by Deforest Day
“Oh yeah? What does the gentleman say?”
“Demise, George, means he's dead.”
“Dead? Where's the body?” He was pretty sure Harry was the only one they pulled out. But his ears were still ringing from getting his bell rung. The name McClintock rang a bell; he and Harry were there to kidnap him. He couldn't remember why; that was Harry's department.
“We're working on that. Soon as we can get our boats in the water we're going to drag the river with a famous dog. We'll find him. And when we do, you're in the soup. Aiding and abetting, an accomplice to felonious assault, with intent.”
“What's this accomplish bullshit? You say my prints are on some gun I never saw in my life. OK, maybe sometime in the past I may have had a look at one, someone offered to sell it to me. Which I cannot be in possession of, being an ex felon. As you very well know, since you're the one put me away. I never shot this McClintock.”
“I never said you did. Yet.” Belknapf eased his chair back, and loosened his belt. Goddamn marinara meatball. “Let's back up a step. What were you doing in the old Iron Works, moments before it became the site of the former old Iron Works?”
“I can't remember. I also can't remember hearing you give me the Miranda spiel, so I ain't gonna ask for a lawyer. But I may.” George also pushed away from the table. “We done here? Because I got me an appointment with a different kind of lawyer, one who chases ambulances and sues people. I got temporary memory loss that might be permanent, depending on what he says.”
“Sit down, George. Is your memory also missing a Cadillac Escalade? One recently pulled from the same Susquehanna river? A badly battered vehicle registered to a George Glum? Hmm?”
“Oh yeah. That got stole, couple days ago. And I forgot to report it. Like I said, my memory.”
Belknapf crossed out a line in his notes, put a check mark beside another. Later he would type up the transcript of the interview, and edit it for clarity. “A fireman says you asked about a missing boat.”
“I said that? I never owned a boat in my entire life. So far. Maybe in the future I might get me one, if I get a bundle in my lawsuit. Musta been delirious, on account of I got blown up in that building.”
“Be that as it may, we have recovered a boat, a few miles downstream. Washed up on a sandbar. The Pennsylvania bow numbers say it's registered to a Robert Glum.
“Now there's a goodly number of Glums in Wilkes-Barre, and even more in Scranton, our semi-famous neighbor. So we used the aforementioned computer to track down the owner, and the telephone to contact him. A savings of both time and shoe leather. I suspect you'll say you never met the man. Or do you happen to know Robert Glum, George? If not, let me refresh your memory. He's your brother.”
“Oh, yeah. That boat.” George didn't see how stealing his brother's boat could get him in trouble with the cops. His brother was another fish to fry, but he'd cross that river when he came to it. At least they found the damn thing, it wasn't sunk. His brother should be happy about that part. “I borrowed it, do some fishing.”
“Your brother must have a similar memory problem, as he says it was stolen, from his place up at Lake Wallenpaupack.”
“Naw, I just haven't had the chance to tell him. Matter of fact, I was on my way to do just that, when your boys knocked on my door.”
“We also found your brother's trailer. Hooked to a stolen truck. I have so much circumstantial evidence the grand jury will indict you faster than a ham sandwich.”
George leaned back and clasped his hands behind his neck. “You may think you got something, but you ain't. If I was there, so what? It ain't against the law.”
Belknapf noticed the dry armpits. Glum was a cool customer, and he enjoyed fencing with the mook. “No, but extortion is. There's a man named Lester Twill, who spotted you on a news clip. Says you dropped a box of rats in his restaurant the other day. So I'd like you to stand in a line-up. Both for him, and for some truck drivers. They say you were part of a scam to extort protection money. They said you were driving a Cadillac Escalade.” Belknapf lifted a haunch and withdrew his wallet. He fished out a laminated card; with the video running, and the ACLU peering over your shoulder, you had to get it word perfect. “Thanks for reminding me, George. I forgot to read you your rights.”
—o—
Mags parked Daddy Mac's Mercedes beside her mother's Lexus, and headed for the barn. Time to say goodbye to Dr. Q and Rosetta. She found them in his shed, preparing for their own journey.
She used her high school Spanish to include Rosetta, and told them she was heading for Belize. Rosetta crossed herself, cried, and hugged Mags' belly. A foot shorter, it was the best she could do.
Mags rolled her eyes at Dr. Q, then teared up herself. For the better part of a year the pair had been a source of entertainment, wisdom, and far tastier meals that Honey ever managed.
The old Spanish chef had become the grandmother Mags never knew. In her Spanglish she related stories of her own childhood in Andalusia, the birthplace of flamenco. Mags was more interested in Rosetta's career as an extra in Eastwood's spaghetti westerns, filmed in her home town of Almeria.
Dr. Q was quite familiar with Belize; like Suriname and Guyana, it was a nation most people could not place on the correct continent. Formerly called British Honduras, a few hundred Belize dollars could be exchanged for a passport and a past. From there to a teaching position at Oxford merely required persuasiveness, something the doctor possessed in abundance.
He told Mags, “You must trust your inner spirit. And your lawyer, because your stepfather did.”
His voice changed to lecture mode. “My Mayan ancestors colonized Belize, three thousand years ago. Then Rosetta's ancestors arrived, but the Conquistadores didn't find any gold, and moved on. The English took over during their own century of colonization, but now the almighty American dollar is the de facto ruler. When you see people who look like me, they are Mayan. Avoid the Mennonites.”
Mags wondered how much of this was academic bullshit, but changed the subject. “How are you getting to Palm Springs?”
Dr. Q said, “We plan to walk, hitch rides, sleep in churchyards, eat the pemmican.”
“Oh, it will be a vision quest then; a spiritual journey, to prepare yourselves for life in the desert?”
“No, it is how one travels without funds in America.”
Wait a sec; it's three thousand miles!”
“A Zen master would say leap, and the net will appear.” He paused to smile. “Perhaps along the way we will encounter another kind stranger driving a large Mercedes.”
Rosetta added, “No goat dees time.”
Mags reached inside her suit for the bank-strapped bills she hadn't given her lawyer, and handed them to Dr. Q. “I want you two to fly first class,” she said, and kissed them both.
She climbed the stairs in the old farmhouse, the first place she'd lived for more than six months in her short life. The first twelve years had been exciting and educational, but far from stable.
She debated the time-out in Belize. King seemed to know what he was doing, and she sure didn't. Her heart said track down Spider—attack, score—but she knew games were more often won with defense. Her field hockey team won the state championship one-nil.
A week ago she was graduating from high school, and looking forward to a summer as Rosie the Riveter. Now she was one half a step-orphan, and living with a possible murderer. Speaking of which.
She heard the TV in the master suite. Her mother was stretched on her bed, watching Jerry Springer. A sure sign of mental collapse. Mags stepped into the bedroom. Maybe she hadn't plotted to kill Daddy Mac. Maybe Dr. Q was right, about karma and—“Jerry Springer?”
“I'm waiting for the local news to come on. I need to see how I look on TV.” She muted the sound. “With Mac gone, I have to think of my future. Tell me the truth, darling. Am I too old to get back into television?”
“No, Mom. There are lots of infomercials for anti-aging creams, and cooking giz
mos. Or maybe you and Spider can go on Jerry Springer. 'Honey, I blew up your husband'.”
“Oh, don't joke. It's just that I don't know what to do. I can't run the company; do you think I'm stupid? I've come to realize I'm only a figurehead. And I'd sell it in a New York minute, if I knew anyone who'd buy it.”
“I have news for you, Mom. Everything is tied up in knots. You can't sell it.”
“I just hired Congressman Varnish as my lawyer. As soon as he settles the estate I can do anything I want.”
“Goody for you. I'm leaving town, to get away from all this. From you. I'm going to Belize, to build houses. My lawyer arranged it.” She didn't mention the codicil. King would make sure Honey and her sleazeball played by the rules.
She heard a car crunching gravel, looked out the window. A little hatchback, the kind of car one of her Code Pink friends would drive; old and cheap. “Are you expecting company?”
“Only my lawyer.” Honey rolled off the bed and stood next to Mags. “Oh, Lord, it's the young man with the dog. Go down, and find out what he wants.”
Duane said, “I want to apologize for what happened.” He blushed. “Me pulling your shirt off, and all, after Bugle Boy slobbered on it.”
“That's the least of my problems.”
“I'm heading home, back to Shaleville. Detective Belknapf wanted us to sniff the river banks, but when I said let Buge sniff the boat they found, he wasn't interested. See, I got this idea your mother and Mr. McClintock are in cahoots, and—”
“Well, if they are, it means he's alive. So I say let's go smell that boat. I'd rather have a live daddy in jail than a dead one in the river.”
Duane shook his head. “Naw. These big city cops won't listen to cherchez la femme. They returned the boat to the owner, and I don't know who he is. Speaking of giving back, can I have LuAnn's sweater? She's gonna be mad at me for taking it without permission.”
Mags thought at the speed of a synapse. “I'll trade it for a ride to Shaleville.”
She ran upstairs, threw stuff in a backpack, found the sweater. She ran back downstairs, found Dr. Q, and handed him the Mercedes keys. “A gift from a kind stranger. You told me Daddy Mac wasn't gone, just missing from the temporal.”
She grinned. “See, I did listen to you. I don't need the Merc, and my mother doesn't deserve it. If you drive to Palm Springs, you can use the cash for hotels, and arrive in style. Don't forget your koteka; in America image is everything.”
Chapter Thirty-Four
Congressman Varnish pushed through the door of his regional office, and noticed his campaign volunteers were seriously underperforming. Instead of out knocking on doors, they were at the back of the former shoe store, using his door hangers to build a house of cards.
Why the heck wasn't Debbie Melon, his Legislative Assistant, and part-time canoodler, riding herd on these kids? Oh, right; he'd left her in Washington when he flew in to give a speech at the Iron Works. Couldn't risk Debs meeting his wife, and saying something stupid.
The whole morning had been a disaster, what with the building blowing up ahead of schedule, and then coming down on top of a major campaign contributor. On the plus side, he had the widow Poitrine hooked and ready to be reeled in.
Now he needed to brush up on the legal hurdles between death and inheritance. He hadn't given it a thought since first year of law school; the Uniform Probate Code: Intestacy, Wills, Trusts. Boiler plate, and done by a paralegal, as soon as you could afford to hire one. Did McClintock even have a will, and where was it? He hoped for better luck than they'd had finding a life insurance policy.
Then he remembered Honey saying she just been in their box, at First Union. That was good news, because his PAC funds were there, and Heston Collander was more than happy to invest them in short-term CDs between election cycles.
“If you kids can't get these door hangers on neighborhood knobs by five o'clock, there won't be any pizza and sodas. Any calls?”
Mrs. Manderbach, his cheery, blue-haired office manager and senior citizen expert, took the phone from her ear and said, “Yes, sir, and they're all the same. Asking why you're spending money on the riverfront project, when there are so many other things that are more important.” She glanced at her list. “Increasing Social Security is ahead of free prescription drugs two to one. A distant third is lower cable bills.”
The congressman ducked into his office, the former Thom McAn storeroom, where he ran a Norelco over his five o'clock shadow, then changed his shirt, and had a quick swallow of vodka, in lieu of lunch.
He called the bank president from his car. The congressman hated making his own calls, but Debbie was in DC, and while Mrs. Manderbach could answer the phones, she didn't have the skills to place calls to important people.
“Heston, Shelly Varnish here. I guess you heard about this morning's disaster at the old Iron Works. Hell of a thing. I was almost killed. But that's not why I'm calling. I'm representing Honey Poitrine, president of the company. We need to touch the bases, get our ducks in a row, vis-à-vis inheritance and corporate succession.”
Ten minutes later Shelly glad-handed the banker and settled into the visitor's chair. Dark portraits of previous presidents glowered down at him from walnut-paneled walls. He guessed it worked on the hoi polloi; in his world you had pictures of recognizable people, preferably with yourself included in the shot. Debbie's favorite was the movie star from Death Valley Days, her grandma's favorite rerun.
“So, Heston; terrible thing, we can all agree, but we must soldier on. Ms. Poitrine is all at sea on this, and I have volunteered to help her through these trying times. She tells me First Union handles all the corporate banking.” He checked his Blackberry for effect. “She mentioned a bank box, and of course we need to get in it, find the will.”
Collander wasn't wet behind the ears, and he'd danced this tune a time or two. He decided to play with this sleazy weasel. “Which one?”
“There's more than one will?”
“I have no idea. Boxes are sacrosanct. You should know this. Aren't you a lawyer?” Score one for the home team.
“Yes, yes, of course. And my client has a key, no problem-o. What do you mean, 'which one'?”
“Mr. McClintock has two boxes at this institution. Of course there may be others, at other banks. He's originally from New Jersey.”
“I was led to believe all the H. Poitrine & Assoc. business was handled by you.”
“You believe correctly. And as soon as Ms. Poitrine, or you, as her attorney, log onto the account, and supply the password, you can see just what a Gordian knot awaits her.” Even dead, Mac McClintock still had his banker in his corner.
“Yes, and we will. At the moment Ms. Poitrine is grieving, but I will bring her here as soon as possible. We need to find the will, and start probate. We still have a multi-million dollar company to run.”
Collander thought back to his recent visit with the stepdaughter, and wondered how she fared in the will.
—o—
Mags left Dr. Q and Rosetta, muttering, “Leap and the net will appear,” under her breath. It seemed to be working for them, and she decided it wasn't a bad mantra. Certainly more challenging than 'Don't worry, be happy'.
Another strange car was coming up the lane. Now what, she thought, as a late model Lincoln rolled to a stop beside Duane's little hatchback.
Congressman Varnish climbed out, tightened his tie, and asked, “Is you mother at home?”
Mags pointed to the second floor. “In her bedroom.” She paused a beat, and added, “You know the way,” as she open the Vibe's passenger door.
“Are you really a cop?” Mags was riding shotgun, much to Bugle Boy's displeasure. He'd refused to climb in the back of the hatchback, so Duane had let him ride in the back seat. He had his large head wedged between the front seats, where he could sniff passing scents from the open windows, and keep an eye on the young bitch.
Duane bragged, “I'm number two in the Shaleville Department of Public Safety.
And Federally certified as a K-9 Officer. Been to school for it.” He looked over at her. “In Georgia.”
Mags wanted to ask how large was the department, but saw there was no advantage. Instead she asked, “What's up with the cashmere sweater, anyway?”
“Sheriff Claxon told me to go arrest your stepdaddy, and not to wear my uniform while I was doing it. I don't think he trusts me. So I rigged up a disguise, and LuAnn's sweater was a part of it. She don't know I took it, and was mad enough about using her car. I expect I'm gonna catch heck at the homestead.”
“Tell her you're a hero. Tell her how you and your dog found the boot and the watch, while risking your life inside the building. She must have seen it on TV. Adjust the facts to meet your needs, Duane.”
Duane considered this for a moment. “You're pretty smart, for a girl. Why do you want a ride to Shaleville?”
“It was my car your department impounded when you arrested my stepfather. And I want it back.” She put her hand on Duane's thigh, which drew a low growl from a jealous bloodhound, and a blush from the man. “Is there any way you can help me?” Because he was slow, she added, “Since you are number two in the department.”
Duane preened. “Better let me speak to Sheriff Claxon first.” He dropped his hand to hers, and patted it. “He's kind of. . .difficult. See, it's an elected office, and he's run unopposed since forever. Plus, he just went through an embarrassing situation, one he blames me for. Because I arrested your father for speeding? And then Bugle Boy smelled explosives. Which he is trained for; you can't blame him. It was Sheriff Claxon who jumped the gun, called the feds, and everything.”
He pointed to the Rotary Club sign as they entered town. “Home again, home again, jiggity-jog.”
Welcome to Shaleville
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