The Underground Lady

by JC Simmons

  Hebrone and I made our way along the shoreline toward VonHorner's dock. Sunny waited in the truck with instructions to blow the horn once, then twice in rapid succession if anything looked out of the ordinary. My watch read one a.m. A light was on in a back room of the house, probably a bedroom.

  "We will have to wait," Hebrone whispered, pointing at the light.

  "Well, I know how."

  "How to what?"

  "Wait."

  At that moment, the light went out. When another thirty minutes passed, we eased along the shoreline to the boathouse. Water was lapping disconsolately at the pilings. The reflection of the neon light at the end of the pier floated on the water like the iridescent longings of an abandoned woman. An old song from the fifties, made famous by the Platters, came drifting across my thoughts: "Harbor Lights" – I saw the harbor lights, they only told me we were parting, those same old harbor lights that once brought you to me.

  Hebrone tried the door to the boathouse. It opened with a loud squeak. We eased inside. He used a penlight to look around. There was nothing there, the place was empty, not even a boat. There was an odor of water-soaked, rotting, creosote-treated wood. There was no rope, no five by nine cards, no pencil stub, and no ten-penny nails – nothing.

  We made our way back to the truck. Sunny said all had been quiet. Hebrone removed the clip from the Glock and took the round out of the chamber. We drove back in silence.

  ***

  When I arrived back at the cottage after dropping Hebrone and Sunny off at Rose's house, my watch read three-thirty a.m. This had been a truly wasted night. So much for my instincts. Gerald VonHorner may have had nothing to do with what happened to Hadley Welch. He simply may not have wanted to talk about her, was still carrying the grudge of a spurned lover, even after twenty-five years. I could see that. It's hard to live with the unlived life. People say one can die of a broken heart, but the heart is a pump. It's that part of the brain that produces emotion that causes the soul to die. Thank you Harvey Cushing, the father of neurosurgery in the United States, for teaching me that.

  Opening the window in the bedroom, a light wind brought the cold air in on gossamer wings, moving the curtains like a saintly ghost. I added an extra blanket and crawled into bed. False dawn was easing the darkness, and exhaustion crept over me like a black shroud.

  I killed the big bear with a single shot. I remember touching the coarse hair on the head, the smoothness of the long white incisors, measuring the width of the massive paws, wincing at the sharpness and length of the silver claws, and then seeing the dead ball of its eye as it stared sightless through me to the white mountains. This death drew me toward a compassion I didn't fully understand. All I knew was that such sentiments were not spoken of among men. I slept until late afternoon when the cold January light began to fail. I don't think I ever slept more deeply and there was the pleasant illusion that I had become part of the bed. I turned to see B.W. staring at me. He was supposed to be at Rose's. "You are not a bear."

  Looking at the door, I saw Rose standing, leaning against the frame. "How long you been here?"

  "Not long. Watching you sleep is not my favorite pastime. I made you some coffee."

  "Thanks. Do we have a meeting with Avis Shaw?"

  "No. His wife said he was not feeling well. We are to be at his home at ten o'clock in the morning. In the meantime, get up, take a shower, which I'm sure you sorely need, put on some clothes, and be at my house in an hour. I'm grilling steaks, and you should bring some of that grape juice. Do not forget B.W., who I will leave with you for now."

  "Yes, mother."

  Rose stuck her nose up, left in a huff, slamming the front door on her way out. I heard her truck start and drive away. B.W. stared at me as if I should be doing as Rose ordered.

  ***

  The only thing I can say about the dinner at Rose's is that the two inch thick ribeyes were grilled to perfection, and the 1975 Chateau Pavie, a well-known first growth vineyard from St. Emilion that I discovered in the cellar, went with them perfectly. We were all tired from the night before, and after coffee in the den, decided to call it an evening, agreeing to meet at the cottage around nine-thirty in the morning and leave from there to drive to Avis Shaw's house. It was also agreed that Sunny would do the interview since Shaw had sent her the letter saying her mother did not die in a plane crash, but was murdered.

  When B.W. and I drove up at the cottage, the front door was standing open. A note lay on the kitchen counter, printed in pencil in neat straight lines on a five by nine card.

  I WARNED YOU

  HOPE YOU ENJOYED THE STEAK

  Chapter Twelve

  We pulled up in front of Avis Shaw's home on North Street in Union. Rose and Sunny rode in Rose's truck – Shack, Hebrone, and I followed in Shack's truck. There was a police car and an ambulance in the driveway. The front door was open and a Union Policeman stood on the front porch. Shack knew him, and asked what was going on.

  "Old man Shaw suffered a stroke. EMT's pronounced him. We're waiting on the Coroner."

  We huddled beside Rose's truck.

  "Bad luck for Shaw and us," Shack said, pawing the dirt with a boot toe.

  "I've got to stop by the grocery store," Rose said.

  "I think you and Sunny will be safe. We'll meet you back at your house by noon. You have your cell phone if there's a problem."

  Rose looked at me with empathy. "Where's your cat, Leicester? He hanging from your door?"

  Back at the cottage, B.W. was safe. I showed Shack and Hebrone the note left on my kitchen table last night.

  "This man's smart, Jay. He's familiar with our activities. Maybe you and Hebrone should make another run at the men you interviewed previously."

  "He's right, Leicester. I'd like to get a handle on these people."

  "Assuming it's one of them. Explain to me how anyone could have known Rose was grilling steaks?"

  "Good question," Hebrone said, looking at me.

  My phone rang. It was Paul Bradford, the Tower Chief at the Meridian Airport. The transcript from Hadley Welch's radio communications with John Roberts the day she went missing had arrived. I told him we would pick them up late this afternoon. He said that any time before five p.m. would be fine.

  I hung up thinking we could start in Union with the lawyer, then on to Decatur for the banker, pick up the transcript at the airport, continue to the retired Navy man's house, and after that set our sights on Gerald VonHorner.

  Shack stood up from the couch. "You know the only person who knew what you all were doing last night that wasn't there was me."

  "You're right," Hebrone said, with a blank expression.

  "So what's your point, Shack?"

  "I just want everything out in the open."

  "We know you didn't leave the note."

  "How?"

  "You can't write that well."

  He smiled. "I want the air cleared, that's all."

  "I trust you as much as I do Rose and Hebrone. Never doubt that, Shack."

  "Thanks. I've got cows to feed. Good luck with the interviews. I'll keep an eye on the girls."

  We watched him drive out the terrace row onto the gravel road as Rose and Sunny passed by returning from the grocery store.

  Hebrone turned and looked at me. "I'm glad he brought that up."

  "Why?"

  "I'd thought about it."

  "You were wrong."

  "Yeah."

  ***

  Hebrone and I parked in front of the building with the sign hanging across the sidewalk that read: CHARLES COLLINSWOOD ATTORNEY AT LAW.

  Pussy Galore was at her desk wearing the same steel-rimmed glasses and a different-colored straight, plain dress. I would bet she had a closet full of them. Today, her hair was pulled up into a tightly woven bun. Her smile was infectious and I was delighted to see some color in her face and sparkle in her eyes.

  "Miss Galore, good afternoon. This is Hebrone Opshinsky, a colleague of mine. Is Mr. Collins
wood available? We need to speak with him."

  She stood, extended a hand to Hebrone. "Nice to meet you, Mr. Opshinsky. Yes, Mr. Leicester, please have a seat, and I'll inform him you are here."

  We sat in comfortable leather chairs from another era. It was dark in the waiting area creating a claustrophobic feeling. There were old prints hanging on the walls depicting horses pulling carriages across small creeks with young people riding in them. These, too, were dark and depressing.

  "Pussy Galore?"

  "Her father was an Ian Fleming fan."

  "Too bad for her."

  "Please go in, Mr. Leicester. He'll see you now."

  Collinswood, stood, shook hands. "Ah, Mr. Leicester, you have some information on Hadley Welch?"

  "There have been some developments. This is a colleague of mine, Hebrone Opshinsky. He's working with me to determine what happened to Miss Welch."

  They shook hands. Collinswood seemed shorter, heavier, and older than a few days ago. His eyes were still alert and aware of everything around him.

  "Rough week?" I asked.

  "Does it show? Murder case in an adjoining county. Really too much for a one-man office. So what have you found out about Hadley's disappearance?"

  "Someone sent the daughter, Sunny Pfeiffer, a letter that said her mother was murdered. We got fingerprints off the letter, matched Avis Shaw."

  "I'll be – I know Shaw. So that's why you were looking into this. What did he have to say about it?"

  "He's dead. Stroked out this morning, before we had a chance to interview him."

  Collinswood sat back in his chair, looked up at the ceiling. He ran a hand through his receding hair, closed his eyes. Then, “Did you talk to Peter Pushkin, the banker from Decatur?"

  "Yes, he wasn't very forthcoming. He did deny being the father of her daughter."

  "I remember that rumor going around at the time, but I never believed it."

  "It turned out that it wasn't true."

  "Now you did not get this from me, but Avis Shaw did some dozier work for Pushkin and he was dissatisfied with how it was done and wouldn't pay him. Shaw came to me. I convinced Pushkin to settle with him, but there was bad blood between them. I don't know if that means anything."

  "It may. Someone is upset that we're looking into the disappearance. They warned me off the investigation."

  "How?"

  "They hung a coyote from my front door, left me a note threatening my life."

  "Good God, man, this is serious. Did you notify the sheriff?"

  "He ran the prints for us."

  "You think Avis Shaw hung that coyote from your door?"

  "No, there was another set of prints on the note that threatened me."

  "Really? I know better than to ask. In fact, I don't want to know."

  "We haven't had a chance to talk with him yet, but we think he was hired to make the threat, not the one who wants the investigation stopped."

  "Mr. Leicester, I can assure you that I had nothing to do with this, and if I can be of any help, please let me know. I have to be in court in Philadelphia in half an hour. It was good to meet you, Mr. Opshinsky."

  In the outer office, Pussy Galore handed me a sealed envelope. "Please read this later, Mr. Leicester."

  Closing the door to my truck, I looked at Hebrone. "What do you think?"

  "That lawyer had nothing to do with this, though I got a sense that he was hiding something."

  "Aren't all lawyers?"

  "What's with the envelope from Miss Galore?"

  Opening it, I read out loud:

  Can you meet me at my apartment tonight at seven o'clock?

  I may have some information you want.

  She gave the address, one that I did not know.

  "Well, I believe Miss Plain Jane has a thing for you, my friend."

  "We shall see. Let's go shake up a banker."

  ***

  The FARMER'S BANK OF DECATUR was typical of every small town bank in America. Tellers were located on one side of a long building with access to the drive-through windows, Loan Officer's cubicles on the opposite side, and the bank president's plush, glassed-in office at the back of the building. We could see Peter Pushkin at his desk. A receptionist asked if she could be of assistance.

  I pointed to Pushkin. "We need to see him."

  Not waiting for her reply, we walked into his office.

  He stood, anger showing on his face. "I thought I made myself clear that I didn't want…"

  "Sit down, Pushkin. I got your warning. Threats irritate me."

  The receptionist stood in the door. "Is everything alright, Mr. Pushkin?"

  "Yes, yes, Miss Clark."

  She turned and went back to her desk.

  "I'm sorry, I don't remember your name," he said, sitting down behind his desk, some color returning to his face.

  "Leicester, Jay Leicester. This is Hebrone Opshinsky.

  He ignored Hebrone. "What is this about some threat?"

  I watched his face. The hard wrinkles and brown, tanned skin made him look old and hard to read. "Avis Shaw died this morning, and you are not the father of Sunny Pfeiffer."

  There seemed confusion in his eyes, as if he couldn't put things in sequence. Everything in his life had an order to it. All the numbers added up, the books balanced. "What has any of this got to do with me? I already told you I wasn't the father of Hadley Welch's daughter. I certainly made no threat against you, sir. Avis Shaw, I'm sorry to hear of his death, but what does he have to do with any of this?"

  "You and Shaw had some differences in the past. He wrote a letter to Miss Pfeiffer saying her mother was murdered. Maybe he knew what happened and was trying to get back at you."

  "Get back for what? I never heard such…"

  Hebrone propped his feet up on Pushkin's desk, took out a small pin knife that I'd never seen before and proceeded to clean his fingernails. "You like animals, Mr. Pushkin?"

  The man looked at Hebrone as if he was insane. "Animals? Yes, I have two dogs. What has that got to do with anything? Would you please get your feet off my desk?"

  "Hear me well, Pushkin. If anything happens to me, any of my friends, or any of our pets, the first person to be looked at is you."

  "I think you two better leave."

  "One more thing, we know who left the note on my door. When we find them, and we will, they will talk. Good day, Mr. Pushkin."

  ***

  As we drove toward the Meridian Airport, Hebrone said, "I don't know, Jay. The man is hard to read. If I had to make the call now, I'd say he's not involved, but he needs looking at some more. Don't cross him off the list entirely."

  We parked near the control tower. Paul Bradford had the transcript ready for us. I thanked him for his help. He had spoken to his brother and passed on my regards. He said that Asa was being promoted to Chief Pilot of the Seattle base. If I ever wanted a job flying the line, let him know. He had a seat waiting for me.

  Back at the truck, I handed the transcript to Hebrone, and we headed to Raymond Spruance, the retired Naval Aviator's home.

  Hebrone read through the report. "There's nothing out of the ordinary here. The only question is why did she deem it necessary to return to her landing strip? There are really only three possibilities."

  "They would be?"

  "She forgot something, had a mechanical problem, or saw someone from the air that she wanted to talk with."

  "Doesn't tell us what happened to her or the airplane."

  "No, it does not."

  We entered the gated subdivision and parked in front of Raymond Spruance's neat house. He was sitting on the front porch observing a birdfeeder in a far corner of the yard. A dozen male and female Cardinals sliced through the air like drops of blood. Blue Jays and House Sparrows fussed at ivory-beaked Juncos and Mourning Doves. A fat Calico cat sat at the corner of the house eyeing the spectacle and licking her lips.

  Spruance stood when we walked up the sidewalk. His silver gray hair glinted in the a
fternoon winter sun. "Can I help you?"

  "Mr. Spruance, I'm Jay Leicester. I talked with you a few days ago about Hadley Welch."

  "Ah, Mr. Leicester, forgive me, I did not recognize you. Please come and have a seat, if it's not too cold for you."

  "This is Hebrone Opshinsky. You probably flew high cover for him during the Vietnam War."

  They shook hands.

  "Vietnam, so many sacrifices, so freely given, so little accomplished. Yeah, I was there." He was handsome, vigorous, and in his seventies. There was no more to his face than form required. It was spare and wrinkled, with the impatient squint of an aged aviator, and a lipless pseudo-smile that emphasized the lustrous melancholy of his blue eyes.

  "We want to talk some more about your relationship with Miss Welch. There have been some developments."

  "Then you've found out what happened to her?"

  "No, but threats have been made against those of us who are looking into her disappearance."

  "Threats? I don't understand. Why would there be threats? I thought her plane crashed?"

  "Her daughter received an anonymous letter saying that her mother was murdered. The man who sent it is dead. Someone, for whatever reason, wants us to stop looking into what happened. We thought maybe you could remember something else that might shed some light, or maybe confess that you killed her?"

  He stroked his mustache, smiled at me, and then seemed to go far away. The winter sun cast light more radiant than that of summer across the porch, but its shadows seemed darker and deeper. Turning, he said, “I would still look at that civilian flight instructor, what was his name…?"

  "Earl Sanders."