Sinister Justice

by Steve Pickens

  Jake sneezed again, which brought on a coughing fit that lasted over a minute. He was just finishing when Sam came in from the kitchen, having just returned from Walgreens with a full supply of cold medication for his stricken husband.

  “That sounds bloody awful,” he said, setting a glass of orange juice next to Jake, along with Dayquil capsules, which Jake downed immediately. He felt Jake’s forehead and frowned, then went back into the pantry to retrieve the thermometer.

  “Thag you for de oradge juice.”

  “You’re welcome.” He clicked the button on the thermometer and then stuck it under Jake’s tongue. “I ran into Mom when I was down at the drug store.”

  “Dith you pick her up?”

  “You’re not feeling that bad if you can drag that old chestnut out. She’ll be bringing you some chicken soup up later.”

  “Thad’s nice of ’er.”

  Sam pulled it out of his mouth. “One hundred one. Take the comforter off.”

  “But I’b freezingth.”

  “I know you’re freezing, but you’re too hot. Come on now,” said Sam, gently tugging the comforter away.

  Jake shivered. “Meany.”

  “Just for a bit until that Dayquil has a chance to take hold and lower your temperature a bit. Have some more juice.” He walked over to the hearth and turned up the gas fire. “That should help any chills you might have.”

  “Easy for youb to say. Where’s Jason?”

  “Work, I would imagine. They’re running a special edition today. He promised to bring one home later.”

  “Poor Davibth Longhoffer. Just gets back and his brother is eaten by a wooth.”

  Sam burst out laughing.

  “Thangs a lot. I’m dyingth and you’re laughing at me.”

  “You’re hardly on death’s doorstep, kiddo,” said Sam, feeling Jake’s forehead again. “I don’t like that fever though. And it wasn’t a wolf, for the record. Jason was right, it was a wolfhound.”

  “Can I have the comfrobter back, please?”

  “All right, but just cover your legs. And incidentally, you’re falling out of your boxers.”

  “I know,” said Jake with a wicked grin. “Thab’s why you bought ’em, remember?”

  Sam kissed Jake on the forehead. “I remember. Try to get some rest, okay? If you need anything, use your cell phone,” he said, placing it on the coffee table next to the tissue.

  “Okay.”

  “I’ll check on you in a half hour, okay? I’ve got a few things I have to take care of, but then I’ll be in here with you the rest of the afternoon.”

  “Sam, you don’t hab to—”

  “Have has nothing to do with it, Jake. I want to be here for you. You know as well as I do you’ve taken care of me a dozen times with colds and my back and yet you’ve hardly ever given me a chance to reciprocate,” he said, tousling Jake’s hair. “You’re annoyingly healthy.”

  “I don’t feel so healthy right dow.”

  “I know. Just relax and try to get some rest, okay? Barnaby’s in with me, do you want him in here?”

  “No, the cats are keeping be combany.”

  “Okay then. I’ll be back in a half hour to check on you.”

  Jake nodded as Sam left, stealing the comforter back over himself and shivering. He hadn’t had a cold so severe in many years, and wasn’t enjoying it. He wasn’t sure if Sam came back in a half hour or not, as he drifted off to sleep. When he opened his eyes again, he was sitting on an overstuffed couch of plum velvet in a room he did not know. The walls were painted emerald green with black crown molding. On the wall beside him was a reproduction of William Blake’s The Web of Religion. To his left was an end table with a lamp that looked like the planet Saturn; feeling that all this was vaguely familiar, Jake looked at the floor to make sure it wasn’t the stitched pattern that had appeared in Twin Peaks. Finding nothing but highly polished floorboards, he sighed and sat back up, only to find Reed Longhoffer and Leona Weinberg sitting across from him in two straight-backed chairs. They were both white as sheets with huge black circles under their eyes and remained stock-still, their hands resting in their lap.

  Jake eyed them suspiciously. “If either one of you starts talking backward, things will go very hard on you.”

  The two remained motionless, like dolls. Not wanting the pleasure of their company any longer, Jake went through a set of French doors into a dining room, where nearly everyone who had attended the town meeting was seated, all in formal dress. The maître d’ moved stiffly forward and asked his name. Jake gave it and was surprised to see the maître d’ was Walter Lugar. He smiled at Jake, his blue eyes bright, and led him to a table that was set for four.

  “The other guests will be arriving soon,” said Walter, bowing and leaving Jake by himself to survey the room.

  Rebecca Windsor was eating a large orange with Gladys Nyberg, who looked completely bored as Rebecca yammered on. In between bites a devil, or perhaps the devil, only eleven inches high, kept grinding pepper onto her orange, causing her to sneeze with nearly every bite. On her left, the Reverend Crawford was chatting with Evelyn O’Conner, while Nora O’Conner in a red dress sat grumpily to her mother’s right playing with a breadstick. Trudy Mundy walked by with a loaf of French bread, smacking Nora in the head as she passed. Jake burst out laughing as Nora looked around, bewildered.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Finnigan, your guests have not arrived yet,” said Walter Lugar, having materialized from nowhere. ‘Would you care for a drink?”

  “I’ll have a Burning Bourbon,” said Jake, not knowing what he just ordered.

  Walter nodded, bowed again, and left Jake to continue looking over the room. Milton Sandy was busy spraying Sheila Doyle in the face with his exterminator canister while his wife, Marilyn, kept poking her in the arm with a hypodermic needle. At the table next to them were Randy Burrows and Emma Kennedy, both holding plaid scarves in one hand and large red apples in the other; Verna Monger, wearing a long red sequined dress, was singing “Fever.”

  “Have I ever told you,” said Sam, taking a seat next to him. “You have the strangest dreams?”

  Jake turned to look at his husband, who was dressed in a tuxedo with a forest green tie and cummerbund. He smiled, giving Sam a kiss on the cheek. “You look wonderful.”

  “Well, don’t get used to it. I only wear tuxes for dreams and theatrical dance numbers. And don’t think you’re getting one of those tonight either,” said Sam warningly, taking a sip of a scarlet drink that was bubbling and hissing.

  “What is that?”

  “Burning Bourbon,” said Caleb Rivers, holding a rather phallic looking pepper grinder. “Pepper?”

  “Caleb, is that a salmon costume?”

  “Overt symbolism. You know I like to fish,” said Caleb, grinding a mound of pepper into Jake’s drink. “Pay no attention. The real drama is out there,” he said, motioning with the grinder to the crowd. “And don’t worry about that pepper. It’s organic and grown in a local greenhouse.”

  “Not bad,” said Sam, raising his glass to Caleb’s retreating fish fins.

  Jake nodded in agreement, but followed Caleb’s advice of looking out into the dining room. The wax-like Leona and Reed had moved to a table slightly apart from everyone else. A third man was sitting at the table, but his back was to Jake. Meanwhile the main course arrived, large steaming turkeys on silver platters. Jake’s mouth watered at the thought of a succulent slice of turkey, when Rebecca Windsor suddenly rose and shouted, “It’s Misty Snipes! The Plaid Porcupine Killer!”

  “I thought it was the ‘Plaid Scarf Strangler?’” Jake asked Sam, who, engrossed in a book, merely shrugged and turned a page.

  Something large, spiny, and multicolored knocked Rebecca Windsor down. Jake turned to the entrance of the dining room where a skeletal woman dressed in a black overcoat let out a maniacal laugh and hurled plaid porcupines out at the dining room.

  Jake looked over at Sam, who looked over the top of his book w
ith mild interest and said, “Well, it beats flying monkeys.”

  Jake was horrified as people in the town began falling over left and right, plaid porcupines stuck like Velcro to their clothing while Misty Snipes continued to pelt the dining room with them. Finally Walter Lugar returned, hitting a buzzer that he held in his hand and insisting that she stop at once. She had taken to throwing around the dessert when Jake’s eyes snapped open to the sound of the front door buzzer bleating in his ear.

  He whipped the comforter aside, having sweat through it, and slowly rose, every joint in his body aching. He held his head, groaning as he approached the front door, walking through the small foyer and flinging the door back with a bang.

  Adam Haggerty stood outside on the porch, looking somber.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  “Funny,” said Jake, his decongestant finally working. “Of all the people in the world, I didn’t expect it to be you.” The codeine was also working—he was completely stoned, his head feeling like it resided about six feet above his neck and was filled with sunny, April freshness.

  “I’m sorry…April what?” Haggerty asked.

  “Did I say that out loud?”

  Haggerty nodded, looking utterly confused.

  “Never mind.”

  “May I come in, Mr. Finnigan? I have some questions I’d like to ask you.”

  “Sure, why not,” said Jake, leaving the door open and walking away from it, heading back to the couch and flopping down. “What brings you here on this lovely day?” He grabbed a handful of tissue and blew his nose loudly, dropping the tissue in the paper sack Sam had left him.

  “Ah, um, er, um, could you adjust your boxer shorts, please?”

  “Oops,” said Jake, pulling the comforter over his exposed genitalia. “Sorry. They do that.”

  “Quite.”

  “What can I do for you?”

  “I’d like to know where you were after the last town meeting.”

  “Why? I thought I wasn’t a suspect.”

  “We have another body now.”

  “And that makes me a suspect?” he asked, blinking away the cartoon bluebirds that had settled on Haggerty’s shoulders.

  “I understand that you had some sort of altercation with Mr. Longhoffer after you left the meeting.”

  “Who said that?”

  “That’s not important. Do you deny it?”

  “No, I don’t. Reed was being a prick,” he said, wanting some juice but not wanting to get up. He wondered when Sam would check on him again. He also wondered when Sam would notice Haggerty’s car in the driveway. He looked out the living room window and toward the driveway, only spotting Sam’s Outback. Haggerty had evidently parked on the street and walked up.

  “What was the dispute about?” asked Haggerty.

  “Parking arrangements,” said Jake, resting his hand on his chin. “Did you know that in China, they don’t use forks?”

  Haggerty frowned, scratching his chin. “Um, Mr. Finnigan, maybe you see this as some sort of joke, but I assure you I do not. Two people are dead. Coincidentally, these two people are known to have had confrontations with you and your husband less than twenty-four hours before their deaths. Now, as a fan of mysteries you can see why that would lead the police to think the situation somewhat suspicious. I need to get the facts, even to just rule you and Sam out.”

  “I’m sorry, detective, I’m not being flip. It was about parking. Reed had parked too close to our car and he couldn’t get out.” He thought a moment. “Did I say something about forks?”

  “You did,” Haggerty confirmed. “That was the extent of your conversation with Mr. Longhoffer?”

  “Hmm. You know better or you wouldn’t be asking. And that little bluebird next to your ear knows too.” He blinked. “Forget I said that.”

  Haggerty suppressed a smile. “Please continue.”

  “Reed got insulting. Abusive, even.”

  “About?”

  “The old battle-axe next door, the late Mrs. Weinberg,” he said, sneezing.

  “Bless you.”

  “Tank you,” said Jake, blowing his nose again.

  “Mr. Longhoffer was abusive? What did he say?” Haggerty asked, taking notes.

  “He accused us of doing the old biddy in,” Jake said. “Saying we should be arrested, we were perverts. The usual diatribe, you know…you know…you have the most amazing dark brown eyes, Detective? They remind me of Sam’s. Yours are a shade lighter, though, like antique walnut.”

  “Uh…ooh, kay…Did he…Did he use any words of a derogatory or denigrating nature?”

  Jake laughed, which caused him to erupt in another coughing fit. Once it had subsided, he took another swig off the bottle, lying back against the pillows. “What a nice way of putting it. You’re asking if the word ‘faggot’ was trotted out. The answer is yes. Funny word, that. It means ‘bundle of sticks.’ I’ve never been sure how a bundle of sticks got confused with two men who liked to shag one another. I’ll have to look that up,” he said, wagging a finger. “These things are important.”

  “Yes…um…and then what happened?”

  “Then…” Jake wondered if he should mention that one of the cartoon bluebirds on Haggerty’s shoulder had just relieved itself. He sighed wheezily and said, “I told him to back off or he’d have lawyers on him like black on coffee.”

  “Like what?”

  “Black on coffee. It wasn’t one of my finer moments in creative writing, Detective Haggerty, but I get a bit shirty when people trot out the ‘f’ word at me.” His head swimming, he sat back and closed his eyes. “Where do you suppose the wolfhound came from?”

  Adam Haggerty nearly dropped his pen. “How did you know about that?”

  “J.D., Detective. Don’t forget, my brother is now working for the Examiner.” He thought for a moment. “You can probably get that out with a little hot water. Though I’m not sure if it’s ink or paint or actual birdshit.”

  “Of course. I told both of them not to say anything,” said Haggerty, annoyed. He looked up, blinking. “What birdshit?”

  “Jason and I don’t have secrets, Detective. Won’t go any farther than me. I am wondering about the butterflies in the room though. Is it warm enough for them, you think?”

  “Butterflies? Are you all right, Mr. Finnigan?”

  “After the meeting we went to the Bitter End,” said Jake, ignoring the butterflies and returning to reality.

  “Can anyone verify that?”

  “You mean someone other than Sam?”

  “Yes.”

  “Caleb Rivers, the bartender, who played chess with Sam until well after 11:30. They’ve been playing this particular game over the last month.”

  “And what did you do while they were playing?”

  “Ate. I talked to several people who came in, including my former captain, Rhoda Trelawney.”

  “When did you leave?”

  “About twelve thirty, after we helped escort a drunk into a police car. One of your finest should be able to verify that, I should think,” said Jake, yawning.

  “Do you remember the officer’s name?”

  “He didn’t give it,” said Jake. “But the license plate on the patrol car was WA779AB. It was an unmarked car, but there was a scratch along the trunk lid.”

  “You can remember all that?”

  “Yep. I told you I have a near photographic memory. For instance, the first time I met you, you were wearing that same trench coat, no tie, a blue shirt and socks with the Tasmanian Devil on them,” said Jake, feeling exhausted.

  “Uh, what’s going on here?” Sam asked from the archway.

  “Detective Maggoty was asking some questions,” Jake said, yawning. “Haggoty.”

  “How much of that cough syrup have you had?”

  “Just a pinch,” Jake said. “Makes my chest not hurt.”

  “I’ll just bet,” Sam said, eyeing the bottle. He turned to Haggerty. “I’m not sure anything he told you would stand up
, Detective. He’s running on codeinated cough syrup.”

  Jake burst out laughing at the mention of “codeinated” until he erupted into another coughing fit. Sam waited until it had subsided, checking on Jake’s temperature again before ushering Adam Haggerty into the kitchen.

  “I’m sorry,” Haggerty said. “I should have realized he was ill.”

  “It’s just a cold, but when Jake gets sick, he does it with flourish. It’ll be bronchitis by the end of the week, no doubt. And as you might have noticed, codeine affects Jake rather strongly. Coffee?”

  “Thanks,” Haggerty said, accepting a cup from Sam. “I was asking him about the events after the town meeting.”

  “Longhoffer was killed right after the meeting, then?”

  “As near as we can tell. Mr. Finnigan says he had a minor altercation with the deceased, then proceeded to the Bitter End where you both remained until well after midnight.”

  “That’s about it. You can verify that with Caleb Rivers, the bartender. And Officer Tallmadge, who we handed off the drunken fisherman to at about twelve thirty that night.”

  “Tallmadge,” said Haggerty, making a note of it. “Mr. Finnigan said Mr. Longhoffer accused you of having a hand in Mrs. Weinberg’s death?”

  “Actually, I think it was along the lines of, ‘I know you faggots killed her.’”

  “Mr. Longhoffer was not a nice man,” Haggerty agreed, making another note. “I’ve yet to come across anyone who had anything nice to say about him.” He thought a moment. “One person.”

  “Likely Alexander Blackburn Junior,” Sam said, thinking of what Alex had let slip at the town meeting.

  “I can neither confirm nor deny that.”

  “Slippery, that,” Sam said with a grin. “Look, there’s no point in beating about the mulberry bush. Reed got accusatory, and, well, my husband is not a violent man, Detective Haggerty, but he is a bit of a hothead. Considering Jake’s physical characteristics and being known for having a hell of a right hook, he showed remarkable restraint.”

  “I probably would have punched Longhoffer,” Haggerty said.