4 - Stranger Room: Ike Schwartz Mystery 4

by Frederick Ramsay

  “Morning, Sheriff.” Norbert, as usual, greeted Ike with a display of expensive dental work framed in what Ike assumed passed for a sincere smile.

  “Behaving yourself, Norbert?”

  “Absolutely, Sheriff. All on the up and up, as you know.”

  “Right. Just a caution, nothing personal, you understand, but we’ve been jotting down the license plate numbers of your out of town customers and notifying the states in question. I’m sure there’ll be no problem, but on the off chance one of your sales turns up in the commission of a felony, there could be some serious consequences. Just a heads-up. Oh, and the Commonwealth is suing the state of New York to keep them from videotaping gun sales down here. They may or may not have frequented your store. I hope the suit fails.”

  Norbert blanched and stole a glance at his sales receipt file.

  “No worries in that department,” he said, but looked worried, nonetheless. “Is there anything else?”

  “Webley .455 caliber. You carry loads for that?”

  “Webley? I haven’t seen one of those for years. Collector’s piece. You have one? I’ll buy it.”

  “No, I was wondering if you sold one recently to anyone local and if not the pistol, ammunition for one.”

  “Not much call for .455. Now, some of the newer Webley’s used .380. I stock that.”

  “Anybody in here asking for .455?”

  Norbert frowned and looked thoughtful. Ike recognized the sign of a man wrestling with the truth and trying to find a way to tell it while avoiding it at the same time.

  “Nobody from around here, no sir.”

  That would have to do. Whether a box of shells found their way to Pittsburg or Philadelphia was not Ike’s concern at the moment. He’d heard enough to know that the shooter at Lydell’s either had shells or acquired them elsewhere. The report suggesting an older composition of the slug probably meant the shells had been around for a while.

  “Norbert, I should know this, but if ammunition sits around a while, will it still fire?”

  “Theoretically, yes. It depends on the make and conditions—you know, weather, damp, corrosion—but kept dry and clean, it’s probably good forever. Might lose some punch, though. I had a fellow in here t’other day had an old Sharp’s rifle. It had been hanging on the wall for maybe a hundred years or more. Might not have been used since the Civil War, who knows? Anyway, he said he sighted down the barrel and pulled the trigger and damned near killed his dog. So, yeah, it could work.”

  “Thanks, Norbert. Do me a favor, let me know if anybody comes in here asking for shells for a Webley, or wants to sell you one, will you?”

  “You bet I will. Say, if you-all want to upgrade weapons, I can get you a deal on a Glock 31. You’ve been lugging that Smith and Wesson around for years, Sheriff. Nice lightweight Glock’d be better. The thirty-one fires a .357 round, same as your S and W but it’s lighter and a whole lot easier to handle. Make you a good deal.”

  “I’ll think about it. Thanks.” Ike paused and turned back to Norbert. “Has Jonathan Lydell stopped by here lately?”

  “The stuffed shirt that’s restoring his house over in Bolton?”

  “Yes.”

  “No. Wait a minute. Yes, he was…about a week ago, maybe two. He wanted to know about security systems. He wants to burglar proof that dump of his. Like, what’s the chance of that?”

  “That all? He didn’t want to buy shells for a pistol, did he?” It didn’t seem likely.

  “No, but he did rummage through that box of old keys, and bought one.”

  “Okay, well, thanks, try to behave, Norbert. I’d hate to run you in.”

  “Never happen, Sheriff.”

  ***

  Three miles away, and in what could pass for another century, the object of their conversation sat at his desk fretting. Lydell had not written a word for days and he wanted to finish his last book in time to teach at Callend. That ridiculous Ms. Harris may have put him off, but if the rumors were true, she wouldn’t be in a position to say much one way or the other, soon enough. The contractor who promised to have the log structures up by Friday, this Friday, had dropped off the face of the earth. And his papers were still missing. That fact bothered him the most. The papers were important to the future, and Bellmore. He searched the surface of the desk, as if it might provide a clue as to their whereabouts. His hand brushed the blotter and the edge of one of the documents peeked out from beneath it. He lifted the blotter and found the rest. His relief was short lived. Some were still missing, the important ones, and he knew for a certainty that he had not put these there. No one else…he paused. The only persons who would know he sometimes slid papers under the blotter were Mrs. Picket, the cleaning woman, and Martha Marie.

  The Picket woman had a son in the sheriff’s office. But she didn’t figure to have done it. Simple woman. He felt as if he were suddenly surrounded by police relatives. Martha Marie…what had she said? We’ll see… something. But she was drunk, as usual. He drummed his fingers on the mahogany, subconsciously beating out the rhythm to Dixie… land o’ cotton. Mostly soy beans nowadays.

  “Martha Marie, where are you?” he shouted. Probably still in the shed. He stood and walked to the side board. Lydell did not drink much. The drinks table served more as a prop than a functioning service. At least it had until Martha Marie came to live with him. He poured several inches from the decanter, with the sterling silver Bourbon hanger on it, and drank. He coughed and raced to the porch and spat over the rail. Mrs. Antonelli who had just stepped out for air, gaped. He heard a chuckle behind him.

  “It’s apple juice,” Martha Marie said.

  “What…what’s that you say?”

  “You heard me. It’s apple juice. Now you know my secret.”

  “Secret? What secret? I don’t understand.”

  “Well then, I’ll explain. I don’t have my mother’s cast iron stomach and frankly, whiskey can give me the hangover, before it gives me the drunk, lately…bad liver from too much partying in my misspent youth. I can manage one, maybe two or three drinks at a time and that’s it. I have to space them out, you see?” She strolled to the divan and sat down, squared her shoulders and looked him in the eye. “But to keep you off my back I, like Mother before me, find it easier to be drunk. You are nasty when I’m that way, but you don’t work at it. When I’m sober, you’re always in my face, and if you’re not lecturing me on something…my past mistakes, the tragedy I represent to the family, or some other damned fool topic, you are boring me to death with your version of history, which, as we both know, is ninety percent bullshit, one hundred percent self aggrandizement. So, I play drunk. Now you know. Sorry I’m such a disappointment to you. I can’t even be an authentic drunk.”

  Lydell listened to his daughter with growing alarm. “History, fiction? That’s a terrible thing to say, Em. Why we Lydells were—”

  “Don’t,” she screamed. “Don’t even start. Please do not give me ‘How the Shenandoah Lydells Saved the Country’ lecture. It’s all crap. You know it and I know it.”

  He sat heavily at his desk and stared at his daughter. What had happened? He shuffled through the papers on the desk and looked up at her.

  “What on earth are you going on about?”

  She lifted one eyebrow and smiled.

  Chapter 17

  George LeBrun caught up with Essie outside Shop N Save. He grabbed her arm and pulled her aside.

  “Ow, George, that hurts. What are you doing? Let go of me.”

  “Not until I find out what’s going on with you, Judas woman.”

  “What are you talking about? Let go.” Essie wrenched her arm free and headed toward the shop’s door. He reached out and spun her around by the shoulders.

  “You know. Or you’d better know. That Jew boy’s car was sent to the crime lab before I could call it in, and now they’re all over it. Who sold me out?”

  LeBrun had a reputation for cruelty and violence that, when he acted as the deputy to Ik
e’s predecessor, guaranteed that money flowed, favors were done, evidence stayed suppressed, and witnesses remained reluctant to testify. As she looked into his heavy lidded eyes, Essie felt fear freeze her heart.

  “You ain’t been talking, have you?” he snarled. “’Cause if you has, certain things might could happen to you. You remember how it was, back before Schwartz came?” She remembered and took a step backward.

  “I didn’t say anything,” she stammered. LeBrun stepped forward and put his face close to hers. His halitosis nearly knocked her off her feet. His teeth were rotten and she wondered what had happened to him. Bad as he acted in the past, he always dressed smart and took pride in his appearance and good looks. Those days were over and done with.

  “You’re sure about that, Sweetie? ’Cause if we find out you’re in with him, somebody could get hurt real bad. You recall what happened to Doris Lampley?”

  She did. Doris was found on the wrong side of town, beaten, raped, and unwilling to talk about what happened to her. She left town shortly thereafter, and the case in which she was scheduled to testify had to be dismissed.

  “Look,” Essie said, trying not to let him hear the fear in her voice, “I’m being put on paid leave, for crying out loud. They suspect me of having something to do with all that stuff you put in Ike’s…in the sheriff’s car. I’m in trouble because of you and your idiot nephew. Maybe you should be talking to him.” Lying was not one of Essie’s strong suits and she kept her eyes averted, hoping LeBrun wouldn’t see through her.

  LeBrun stepped back, apparently considering her remarks. “It’s true? You ain’t in the office no more?”

  “Temporarily relieved, you might say.”

  “So, who’s taking your place?”

  “Temps, Rita, I don’t know. I don’t care. Jeezus, George, just knowing you can cost me my job. Where am I going to get another job in this town?”

  “We’ll take care of you just as soon as we’re finished with Ikey.” He started to walk away. Essie felt the relief flow over her but before she could breathe it in, he spun back toward her.

  “We’ll be watching you, girlie, so you be careful.”

  ***

  While Ike waited for the arrival of Anton Grotz’s wife, he pulled bags from the shelf in the evidence locker. He replaced the notebooks, relocked the cabinet, and took the ancient keys back to his office. Karl sat in the chair reserved for visitors.

  “Lydell wants his keys back. Are we finished with them?”

  Karl had nearly slipped into a post-lunch coma. Ike’s voice startled him back to consciousness. “Yes, I guess so. You see anything interesting?”

  “There’s something about those keys. I can’t quite put my finger on it. Take some pictures of them for me first, will you, Karl? Then ask Essie to call Lydell and tell him he can pick them up.”

  “Essie’s not in.”

  “Oh, right, I put her on paid leave, but that wasn’t supposed to start until tomorrow. Where is she?”

  “Beats me. Darcie Billingsly said Rita called to ask if she could finish Essie’s shift.”

  “No explanation?”

  Karl shrugged. Ike dialed Essie at home. After the tenth ring, he hung up and tried her cell phone.

  “This is Ike. Where are you? Why aren’t you here? Your leave doesn’t start until tomorrow.” He thought he might have sounded abrupt and added, “Are you okay? What happened?”

  “What’d she say?”

  “Voice mail…Karl, unlike your girlfriend, Sam, you trust your instincts. Should I be worried?”

  “Has she ever ditched like this before?”

  “No, well, not lately. And she always calls when she has to change her shift.”

  “Always?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then you should be worried.”

  Ike heaved himself out of his chair and walked to the outer office. “Hey there, Darcie, how are you? Where’s Essie’s Rolodex?”

  “I’m pretty fine, thank you, Sheriff. I think it’s over there.” Darcie pointed toward the chipboard credenza behind the desk.

  “Everybody calls me Ike in here, Darcie. Did Rita say why Essie wasn’t coming back from lunch?”

  “No, she just said it was an emergency or something.”

  “Essie had an emergency?”

  “No, I think the emergency belonged to Rita, which is why she called me. She couldn’t cover for Essie. Is there a problem?”

  “I don’t know. I hope not, but since…ah…Lebrun. Do you happen to know if LeBrun is in town by any chance?”

  Darcie shifted backward in her chair and inspected the ceiling. “George or Randy?”

  “Either or both.”

  “Well, now that you mention it, I think I saw George over to the Shop N Save earlier. Randy left town a while back and is driving one of them big, over the road, trucks for an outfit up in Winchester. Drives down to Florida, up to New Jersey, and back again, they say. He’s not a nice man, Ike.”

  “Randy?”

  “George, well, both actually.”

  “Why would you say that?”

  “On account of what he did. You know it wasn’t more’n a week after Whaite’s funeral than George is on the phone to me. Says I’ll be needing a man to look after me now since Whaite’s passed and then he said…well, you know. I said, ‘George, you stop that talk and, anyway, you ain’t a deputy no more,’ and he said, ‘Not right now, woman, but maybe that’ll pretty soon change.’ He scares me, Ike. Him and his brother, both. To tell the truth, those LeBrun boys are nothing but trouble. They’re like the mafia or something.”

  “They aren’t quick enough or smart enough to be mafia, Darcie. They are just a couple of schoolyard bullies that never grew up. One day they’ll overstep and we will put them away.”

  “Sooner the better.”

  Karl picked up the envelope containing Lydell’s keys. He dumped them on the counter top and pushed them around with his finger.

  “You notice anything odd about those keys?” Ike asked.

  Karl picked up the two keys and studied them for a moment, turning them over in his hand and weighing them.

  “Is this a test, Ike? Keys are keys. This one is shorter. They’re both pretty old. The rust on them is, like, permanent. And here’s something, only the one shows any evidence of use, you know, scratches and so on.” He held the key up to the light. “This one has a longer shaft but the tumbler face, or whatever the tab-like thing at the end is called, that throws the lock, is flush at the end on the long one but the shaft extends past it on the short one.”

  “You think any of that might be important?”

  “Right now, we’re stumbling around in the dark. For me, that means we have to treat everything as important.”

  Ike took the keys from him and repeated Karl’s weighing and study. He closed his eyes, grunted, and dropped the keys back in their envelope.

  Chapter 18

  Esther Grotz arrived in the middle of the afternoon. She looked like she’d spent the previous fifteen hours on a Greyhound bus which, in fact, she had. Her sleep encrusted eyes peered myopically through Elton John inspired, metallic flecked glasses. Dressed in pink polyester capri’s, matching flip-flops, and a Kelly green blazer over a burnt orange blouse, she could have passed as the poster child for Goodwill dressing gone wild. She introduced herself to Darcie and asked to see the sheriff.

  “What is this? Dodge City? What kind of town has a sheriff nowadays?”

  Darcie escorted her to Ike who ushered her into his office. He asked for coffee and an extra chair.

  “Darcie, see if Sam is available to join us.”

  “Okay,” the wife of the recently deceased Anton Grotz declared, “I’m here. What do I have to do so I can go home, and who’s paying for my bus ticket? I had to use my mother’s credit card.”

  Ike had not expected the reaction. He assumed that a wife of a homicide victim would be eager to claim the body and cooperate with the investigation. The last thing he exp
ected was a bill for a bus ticket. Mrs. Grotz took a breath and began again.

  “Anton spent every dime I made on his stupid investigations. He thought he was on the way to winning a Pulitzer prize. ‘Esther,’ he’d say, ‘this is the big one.’ Like he’s that Robert Redford character, whoever that guy was, that caught Nixon. ‘The big one, my foot,’ I’d say. ‘A big piece of—’”

  “I’m sorry, Mrs. Grotz, for the inconvenience. It’s just that your husband was murdered and there are some questions we must ask and you may be the only person with the answers. And we thought you’d want to make arrangements for burial.”

  “What I gotta do is find me a cheap hotel, grab some Z’s, and catch the next bus outta here. I’m due at work on Monday in the AM. I ain’t burying anybody, either. They have a program at the VA, don’t they? He was in the Army. Desert Storm, he was. Only time he had a regular paycheck. Let the VA plant him.”

  Darcie brought in the coffee.

  “You got any food? I ain’t had a bite since last night.”

  “Darcie, run over to the Crossroads and see if they can put a plate together for Mrs. Grotz.”

  “Will chicken be all right?” Darcie asked and gave Ike a look.

  “Anything as long as it don’t have peppers or okra. You people eat a lot of that crap, don’t you? Okra, terrible stuff. My uncle Frank used to grow it and he’d fry it and put it in soup and, God, it was awful.”

  Ike felt his neck turning red. He could be a patient man. Indeed, some of his friends accused him of being too patient. But, in less than ten minutes, Esther Grotz had managed to elevate his blood pressure to a medically significant level. He stepped to his door, leaned out, and yelled.