AHMM, July-August 2008

by Dell Magazine Authors

  I had a campstool and a bottle of water, and the spotting scope allowed me to keep an eye on the place without too much effort. Earlier I had made a phone call from one of the few remaining pay phones in town at the Purmort General Store, which meant no record of me calling. A male voice had answered, then I had hung up. But so far, nothing much was going on at the residence. The place was a standard Cape Cod with peeling gray paint, an attached garage, and an outbuilding that was about one size too small to be called a barn. Two cars were parked in the dirt driveway, a Ford and a Toyota. Part of the yard was enclosed by a white picket fence. Not much, but it passed for what was considered homey in this part of the world.

  I lifted my head up from scope, scratched at the base of my neck. I knew I was eating up my paid hour, but something seemed odd about the whole thing. I put my head back down to the spotting scope just as the door opened up and a man stepped out. One Hank McCord, no doubt. He was dressed in nice slacks, black turtleneck sweater, and brown shoes, and he whistled as he went to the Ford. I thought I had a chance then, if he left the property, to rush down and see George's mom for myself, but no such luck. Hank retrieved a file folder from the front seat of the car, and still whistling, went back to the house.

  I scratched at my neck again, thought of what George said. Mom collected treasures. Mom had taken up with an antiques dealer. Mom was no longer around to talk to George.

  Around then it clicked, and creeped me out. I stayed for another hour—thereby working for free—and then I packed up my spotting scope and left.

  * * * *

  Getting ahold of Chief Bryant proved to be a challenge, since due to an earlier incident involving me, his teenage daughter, and a few other things, we're no longer on speaking terms. But by Monday morning, back in my office, I called and asked him about George and his mom.

  "Look, Karen, I'm about sixty seconds away from going into court, and I don't have time for this,” he said, sighing.

  "But George Pembroke said that he—"

  "And do you know George Pembroke at all? Do you know about his drinking, and how when he drinks too much or too little, he either gets into fights, or imagines men from the government are trying to implant tracking chips in his butt?"

  "No,” I said, shifting the phone receiver from one hand to the other. “I didn't know that."

  "So you don't know much,” he said. “Why am I not surprised."

  "Chief, look, did you ever—"

  "Sorry, Karen, the court system of Grafton County is calling me in. So long."

  And that was that.

  * * * *

  I next got a few minutes with Pam Dawkins, the town clerk of Purmort, and after a brief excursion into record-keeping land, where she verified that the Toyota I had seen was registered to one Hank McCord and the Ford was registered to one Alice Pembroke, I asked her about George and his mom.

  "Alice? Alice Pembroke? Oh, there's someone for you."

  "What do you mean?” I asked.

  Pam settled down in one of the swivel chairs that were new to the Purmort Town Hall back when a certain president promised us peace with honor. She said, “Alice is a character, and so's her idiot son, George. Alice lives on disability, pinching pennies and haunting bingo parlors and flea markets. Her hubbie bailed out on her a few years back, but I heard that she got some sharp lawyer to drop some accusations of wife abuse in his lap, and so he cut her a hefty check to settle things up. With that and everything else, she makes do."

  "And George?"

  Pam smiled. “Oh, he's not a bad sort. I guess I was too harsh when I said he was her idiot son. You know when they say someone's challenged because they got dropped on their head when they were a baby? George got dropped on his head on a regular basis. High school dropout, hard drinker, knows his way around a bulldozer and chain saw, but that's about it. Check in with the chief, you'll see he's got a hell of a record."

  "Thanks,” I said. “I'll consider that."

  Pam's smile grew wider. “Chief still pissed at you?"

  "You know it. Tell me, when was the last time you saw George's mom?"

  "Hmm,” she murmured, swiveling her chair to check on a desk calendar. “Let's see, that was about three or so weeks ago. Came in complaining about her property tax bill, as only Alice can do. All those years of drinking Seven-and-Seven and hanging out in bingo parlors gave her a voice that could rub off rust on steel."

  "She look all right, then?"

  "Cripes, yeah. So. Why all the questions? Why are you tracking down those DMV records? Working a case?"

  I made to leave her office. “Of course I am. And Pam?"

  "Yes?"

  "The case is almost done. So please don't gossip about it until tomorrow?"

  That brought a laugh, and she said, “You know me too well, dearie. All right, you've got until tomorrow."

  * * * *

  I decided to go home for lunch, which brought out a loud and welcome response from Roscoe, who danced about my feet as I came in, jumped up on the counter and rubbed at my face when I bent down to talk to him, and who purred so loud that I was sure it would wake any napping neighbor.

  All right, that was a lie.

  I went in, Roscoe looked up from his patch of sunlight in the living room where he was working on his key early afternoon nap—not to be confused with the tactical late morning nap or the strategic late afternoon nap—and rose his head up, acknowledged that I was in fact home, not bearing any fish products, and then went back to sleep.

  "Bad boy,” I said. “I was going to make a tuna fish sandwich and let you lick the bowl clean, but you keep on napping. Don't want to disturb you."

  So lunch was a peanut butter sandwich, eaten at the countertop while I looked through that day's copy of the Purmort Daily Sun—its motto,"Nobody Covers Purmort Like We Do,” which is true, since no other newspaper within fifty miles cared about Purmort. I found nothing much of interest.

  I had no doubt when I left this cute little house I was going to report a murder.

  I kept on thinking about George and his mom, and what might be going on out there on Witchtrot Road. Maybe another phone call. Maybe another bout of surveillance. Maybe—

  A thump on the countertop, as Roscoe came up for a visit. The countertop was forbidden territory, but like I said, I was a sucker for bearded creatures, so I scratched behind his ears and said, “That's nice, Roscoe. The direct in-your-face approach. Why didn't I think of that?"

  And I gave him a cat treat from a foil packet, which jump-started his purr engine, and went back to my office.

  * * * *

  A few hours later, armed with forgeries, lies, and my revolver snug in a holster at the small of my back, I returned to Witchtrot Road. In my mind I kept on running through the patter I was going to try to see what happens.

  From Witchtrot Road I made a right-hand turn into the driveway. Before me were the two parked cars, the house, and the small outbuilding. I parked my Ford and waited for a moment, thinking, and taking a couple of deep breaths. Dangerous? Not particularly.

  I gathered up my belongings, forgeries included, and with my purse, which had a cell phone inside, I went up to the front door.

  The cell phone was part of my grand plan, for as sad as the thought was, I had no doubt that when I left this cute little house out in the rural wilds of Purmort, I was going to call the Purmort police and report a murder.

  In a way, I thought, as I went up the steps, George Pembroke was going to get a lot more for his eighty bucks, but I didn't think it was going to make much of a difference, one way or another.

  Took another deep breath, knocked on the door.

  Waited for the murderer to answer.

  For it made sense, in a dark and awful way. The poor woman hadn't been seen in three weeks, her only son wasn't allowed to visit, and she supposedly had a treasure, a treasure that no doubt tempted one Hank McCord. Good enough for motive in plenty of cases.

  * * * *

  I didn't have to wa
it long.

  Hank McCord answered the door, still wearing the turtleneck and slacks combo from the other day. His smile was as phony as a rebate check from the cable company, but it was late afternoon, so maybe he was just tired.

  "Yes?” he answered.

  "Hi,” I said. “I'm looking for Alice Pembroke."

  His smile didn't falter. “And you are...?"

  I took out a thin leather wallet, which held my official Department of Safety identification, and presented it to him. “My name's K.C. Dunbar. I'm a licensed private investigator, working out of Purmort."

  Was that a hint of fear in his eyes? “And what is this in reference to?” he asked.

  I said, “I'm sorry, that's a matter I do have to discuss with Mrs. Pembroke."

  Now for sure the smile was faltering. “I'm her fiance. You can tell me."

  "I really need to speak to her privately."

  His hand seemed to tighten his grip on the door. “And I'm afraid you're going to have to tell me first."

  I paused, looked at him, and made a show of sighing and rolling my eyes. I dug into my shoulder bag and pulled out a business-sized envelope, with a return address emblazoned on it in bright blue ink, from Acme Consolidated Insurance and Technology Company. The little glassine window on the side showed a typed name and address, said name and address being that of Alice Pembroke of Purmort, N.H.

  I made sure Hank saw the envelope and said, “I'm representing the Acme Consolidated Insurance and Technology Company. They have a check here for Mrs. Pembroke for five thousand dollars, and I need for her to sign a release before she can receive it."

  His faltering smile was no longer faltering. He was grinning. “Really?"

  "Really,” I said.

  He held out his hand. “Give it to me and I'll make sure she gets it."

  I thought, Oh yeah, I'm sure about that, and I put on my best smile and said, “Sorry, sir. I need for her to sign the release form."

  "Give me the check and release form, I'll make sure she signs it and mails it in."

  Another shake of my head. “I'm afraid not. Company regulations are very strict and clear on this point. She needs to sign it in my presence."

  That made him think, and then I thought of what was going to happen next, how I was going to push him to tell me where she might be, and why wasn't she here if both cars were in the driveway, and then I'd make the call and—

  He turned and yelled out, “Honey! Could you come here for a moment?"

  There was a murmur and then a female voice, and then a woman walked into view from the other side of the living room. She was a bit older than me. She was wearing comfortable jeans and a light gray sweatshirt, and her blond hair was cut short. She looked at me with curiosity, and Hank said, “Honey, this is K.C. Dunbar, a private investigator, working for an insurance company, Acme something or another. It seems they have a check for you, for five thousand dollars."

  Her face lit up. “Really? Five thousand dollars? Whatever for?"

  I looked at her and said, “You're Mrs. Pembroke? Mrs. Alice Pembroke?"

  She nodded, smiled. “Yes, of course. And how in the world did I come to get a check for five thousand dollars?"

  My feet were chilled and I felt stupid indeed. “It's ... it's a settlement. That's what it is. For a claim made a number of years ago."

  She looked to Hank. “But I don't recognize the name of the company, or being involved in something that would end up being a claim."

  Hank laughed. “Hey, what the hell, it's still five thousand dollars, isn't it?"

  I looked into the envelope, and then looked up and said, “Mrs. Pembroke?"

  "Yes?"

  "Mrs. Alice Xena Pembroke?"

  She shook her head. “No. Alice Marie Pembroke. That's my name."

  I put the envelope back into my bag, laughed and said, “What do you know? There must be some sort of mistake. You know how insurance companies are. I'll have to get back to you on this. My apologies for disturbing you both."

  And then I stepped off the steps, went back to my Ford, feeling like a fool with every step.

  But a determined fool, nonetheless.

  I got into my Ford and backed down the driveway. Once out onto the road, I stopped and retrieved my cell phone, determined to make a phone call to the Purmort Police Department, because—

  Well, damn.

  No signal.

  I felt like driving the cell phone into my forehead.

  Despite all those funky television ads showing the depth and breadth of cell phone coverage from various carriers, large swaths of rural New England are still the Bermuda Triangle of communications.

  I put the phone back into my shoulder bag. Thought. Schemed. Plotted.

  For that woman back there, supposedly George's mother, walked with no difficulty, had a cheerful and pleasant voice, and might have been George's mother, if she had been able to give birth at age twelve or thereabouts.

  Possible, but not probable.

  I got my stuff together and went back into the woods.

  I observed activity of a sort about the house, so I guess I had stirred something up. Sometimes that happens when you're working a case. So in that way, I was doing my job.

  Doors were being slammed, voices raised, and then I saw Hank McCord come striding with purpose out of the house, heading for the small barn. I saw something metallic in his hands ... and then it came to me.

  Hank wasn't a murderer; he was just a kidnapper.

  On his way to becoming a murderer.

  I got up from my perch, grabbed my bag, and started running.

  * * * *

  It took just a minute or two, but I was almost out of breath by the time I got to the yard. The bag was thumping on my side and my Ruger .357 revolver was in my hands as I ran into the open barn. Hank was on the other side of the barn, in front of a closed wooden door, and the something metallic was there. I yelled, “Hold it, right now!"

  He turned as I said, “Drop what's in your hands or I'll shoot you, Hank. Don't push me!"

  His face was drawn and white, like a pint of blood had suddenly pooled at his feet. He opened his hand and there was a clink as he dropped something.

  I looked down.

  A set of keys.

  I walked closer, revolver held out in the approved two-handed stance. Hank started talking, and I said, “Shut up. Pick up the keys, Hank. Pick up the keys and unlock the door. Let's see what you're hiding."

  His hands were shaking some as he went to the door, where a shiny new lock was hanging from a metal clasp. He undid the lock and opened the door a crack.

  The door creaked and swung open, and Hank stepped to the side. There was enough light so that I could see the interior of the storage room, said interior holding some farm tools, a workbench, a huge metal safe, and an old woman, sitting in a chair, arms and legs bound with rope. I stepped closer and said, “Mrs. Pembroke?"

  Her eyes opened up and her voice was raspy. “Who the hell are you?"

  "K.C. Dunbar,” I said. “I'm a private investigator. Your son George hired me."

  She seemed to ponder that for a moment, and said, “That sorry sack of ... no wonder it took so goddamn long for somebody to show up."

  I looked over at Hank, and for some reason, he was smiling.

  Then came the creak of wood, of someone stepping behind me, but I was too late.

  Something heavy and fast struck at the base of my neck.

  * * * *

  The next few minutes were dim and wobbly. I had fallen down with a thump, and my revolver was taken away from me. Then I was propped up, and I could see Hank and the other woman shouting at each other. My ears didn't seem to work so well, but it looked like they were blaming each other for the mess they were in: You never listen to me; This has gone on far enough; That old biddy is tougher than you think; What the hell are we going to do now?

  And then the screaming started.

  I closed my eyes and waited.

  When
I tried to get moving, someone was standing on one of my feet. I looked up and saw the real Alice Pembroke looking down at me, holding a pitchfork.

  "You okay?” she asked.

  "I've been better."

  She cackled and spit on the floor. “That's the story of the day. My useless boy George really hire you?"

  "Yeah."

  "Well, late is better than never, I guess."

  I wiped at my eyes, which were getting into focus. “What happened?"

  She said, “What happened now, or what happened earlier?"

  "Now,” I said.

  She cackled again. “Fools have kept me locked up for a couple of weeks. Thought they could break me, give up the combination to my safe, let my treasures go. Hah! They didn't know that when I was alone, I was working those ropes by sliding my chair in the corner. A scythe was there. Managed to get most of the ropes cut free when you showed up."

  I closed my eyes and noticed a hell of a throbbing at the base of my neck. “Earlier? What happened earlier?"

  "That clown Hank and his loose girlfriend, they heard about my treasure. Wanted to buy it. I told ‘em no. They kept on pushin’ and pushin’ me, and they thought if they put me in that room I'd give up the combination, so they'd get my treasure and head off to Mexico or some damn place."

  I managed to sit up without passing out. “Where ... where are they now?"

  She motioned with the pitchfork. “Both of'em in the same place they kept me. Amazing how a pitchfork up the rear can make people move."

  I said, “I can believe it."

  * * * *

  In a short while the place was full of cops and investigators, and then George Pembroke showed up, crying and laughing and hugging his mother, who let her big boy pick her up and swirl her around the inside of the barn. Hank and his girlfriend—and I still didn't know her name—were taken care of by EMTs from the Purmort Volunteer Fire Department, who tried not to laugh as they bandaged up the wounds.