The Overnighter's Secrets

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The Overnighter's Secrets Page 26

by J. L. Salter


  Then a political commentator named Poindexter was interviewed about the tight senate race. Blah blah. Poindexter cited a newspaper poll indicating incumbent Fitch and challenger Durocher were neck and neck. Beth was already saturated by everybody’s intense scrutiny of an election still roughly three weeks away. “Why don’t you just wait ‘til the polls close?” she asked the TV.

  Nonetheless, the blonde reporter launched into her summary points: “Fitch feels confident. Despite pressure inside his own camp, our sources indicate, to dig up dirt, Fitch is holding steady on course to keep the campaign clean. At least his side of it.” Every station had a pretty but cold blonde on the air.

  Analyst Poindexter was on split screen again. He commented on “the apparent restlessness of the Durocher camp and everyone’s expectation of a smear attack as they near the election.”

  “What sort of smear attack does Team Durocher expect?” asked the blonde.

  Poindexter smiled wryly. “Nobody knows, but everyone is all the more titillated by the vehemence of Durocher’s denials. I believe you have a clip of her reply when recently asked about any alleged skeletons in her closet.”

  The studio cut in with a short video bite of Candidate Durocher straining to hear a question at a recent press conference. Then she responded icily: “As I have previously put to rest, my entire family and I are as upstanding as any citizens ever stepping forward to sacrificially serve their neighbors and constituents... in dire times of need, like these.” The questioner evidently interrupted her, but whatever was said was not audible. “Read my lips,” Durocher responded, “no skeletons to find... anywhere, anyhow... related to me and my family. Period.”

  When the clip ended abruptly, Poindexter closed rather snidely: “There you have it, from her own lips.”

  Beth was quite unimpressed by the wealthy socialite and the way she always appeared on TV: as brittle as cold, thin glass. In that particular clip, Durocher looked so frosty, she could have just stepped out of a meat locker.

  Beth had remained awake for a few minutes into the rerun of a game show which followed the news, but then she dozed off. She awoke nearly an hour later. No messages on her phone, so she used the bathroom and took a shower. Even as the water poured over her body, she couldn’t explain why she was showering for the second time that day.

  After her shower, Beth checked her e-mail but couldn’t concentrate.

  When Shane called about 6:30, his voice sounded full of adrenalin. “Just wanted to tell you not to expect me for supper. I’m on to something with this polecat Ricks... and need to check it out. I’ll come over later. Gotta run. Bye.”

  She hadn’t gotten in a single word. Great... another chicken pot pie.

  There was nearly as much steam rising from Beth’s head as from her food in the microwave. She hated being stood up. After her meal, she flipped through the TV channels looking for something to scowl at.

  Around eight o’clock Shane finally appeared at her door carrying a small bag that might hold gym clothes. He looked like he’d been “rode hard and put up wet”, as he sometimes said. “I finally know where Ricks has been staying... at least last night. A real cruddy boarding house near the train yard... looks like a 1930s flop house for railroad workers.”

  “I thought they stayed in Holiday Inn Express... like everybody else.”

  No comment.

  “So that’s why he asked your informant about the rail yard?”

  “Apparently. Guess he ran out of suitable vacant houses.” Shane left his helmet and bag on the floor inside the door and draped his jacket over the back of the rocker. Then he dropped to the couch as though he’d fallen off a horse. “Well, I told you Ricks had been laying low. But I had no idea how low. This place was disgusting.”

  “So he was gone...”

  “Yeah... but I didn’t miss him by much. The person at the desk said he’d just checked out and the room hadn’t even been cleaned. Ha, that’s a laugh. That room hasn’t been cleaned since Reagan was in office.”

  “And the trail’s dead again?” Beth sat at the other end of the couch and scanned him intently. “You look like you’re about to pass out.”

  “I’m okay. Might need a jolt of java or something.” He smiled lamely. This was his fifth day in a row of searching, sometimes nearly all day and even into a few evenings.

  “You’re certain the man in that room was our meth head, Ricks?”

  He nodded. “Positive... one hundred per cent. He left something behind.” Shane groaned as he reached into his pocket and handed it to her.

  “My picture!” It was Beth astride the shovel head Harley at Mile Square Park. She flipped it over and saw her current address on back. “How could Ricks forget this?”

  “I figure he left it on purpose.”

  “Why?”

  Shane reached for the photo and gazed at it intently. “Ricks wanted me to know he’d been there. He’s playing some sort of bizarre game... trying to frustrate me.”

  “How come?”

  “Not sure. But it’s working.” Shane closed his eyes briefly and actually looked like he’d dozed off for about thirty seconds. “The thing is…I just don’t think Ricks has enough brains to come up with this cat and mouse stuff. He’s just following detailed orders from somebody else.”

  “You need some down time... take a day off this search. You look terrible.” Beth placed a hand on the crook of his arm. “Besides... maybe Ricks leaving that picture was his way of announcing his departure for California.”

  Shane shook his head. “Possible... but not likely. He came here to find something and he strongly believed that you had it. Whatever it is, Ricks didn’t get it yet... so you must still have it.”

  “But what the heck is it?” Beth pointed toward the garage. “What could be in that old overnighter that has people acting so crazy?”

  Shane ignored her question. “You’ve still got it outside?” He seemed horrified.

  “In the closed garage. Not out in the elements.” Beth could see he was distressed. “It smells so musty... yucky.”

  “That’s a good part of somebody’s life in that little suitcase. It ought to be inside.” Shane looked around. “Not to mention it would be a lot more secure.”

  “Jeff has copies... and all his own research. I just got back the diary today,” she said, pointing, “and it’s safe and sound on the little bookcase. Everything else, including the manuscript, is right back in the musty suitcase where you’ve had it all these years.”

  “All right, already.”

  She realized he’d let it go. “Oh, wanted to mention something. Do you recall ever seeing an entry in the old diary for February twenty-ninth?”

  “Leap year? Uh, not in particular. Why?”

  Beth retrieved the diary and flipped to the appropriate page. “It’s written in... different color ink, too. Most of her entries are green ink or blue... this is red.”

  He patted his shirt pocket. “Don’t have my reading glasses.” He squinted: “Matt Vernon?”

  “The sheriff in the Jones hanging story... that is, in the handwritten manuscript’s version. But remember, that version had generic names like Jones and Blank and Brown.”

  Shane leaned forward and rubbed his face roughly. “Just lay it out, Bethany. My brain’s too sapped for guessing games.”

  That hurt a little. “Look, I know you’re exhausted but there’s something right here in front of us that’s clearly a possible key to... to something.”

  He shook his head. “Not clear.” He leaned back, let his head flop rearward, and closed his eyes again. “The names in the manuscript were all bogus... including the only one with both first and last name. So whoever did that had a reason.”

  “Exactly. But what?”

  “Since the other names were obviously plays on the real names of Smith and Slate, we have to assume the manuscript writer knew the facts of the entire real case.”

  “Right! The murder, the kangaroo court, the botched hanging,
and the cover up.”

  “So whoever hand wrote that story wanted to draw attention to the Matthew Vernon person... assuming he ever existed at all.” Shane rubbed his eyes again, but didn’t move his head.

  “Good point. Vernon wasn’t even mentioned in the newspaper article. But Lynette saw fit to mention him in 1955... and put his name in a place where it was kind of hidden but could be noticed.”

  Shane straightened out again and turned to look at her. “I feel like we’ve gone over this a hundred times already. Nothing ever changes and we’re not any closer to knowing anything.” He sighed so heavily it seemed all his breath was gone. “So why keep hashing it over?”

  “Because every time we say it, there’s a chance it will prompt some cosmic kernel from the collective unconscious.”

  “Huh?”

  Beth smiled. “Today at lunch, Connie—who’s about as ditzy as they come—well, out of the blue she said something about Lynette’s pen pals maybe mentioning this Vernon guy... all those years later.”

  “So?”

  “So, where are Lynette’s letters?” Beth’s hand swept around her own living room. “If we had some of her correspondence, maybe we could figure out what the pen pal said... and why the Matt Vernon name was significant to her.”

  “Whoa. You don’t even know it was a pen pal who mentioned it. That’s pure speculation. Plus, there weren’t any letters in that suitcase.”

  “I know... I know. But there might’ve been some in that same dumpster. Besides, what if somebody thinks we have Lynette’s letters?”

  Shane closed his eyes and looked like he was counting to ten. “Why would anybody care? Have you actually looked at the timeline you and your friends have worked up? A botched hanging in 1889, a mysterious pen pal mentions a particular name to this retired actress in 1955 and it impresses Lynette so much that she creates a leap year day just to write it down. And now, over five decades later, you’re thinking somebody wants that letter... and believes you have it?” Shane waved his hands a little when he got like this. “And if all that was true... why would anybody care?” He slumped over again, this time his head on the arm of the couch.

  Beth didn’t like being talked to that way, but Shane had a point: Why would anybody care? Enough analysis. He was probably right... it was a dead end. Besides they didn’t have any of Lynette’s letters.

  Shane was about two seconds from dropping off.

  “Relatives!” Beth startled herself, along with Shane. “Lynette had two grandchildren... remember?”

  “Yeah... a girl and a boy. So what?”

  “So maybe they had kids. Maybe they’ve got her letters and stuff.”

  “Bethany, if Lynette’s grandkids, or great-grandkids for that matter, were still around somewhere, why would her suitcase full of Vaudeville and movie treasures end up in a dumpster?”

  “Oh...” He was right. “Plus all the family photos. Besides, there would be no way to track them down.” Any male relatives could be anywhere between forty and eighty, depending on which generation, and the woods could be full of Harte’s. Any female kin would likely be married with a different name. “Well, I just realized something, Shane. If by some miracle we ever did stumble into one of Lynette’s relatives, you could give them all her memorabilia in the overnighter.”

  Shane looked at her like she’d gone out of her mind. “No way. I traded for that stuff, fair and square. Somebody else had a chance at it before they trashed it. It’s mine. Besides, I’ve gotten used to having it around. Wouldn’t feel right without it.”

  “Um, you do realize you’ve already been without that suitcase for three full years... ?”

  He shrugged. “Yeah. But I thought I had it.” When his eyelids closed again, Shane looked like he was a goner.

  Beth watched as he lay slumped over sideways, his head on the couch’s arm. Apparently, he was already asleep. She looked in her kitchen cabinet for instant coffee. All out.

  Maybe she could suitably rouse him by talking about a different subject. Something he truly cared about. After all, she’d taken a shower in the middle of the afternoon. She smiled to herself. What was I thinking?

  Beth returned to the couch and scooted over until her hip touched his. He wasn’t actually snoring, but it sounded like that was coming up in a few seconds. She poked his ribs gently. “You never told me where you got that new Harley.”

  “Huh?” He bolted upright and looked around. It took him a moment to get his bearings. “The Road King?” Shane rubbed his face. “You remember my buddy, Berg?”

  She squinted. “Older guy?”

  “Yeah. Well, he had to get rid of it.”

  “How come?”

  “Berg said it was a combination of factors—eyes a little worse, reactions a bit slower. Aches and pains made him worry.”

  Beth looked into Shane’s exhausted face, now with a full day’s stubble all over. “Worry about what?”

  It took Shane a while to reply. Cobwebs in his brain, probably. “Losing his edge, I guess.”

  “Berg said that?”

  “Not exactly... but that’s what it boils down to.” Shane’s eyes drooped again. “Berg got too soft, too tentative... too old.”

  “Too scared?”

  Shane nodded.

  “I can understand why he gave it up, then.”

  Shane was silent but seemed mostly awake again.

  “You’re thinking... one day that’s you.”

  He nodded slowly. “Some day I won’t be able to ride anymore. Too old... too frail. Maybe too scared.” He reached around her shoulders and pulled her into his chest. “But I’ve recently realized something, Bethany. I’ll never be too old to love you.”

  Tears fell where Beth’s face snuggled against his shirt. How had Shane become so mature? So wise? So eloquent? She couldn’t think of a response. Because in the old days if Shane ever got mushy, they’d always end up in bed.

  Shane suddenly swung his arm off her shoulders. “Completely forgot! I brought something for you.”

  “What?” Beth didn’t know whether to get her hopes up.

  “It’s in my bag.” Shane groaned as he rose from the couch. Near the door, he pulled a bundled tee-shirt from his gym bag.

  “You need me to wash your skivvies?”

  Sly smile. “No, the shirt’s just to cushion it.” He started unwrapping the parcel as he returned to the couch. “Ricks broke the case when he knocked me out.”

  “You mean... ?” Tears formed as she gently cradled it. “My new bird!” It was a gorgeous, lifelike representation of a Phoenix. Why had Shane waited five full days to produce this gift? Beth stood and hugged him tightly. “Oh, Shane, you infuriate me when you’re sentimental.”

  He looked deeply into her eyes, searching, but didn’t speak. They embraced closely, completely, but with a different intensity. Something fresh, maybe something extra. A new facet beyond passion? What would that be? How and when did Shane learn about it?

  She wondered what he was thinking. But didn’t ask... couldn’t. Wouldn’t.

  It felt like they were back together again, but it wasn’t official. They’d basically reconciled, but she wasn’t sure what was settled and what wasn’t. And if they’d truly, completely reconciled, wouldn’t they be in bed together?

  Beth was still worried and confused by all the events. Completely thrown by all this closeness after all that time apart. The only thing she knew, for certain, was that she didn’t want Shane to leave. But if she asked him to stay, he would only think one thing. Quite logically. How could she invite him without actually saying it? “You’d be more comfortable if you took those boots off.”

  “These dogs might be a little ripe.”

  She just shrugged. She’d certainly smelled his dogs before.

  After a puzzled pause, Shane struggled out of his boots and placed them beside the couch.

  What was next? Beth felt like a teenager when the parents weren’t home. “Feel like a movie?”

  That
might not have been the line he’d expected. “I’d probably fall asleep...”

  “That’s okay.” She smiled. “I might, too.” She pointed to the couch, so Shane knew what it meant. Proximity, but not in bed together. Proximity was a start. A new beginning. What followed proximity? Contact? Connection? How far down the line was sex?

  She didn’t know.

  Shane seemed wary, but also appeared grateful for the invitation. It was late and he was dead tired.

  Beth had been holding him at arm’s length since Tuesday. Each day they’d gotten slightly closer, but not that close. What began the previous evening at supper had nearly led to her bedroom that night. Everything in the current evening had seemed headed toward that same destination.

  “You care which movie?”

  He just smiled. They both knew he’d be watching through his eyelids.

  Beth inserted the DVD of Sleepless in Seattle and then curled up next to Shane on the couch. She felt protected again. Safe.

  By the time they got to the part when Tom Hanks’s son first called the radio station, Shane was completely out. Beth got up carefully, trying not to awaken him, and then draped a blanket over his exhausted body. Shane was usually a heavy sleeper, so he was probably out for the night.

  She put on her cotton nightgown and brushed her teeth. Then she took one final look at the biker sleeping on her couch. Who was that man and what had he done with the old Shane?

  Beth pulled her bedroom door nearly shut, but left it away from the jamb just enough that it looked closed but technically wasn’t. Even as she did this, she was not certain why. That action was as ambivalent as all the thoughts in her head... and the feelings in her heart. She did not know how far to leave open any of those doors.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  October 16 (Sunday morning)

  Beth slept like a baby... for the first time in fourteen nights.

  But, as though it were a work day, she woke at 6:50 a.m. After exiting the bathroom, she checked whether Shane had remained. Yes, he was squeezed into the couch, which was at least a foot too short. Beth adjusted the blanket over his thick shoulders and watched him breathe. It felt right having him near.

 

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