"To take the rap for murdering Margaret while robbing her house?"
"It is a possibility."
"Without leaving a mark on her? It sounds a little too convoluted. To go that far."
"It would be brilliant misdirection."
"I think we're barking up the wrong tree here. Let's use Occam's Razor and keep it simple."
"All right," she assented. "For the time being."
"You originally told me that several pieces of jewelry had been stolen. Was it only those two lockets or was more taken from Margaret's home?"
"I really don't know. I told you exactly what Deputy Lowell related to me. I haven't thought about the possibility of other stolen items since." It bothered her that I kept asking questions she didn't have answers to. "Perhaps Richie had more stashed somewhere in his house. Where are you meeting his brother tonight?"
"At some pub near the lumber trails." I didn't want to tell her it was Jackals. "Did Wallace have anything more to add to what Broghin told us last night?"
"No. He was of the same mind as the sheriff. Accidental overdose and a panicky friend who dumped the body."
"Some friend."
I opened the door and got out, then leaned against the window. "I'll be home in half an hour. I've got a few more things I'd like to check."
"What were your first impressions of Tons Harraday?"
"A nice guy," I said. "He's an animal lover."
~ * ~
The Corner Convenience was a kind of threshold in the lives of most fifteen year olds in Felicity Grove; my friends and I had broken our beer teeth on six-packs and cases of Genesee picked up at the store. Timmons charged us five bucks more than if we'd been old enough to buy it legally, but we paid because we didn't want the hassle and humiliation of asking adults to sneak it to us.
It wasn't far downtown, only a mile south on a block where a modest shopping center had grown around the original stores. A recently finished development of Tudor homes sloped back into the blocks of Victorian houses, up a sprawl of knolls at the end of the street where ersatz oil lamp street lights lined the sidewalks. The area was a classic example of old meets new meets retro bygone days.
Unlike the jangling bells of the flower shop, The Corner Convenience had a shrill mechanical whistle that went off when you stepped on the inside rubber mat.
Timmons stood at his usual plastic-encased perch like a raven in a transparent cage, stacked high so he could see the aisles of his grocery; at the moment though he checked the cashiers' time cards, writing down numbers, mumbling to himself. He hadn't changed in twenty years. Once a man is bald and hunched and wrinkled, he doesn't have much left to change into. Timmons must've been bald, hunched, and wrinkled since before LBJ took office. The years didn't add to or steal anything from him, they just left the crotchety, selfish, foolish man alone, wouldn't you know.
I walked over and stared at him.
He looked up. "Yeah? Can I help you?”
“Could I speak to you alone for a minute please?”
“We are alone."
I cocked a thumb behind me to the MANAGER'S OFFICE: EMPLOYEE'S ONLY down the opposite aisle. "In your office.”
“Why? I can hear you just fine from here.”
“I'll explain in your office.”
“You will, huh?" He was suspicious, but knew me without knowing where he knew me from. "Look, I'm real busy.”
“I understand. It'll only take a minute, Mr. Timmons." He gnawed his lower lip for a moment and put down his pencil. "Make it quick, okay?" Warily, he left his roost, giving me sidelong glances, making sure I walked neither in front nor behind him. For all he knew I was a health inspector or a disgruntled customer. An elderly lady in a muffler carefully looked over the vegetables to our left, squeezing them in her vein-riddled fist.
"Don't squash the tomatoes," he told her.
"I never squash the tomatoes.”
“You always squash the tomatoes.”
“I don't even like tomatoes. I never buy tomatoes."
We went side-by-side to his office; he unlocked it and left the door open. "Now what's this about?"
I said, "It's about a foot too narrow.”
“What?”
“It's about the doorway to your new store. If it's the same as the one out front here, it's about a foot too narrow." His eyes brightened with recognition. "You're the Kendrick kid, aren't you? Jesus. You're the one who got Mary DeGrase's baby back for her. Goddamn." The respect in his gaze lasted another five seconds before he recalled the conversation he'd had with Anna. The light dimmed and went out. He spun from me. "Well, I'll tell you the same thing I told your granny.”
“I wish you wouldn't.”
“You listen. This is my place, I do things my way, and if you and yours got a problem with it, then shop someplace else.”
“You continue to miss the point," I said.
"She's a feisty old broad, that's for sure, and if—”
“Never say that about my grandmother, Mr. Timmons.”
“What?”
“Never call her a broad. Especially an old one."
For a second I thought he might say something intelligent and wouldn't ask me a clichéd question; but then his prunish face sort of fell in on itself and the neolithic stupidity and anger took over. "And just what the hell are you gonna do about it if I feel like callin' her a broad or a cow or a gimp?”
“Punch you very hard in the mouth.”
“Oh yeah?”
“You've a rapier wit.”
“What?”
“Sit down." I pointed to the large recliner that was too big to even slide under his desk. "Sit down in your chair.”
“You're threatening me," he said, astounded. "In my own goddamn place you're threatening me."
"I'm not threatening you. I'm telling you to sit down."
"You said you'd punch me in the mouth."
"That was if you called my grandmother a broad or a cow or a gimp. I never said what I'd do if you didn't sit in your chair."
The door stood open and shoppers passed by frequently; too tough to be scared, Timmons remained in his stronghold and knew something else was going on here, but he was too dense to realize what. He eyed me with that wait'll you're on fire in the middle of the street I won't even piss on your hat glare.
Two folding chairs were stacked behind a filing cabinet. I grabbed one and sat. "Here like this."
"You're nuts," he said, sneering now, but he sat in the recliner.
"No, with your legs closer, your feet together."
"What the hell are you doing? I'm calling the cops."
"And we'll have them investigate those ugly rumors that you've been paying off building inspectors and fooling around with your teenaged check-out girls."
Those rumors, if they did exist—and they probably did—were also probably true. Either way, it got his attention. "Who the hell's been feeding you that load of shit?"
"Now try getting out the doorway," I said. "Your office door is the same size as the front."
He didn't bother; he understood my meaning, and sneered and shook his head and the worried look faded and one of disgust replaced it. No cops, no robbery, no beating the hell out of him, just the Kendrick kid going through a big act to give a rough time about his granny's wheelchair being too big to fit inside. Like the chair he now sat in.
Someone called him over the PA, asking his assistance at the courtesy counter. The tension dissipated further and he smiled, almost amiable now, just wishing he could make me understand his point of view. "You haven't changed a thing, Kendrick. Stick to finding lost babies."
~ * ~
Ten o'clock spun around slowly.
Debi called during the afternoon to inform me how the deal with the German sellers went; she and her boyfriend had a great time at dinner, and she promised that the Gunther Grass books and other volumes she'd picked up were first editions in perfect condition. The exchange rate did not prove to be a problem. I knew I could move them e
asily and turn a quick profit, but it was seeing Debi's growing interest in the business that made her excited chatter all the more satisfying. She enjoyed being boss for a while, and that eased my conscience; I didn't know how much longer I'd be in Felicity Grove, especially if I let Lowell play out his hand and waited to confront Broghin.
I took Anubis for a walk in the park, killing time, letting him romp through the woods. By the thickets across from Anna's house, I made a half-hearted search of where Richie's murderer—if he was murdered—might have dragged his body in order to dump it. Nothing. Anubis took a hesitant step out onto the frozen surface of the pond, then another, and another, until he was in the middle and looking back, daring me to follow.
It took me twenty minutes to coax him off the ice. We went home and I tried to read but couldn't concentrate, and I didn't feel like making any more lists. At a quarter after nine I was climbing the walls and decided I'd beat Tons to the bar.
Raimi's reeked with the sweet aroma of marijuana and the cloying stink of sweat, perfume, and stale beer. Whatever the smell, it didn't seem to keep anybody away. The place thrummed, packed with a thirty-nothing crowd; the small dance floor writhed with couples pressed against each other, swaying and grinding, spilling drinks on their partners. At least the jukebox wasn't spinning "The Piña Colada Song." Instead, a former local talent by the name of Zenith Brite funked out with her latest single "Calcutta by Night," vibrating the walls.
Three bartenders worked the bar, two men and a woman whose wild black hair hung in her eyes. By the time she got done serving drinks to those around me she looked like a frazzled sheep dog. Still, I got an electric smile. She swept a mass of frizzy curls off her forehead, turned her ear to me and shouted, "What can I get you?"
"Amstel Lite."
"No Amstel. We got Coors on tap, Bud, Bud Lite, Schlitz—"
"You actually sell Schlitz?"
"Yeah."
"I'll take a Bud Lite."
Whoever Raimi was, he'd upgraded the joint. Money had been poured in, and apparently that had paid off. A second bar had been set up across the room, two television screens blasted nimbus in a distant corner, and the tables in back were roomy with glass tops, rather than the scarred picnic benches of Jackals. I drank my beer and scanned the room for Tons, but couldn't make out enough faces with the vapid lighting. I moved through the crush.
It took a while, but I soon began recognizing the faces of my high school peers in the crowd: Virgil Ballard and Ralph Dawes still blocking for each other and sticking tight as they had on the football field; Luke and Shauna Chester, who'd had two sons before marrying at eighteen, then had the marriage annulled six months later only to continue dating all these years; Hazel Marris with pink, full lips that made men drop on their faces, light of my life in the eighth grade, and who would forever give my heart twinges; and Darryl Watkins, Trish Packard, Ellery Ellin, and Bill Farum and the rest of them. I spoke briefly to a few and nodded to others, grinned at Hazel when she grinned at me, but kept looking for Tons.
A hand landed on my shoulder, with a flash of glittering turquoise fingernails. "Johnny boy!"
She hugged me so ecstatically, rubbing my back, face buried against my chest so closely that I couldn't make out who she was; when she drew back I saw that Karen Bolan still had the widest say-cheese smile of any human being I've ever met. "Hey, Karen."
"Come sit, come sit! We've got a table in the back where you can hear yourself think."
"I'm meeting someone."
"Let them wait a few minutes. Come on! The gang hasn't seen you in ages!"
Nearly ten-thirty now and Tons hadn't shown.
She pulled me to a table. Karen had been loud and obnoxious in a nice sort of way trying so damn hard to get noticed; it meant she flirted with everyone in an unabashedly obvious manner, some of which carried over and earned her a rep. When she walked across a room she made sure men watched the sweet slink of her long sexy legs moving; when she laughed everybody heard the throaty squeals. She was an actress of the saddest order, one who didn't play the part so much as she let it play her.
"Willie, look who's here! Johnny Kendrick!"
Her husband, Willie Bolan, didn't mind his wife's nonstop exhibition; just to look at him you got the impression he enjoyed the rambunctious show she put on. Maybe it made him feel like other men envied him. Although he was equally outgoing and as loud as Karen, at the moment he lay sprawled as if ready for a nap. He'd been trying since he was fourteen to grow a mustache and could do little more than raise a few Fu Manchu wisps.
Karen slung herself into her seat and he rose to shake my hand. In school Willie had been a solid C student with a flair for computers, and I remembered how he'd worked with tutors to pull together for college entrance exams. The work had paid off enough for him to become one of the youngest vice presidents at Syntech. In an odd fashion, I remained moderately jealous of him.
Across from them sat Lisa and Doug Hobbes, who were the exact opposite in character to their friends; they remained glued at the hip, virtually in each other's laps, quiet, and on occasion, timid. So far as I knew, they'd been together since they were children, having grown up next door to one another: a classic example of made-for-each-other. I'd heard that Lisa had had three or four miscarriages in the last couple of years, and that they were thinking of adoption.
Willie cut through the chit-chat and went straight to the heart. "I heard a man was found, dead on your property.”
"Who told you that?"
He shrugged. "Everybody. You know how it works around here. What did you expect?"
"My God, it's awful," said Lisa. She was no more than four-eleven, with a voice as tiny as Tinkerbell's. I could understand how it would be difficult for her pregnancy to go full term. "Did you know the person, Jon? Anyone we would know? The police haven't released that many details."
Doug said, "And the rumor mill fills in the rest, so no one is sure exactly what happened. You've got everything from some guy with a meat cleaver in his forehead to a naked hoochie girl with a black book that can put all the pillars of the community on trial."
"No, I didn't know him," I said.
Lisa took Doug's hand and pulled it into her lap. "Was your grandmother the one to find him?”
“Jim Witherton, our next-door neighbor did."
"I'd hate to think of that nice lady having to see something as hideous as that. Considering . . ."
Karen tittered happily as she struck a pose of delighted, morbid curiosity. "We heard that your grandmother's dog—what's its silly name?—that the vicious thing got to the body before the police arrived and there was hardly any meat left on the ol' boy by then."
I expected this kind of talk. "That's the rumor mill adding more gusto to the tale, Karen."
"We figured," Doug said. "It just sounded too much like what a person would make up to throw a little spice into this town. I liked the hoochie girl bit. The local stations and papers are having a field day with it, of course. All except for the Gazette. Family-oriented, you know."
"I wouldn't want Merlin's turkey to lose his place on the front page."
Lisa touched Doug's wrist lightly. It made me sort of claustrophobic and gave me the creeps a little to see how they were always on top of each other, petting and caressing and tugging. She frowned. "Recall what Mrs. Hollinback told us?"
"Jesus, don't remind me," he said.
"She went on for hours, literally hours, all day long at the carpet store yesterday, gossiping with anyone who slunk in the door until her puffy cheeks were blue. So excited she couldn't catch her breath for yabbering so much, alternately getting flushed and turning blue, looked like she was going to have a heart attack. People are outdoing themselves this time, saying it's everything from a serial killer to police corruption. They all want to meet Hannibal Lecter, and want him to say that line about the Falfa beans and hear him say 'Chianti.'”
"You don't show up much," Willie Bolan said, grinning. He'd learned from his wife and h
ad a smile nearly as wide. "But when you do, you give the town a helluva perk."
"It's nice to be needed," I said.
Karen didn't like having the gore taken out of the story. "Well, I heard it straight from Mary Jean Resnick about that savage dog of yours, Johnny, and I've never known her to lie before. She heard it straight from . . ."
Willie tried to drop his cheesey smile but couldn't quite do it, trained corners of mouth snapping back up. He drew his chin down and shot Karen a look. "Mary Jean Resnick is an asshole."
"Don't you are dare say that, Willie!"
"What are you doing back, Jon?" Lisa asked. Her Tinkerbell voice grew even softer than usual. Not like a whisper, but low and meaningful, lips barely moving. She turned her eyes down as if ashamed of having asked. She knew what I was doing here, the only reason why I always came home.
I understood she wasn't asking a question so much as giving me a warning, hoping that for once I'd stay out of trouble. Her baby-doll face turned once more to me and she worried her lips into a grimace.
"I'm meeting someone," I said.
"Hope she's got a personality," Lisa said. "I never liked that Michelle you used to bring around."
"I did, but only for a while," I said. "I'm sorry I've got to run, but this is important. It's been great seeing you all again." They responded in kind and I shook the guys' hands and hugged the ladies. Willie pinched Karen's ass and she squealed in my ear and gave him a playful slap.
I got out of there, and as I walked away Doug Hobbes said it again. "Spice."
~ * ~
Over the next twenty minutes I made a half dozen more circuits of the place and didn't run into Tons Harraday. Almost eleven and I was sweating and annoyed and the music gave me a headache. I decided to wait for him in the parking lot for a while, and if he didn't show by midnight I'd pay him another visit at his house, carrying a couple of steaks for his Dobermans.
Near the door, the sharp crack of breaking glass sounded to my right, and a hush fell over the immediate area. Burly hands centered on my back, shoving.
The Dead Past Page 6