Watson is gonna get us to what happen to Frank?”
“Perhaps. It’s a rock in our path and I think we should chip away at it and see what develops. What do you think?”
She shrugged and said, “Chip chip chip.”
After another mug of wine we forced ourselves back to the world and pedaled to the mall. While I watched over Cat and the bikes, Priscilla went into Olympia Sports and bought a pair of thermal gloves and a neoprene face mask with money I lent her. Then, heads bent into the wind, we pedaled to Helen Watson’s condo. As she pounded on Helen’s door she said, “Listen Harry, I’m going to pay you back for all this stuff.”
“It’s not a problem,” I lied.
… . .
PRISCILLA SAT ON THE FLOOR AND petted Mandy while I sank ever deeper into the same damn chair I sat in on our first visit. Helen, after serving wine, was again perched on the edge of the middle cushion of the couch. This time she was dressed in a red pants suit that did a marvelous job of emphasizing her age and bulk.
“Dear me, you two seem to have made progress. Why is it the police never talked to those people?”
“Because they would be very reluctant to converse with policemen, and certainly wouldn’t volunteer anything if they did talk to them. So even if the police had found them, it’s unlikely they’d have gotten anything useful.” I sipped my wine and tried to lean forward but it was too awkward with Cat snoring in the sling on my chest, so I leaned back and tried for relaxed concern. “How large was Charles’s collection of Canadian Maple Leafs?”
She shook her head and made a face. “Oh those silly things. He said gold was the only true money. He would walk around the house holding one in his hand, to feel the weight, he said. He always carried them with him in a leather money belt he had especially made.”
Priscilla stopped petting Mandy, looked up and said, “So how many did he have?”
“I’m not sure, I remember one time he said the belt weighted a little over six pounds, so assuming the belt weighted a pound, he walked around with five pounds of those things strapped to his waist. I must have scolded him about it a hundred times. Imagine, carting those things around wherever you go, sometimes I rather doubted his sanity. And I must say, I thought it was quite silly to spend money on them when he could have invested in safe, steady CD’s.”
“So,” Priscilla said, “If he always carried them with him, then he had them the day he disappeared.”
Helen absently sipped her wine. After a time she nodded and said, “Yes, yes he did. He wouldn’t admit it, but it must have been uncomfortable having that weight around his waist all the time. After a while he claimed he felt naked without it, that it was part of his dressing routine. In the morning he’d put on that belt, then his pants and shirt, and then a sweater or sport jacket. It was pretty obvious that it was there and I told him that it made him look chubby. Whenever he was preoccupied with something, he’d dig one out and hold it in his hand and rub it with his thumb.”
“Did you tell the police he had the coins with him the day he disappeared?” I asked.
She thought a moment, then said, “Why no, I don’t believe I did. I was so worried, so overwrought, that I completely forgot about them.”
Priscilla stopped petting Mandy and looked at her. “Jesus Christ, lady, we’re talking a ton of dollars here. I mean, here’s your husband wandering around with five pounds of gold strapped to his gut, he disappears, and you never thought to tell the cops about it? You never thought about them?”
“II’m afraid not. My only thoughts were of Charles. II’m afraid they just never crossed my mind, I didn’t think of them as being valuable. I just, just… well, I just didn’t think about them.”
To hell with it. I heaved myself out of the chair, put my glass on the coffee table, and joined Priscilla and the dog on the floor. It didn’t seem to faze Helen that her guests preferred to sit on the floor. Nor did it appear to faze Mandy that Cat was leaning out of the sling and waving her maimed paw at her while spewing forth with squeaky hisses. I put a heavy hand on Cat’s head, pushed her back into the sling and said, “Helen, did Charles ever say mention anything about a Satan’s Station to you?”
“You two are so nice, Mandy is in doggie heaven. And I’m sorry your cat isn’t well. Satan’s Station? Oh yes, that was Harold’s name for… for arraignments. He had his funeral planned to the smallest detail. We bought a plot in Serene Valley Cemetery and he planned to do business with one of the local funeral homes. Satan’s Station was Harold’s name for funeral homes. He didn’t think well of them. He said funeral directors were predatory ghouls who’d drain you of every penny you had if you let them. Never the less they perform a necessary service and I think he planned to visit one in-in ttown.” Tears streamed down her cheeks. She flapped a hand at us, grabbed her wine, and trotted out of the room. Seconds later a door slammed somewhere in the back of the condo and a heavy silence prevailed.
Five minutes later we were still petting the dog and waiting. Mandy didn’t seem at all upset with Helen’s sudden exit. She looked at us as if to say, ‘All the time, she does this all the time.’ Priscilla looked at me and shrugged. We gave Mandy a final pat and left.
… . .
THERE ARE TWO FUNERAL HOMES IN town, one on the east side and one on the west side. We pedaled by Fairfield’s Funeral Home, the east side one, and since lights were on we turned in. Fairfield’s was a single story red brick building with a small wood porch with two white pillars that looked like they were molded out of used soda bottles. We locked the bikes to the front suspension of a black Honda Civic, I grabbed Cat, and we did as the small brass plate suggested and walked in.
We entered a big room with beige wallpaper stenciled with improbable flowers, and the wall to wall indoor/outdoor carpeting looked like a noxi
ous growth in the artificial light. To our left, coffins on waist high stands were lined up like soldiers awaiting inspection. The right side of the room was open except for a large metal desk, four chairs, and several pots of plastic flowers. A short young man with limp hair and wet looking eyes was seated at the metal desk.
He stood up and smiled. “Good evening, how may I help you?” As he came toward us, hand outstretched, his eyes darted up and down Priscilla’s body. He resembled a nervous squirrel.
Priscilla poked me in the ribs and muttered, “Not this one,” and headed for the coffins.
I gave the man a smile, shook his hand and said, “Ten years ago a man named Charles Watson come to you for information on funeral arrangements, would you happen to remember the occasion?”
“And you are?”
“My name is Harry Neal and this is my friend, Enid Snart. Helen Watson asked us to trace Harold’s actions the day he disappeared and we’ve found out he visited a funeral home on that day. You may call Mrs. Watson if you like.”
The man nodded, glanced at Priscilla, who was peering into a coffin, and said, “I don’t think that’ll be necessary. My name is Mark Lorrie, my Uncle Jack is the owner of Fairfield’s Funeral Home. And, I know Mister Watson, or rather I knew him, and he did inquire about the services we offer, but not on the day he disappeared. I’d say he was here about a week or so prior to his disappearance, I remember because I’d just started working with Jack.”
Priscilla, bent over, her head in a coffin, said, “And?” She sounded like she was talking from a cave.
Mark thoughtfully regarded her rump for a moment, shrugged, and smiled. “We’ve carved a niche in this business by catering to people with limited resources. We will certainly provide upper level services and utilities, but with Mister Watson I never had the opportunity to offer. He remarked that our establishment reminded him of a fast food joint.” He grinned and shrugged again. “He was really quite indignant.” He reached out and touched Cat’s head with his index finger and said, “I’m sorry about your cat. Mother and I have three and we think the world of them.”
He showed us to the door. As we left he turned to Priscilla and favored her with a dazzling smile. “It was a pleasure meeting you, Miss Snart. Perhaps we’ll see one another again.”
As we pedaled toward downtown Priscilla suddenly pulled her bike close to mine and slapped me across the back of my helmet. “Enid Snart? What the hell is that? I ought to give you a snart right across that sparfy mouth of yours.”
… . .
“SO MAYBE IT’S THIS ONE,” PRISCILLA said. It was night now, and of course, cold. She had her new gloves on and her mask was at the ready in the little bag on her handlebars. We were on the sidewalk in front of a big Victorian house with a wraparound porch and arched windows. Priscilla had stated the obvious. As the only other funeral home in town this must be the place, assuming Charles Watson really did want to deal locally. A beautifully carved sign on the lawn said: The Chapman Funeral Home. Two unlit flood lights were aimed at the sign. Except for a light coming from a corner room on the second floor, the house was dark.
I put on my mask and gloves and said, “Let’s get going. We can come by tomorrow, then find Young Tommy and Betty.” Over her mask Priscilla’s eyes were flat and I knew she was going to ask so I said it first. “If you want you can have the quarter berth again.”
Her eyes brightened and she said, “Thanks. Let me call Eva and we’ll get going.”
We pedaled back downtown and stopped by a payphone. I gave her fifty cents and said, “Do what we should have done earlier and ask her what funeral home handled Frank.”
She talked briefly, hung up the phone and stuck her finger in the coin slot. Finding it empty, she slammed the butt of her palm into the phone twice and tried the slot again. No fifty cents. As she swung a leg over her bike she said, “The Chapman Funeral Home did Frank.”
Light from my helmet danced on the road in front of me, lulling me into an opened eyed trance filled with dead spaces. We would be two miles out of town and I’d think of the distance we still had to travel and suddenly we were three miles out of town. Sweat coursed down my back and my feet were cold. For the Nth time I promised myself new winter shoes and electric socks.
We weaved our way across the pasture and into the grove. Inside the boat I lit candles, hunkered down, did the fire, and sat before it like an old dog, waiting for the heat to thaw my blood.
A cold rain started to hammer the boat. I sat in the settee with Cat on my lap, sipped wine and let the storm seep into my bones, occasionally shivering with the delight of it. Priscilla put a tray laden with wine and Kashi Bars on the table and plopped down across from me. She jumped back up and opened the door to the stove. “I wanna watch the fire, I bet a zillion years ago when those cave types were eating they liked to stare at the fire too.”
“For them fire was survival.”
“Hey, for you too, the boat would be an icebox if it weren’t for that woodstove.”
I unwrapped a granola bar and bit into it. “I have a generator up on deck, if I wanted to I could start it up and use the boat’s electric heater. Or I could start the propane heater or just go to the barn and sleep in the lounge.”
“Jesus on a stick, will you put a sock in it Old Man? I love the fire and this boat is sort of like a cave. I like the way the candles flicker, bouncing shadows all over the room.”
“Cabin, we sailors call it a cabin.”
She snorted. “Sailor? When was the last time you put to sea?”
“Three years ago I drifted down the Pemigewasset River from Plymouth to New Hampton in a twenty dollar rubber boat.”
“Run into any pirates?”
“No, but I saw a moose eating lily pads. It was a truly magnificent beast, like something out of a nature film.”
She stood, stretched, and said, “Maybe so, but I’d much rather hunt Raiders and Ferals in nuked D.C.,” She went to the Xbox, turned it on, cracked her knuckles and murmured, “Look out people, here comes Priscilla Matson, a truly magnificent beast.”
… . .
PRISCILLA WOKE ME BY STICKING A cup of coffee under my nose and saying some smartass thing I didn’t catch. Becoming awake enough to sit up was a slow process, but I made it and managed to get the coffee to my mouth without incident. When I judged myself fully conscious I did some stretches. Always the stretching, don’t want to end up like those stiff old men in the park, shuffling along like hamstrung goats.
Sliding into the settee opposite Priscilla, I petted Cat, who must have slept with her again, and stared at a full plate of scrambled eggs and toast. I looked at her with raised eyebrows. She shrugged and said, “I wrapped a dozen eggs in foam and brought them out with me. I threw half the yokes away. It’s good protein and you’ll need it for The Stop today.”
“How are you getting along with Fallout 3?”
She grinned. “I’m trying to find a way into downtown D.C. I’ve got to get to the radio station and talk with somebody named Three Dog.” That game is something else, I can’t imagine the work that must have gone into it.”
“It is an amazing piece of work,” I said. “And a great time waster. The same company also has a game called Skyrim, which is truly remarkable.”
“Is it all right if I come out again tonight?”
I hesitated, sighed inwardly and said, “All right, but don’t settle in for the winter.”
“Till this thing is over?”
I tried the eggs; they were delicious. I sipped some coffee; it was excellent. “All right, till this thing is over.”
She smiled and murmured, “Thanks.” She reached out and scuffed Cat’s head. “Listen, do you think the hairball could bunk with you tonight? I dreamt I was in some dark place and couldn’t breathe and woke up with this thing wrapped around my neck blowing little cat breaths up my nose.”
“It’s undoubtedly your radiant personality. I’m afraid you’re her buddy until you leave.”
Priscilla put her face close to Cat’s, narrowed her eyes and hissed. Cat cocked her head, meowed, and smacked Priscilla on the nose with her bad paw. Priscilla sat back, glared at Cat and muttered, “Mangy two-bit hairball.”
… . .
THE RAIN HAD GONE EAST, LEAVING chilled air and sunlight with a razor edge. The pasture was saturated with half frozen water and we squished and skated our way to the gate. I managed to get the thing open and closed without maiming myself. When we rode past the barn an old man dressed in quilted pants and a wool cap yelled, “Hey Harry, when you gonna get going on the rest of the wood?”
I ignored him, but Priscilla yelled back, “In time old man, don’t get your stones in a bundle.”
And he yelled back, “Now don’t you be sassy, Little Lady.”
About a mile from town I started shooting mental azimuths into the woods. When it seemed right I shifted down and turned off the road. Priscilla followed, and we tried to keep my instinctive azimuth while weaving our way around brush and trees, but it got too gnarly because of the trailer, so we pushed the bikes the last mile or so. We propped the bikes against convenient trees, climbed to the plateau and walked through the boulder field to the other side. “This is like walking through a canyon,” Priscilla said. “How’d you find this place?”
“I didn’t, Young Tommy did, and when we knew each other well enough, he invited me to live here with him. I declined, but I may accept sometime in the future, this place attracts me.”
“Really? This is more than a little out of the way, even for you.”
“Maybe now, but in another decade I might think it’s an ideal escape from the slathering herds.”
Buster skittered around a boulder, skidded to a stop and shoved his nose into my hand. I dug into the base of his neck and he yawned with pleasure. He trotted to Priscilla, jammed his nose into her crotch and snuffled. “Hey!” she yelled, jumped back, and smacked him across the muzzle. He barked, came back to me, sniffed at the sling and barked again. I heard faint mews from the sling and grabbed him by the collar and pushed him toward the yurt.
Bentley Dadmun - Harry Neal and Cat 09 - Dead Dead Dead, the Little Girl Said Page 10