Death Opens a Window

by Mikel J. Wilson

  “So you’re married?” As soon as he asked the question, Jeff turned away from Emory’s sudden scowl.

  “With four kids.”

  “Do you like working here now?”

  Finished with the measurements, Peter stood and faced Jeff. “Sure. It’s a great opportunity for me. What kind of clothes were you looking for?”

  Jeff didn’t answer his question, positing one of his own. “Would you mind terribly taking Emory’s measurements as well?”

  His sudden inclusion in the conversation caught Emory off guard. “No, I’m fine. I don’t need any clothes.”

  “Which is good, since we’re not here for you. I just thought you’d want to know.”

  “I already know my measurements.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  To prove his point, Emory spouted off his neck, arm, waist and pant leg measurements, and as he did, Peter compared them with Jeff’s. “Except for the neck and chest, you two are practically twins.”

  Jeff continued questioning Peter while he grabbed shirts and pants from the racks. “Do you like where you live now?”

  “Can’t say that I do. I haven’t found a place to really call home again. I don’t know that anywhere here could ever feel like home.”

  “I’m kind of new to the city myself. Any idea where I could take someone for a nice romantic view of the city?”

  Red-faced, Emory blurted out, “Don’t you have enough clothes to try on?”

  Following a slight jump at the outburst, Peter pointed behind them. “You can try them on over there.”

  His arms laden with clothes, Jeff headed toward the dressing room but stopped once he realized Emory wasn’t following. “I’m going to need your opinion.”

  Emory frowned and followed him to one of the rooms but stood outside the curtain door. Jeff entered and looked back. “Come in with me.”

  “No. People might think… something’s going on.”

  “Oh good god, just get in here.” Jeff grabbed his arm and dragged him inside.

  Emory whisked the curtain shut with such force, the other end jerked to the middle of the bar. He closed that end with a gentler tug before facing Jeff. “What the hell was that?”

  “What?”

  “It was embarrassing! Why were you hitting on him?”

  Jeff hung the clothes on the wall hooks. “Is that what you think? I thought you were an investigator.”

  Emory paused a moment before sighing. “He’s on your list. Why didn’t you just tell me that from the beginning instead of lying?”

  “I didn’t lie. I am here to shop, in addition to questioning a suspect on my list.”

  “You could’ve told me before I made a spectacle.”

  “Sometimes I come across as flirty when I’m actually just trying to put the other person at ease. I didn’t mean to make you jealous.”

  Emory bleated an unconvincing laugh. “I’m not jealous.”

  Jeff snickered. “Okay, but something is bothering you.” He held up a powder-blue linen shirt with a Cuban collar and checked out the look in the mirror. “This won’t work for me. It might work for you. You should try it on.”

  Emory brushed it aside. “I don’t need new clothes.”

  “We’re here. Just try it on.” Jeff handed off the shirt to a begrudging Emory. “So what’s wrong?”

  Emory took a deep breath before whispering, “This crotchety old woman I questioned today… cursed me.”

  Jeff roared with laughter. “Oh my god, that’s funny! Tell me everything.”

  Emory gave him the quick highlights, ending with, “She really rattled me.”

  “Seriously? Rattled by a few mean words from a little old lady?”

  “I’m sorry, but I’ve never been cursed before. How am I supposed to feel?”

  “You don’t believe in curses, do you?”

  Emory looked to the mirror and focused on the new shirt he was now trying on. “No.”

  Jeff gasped into a grin. “Oh wow, you do!”

  “I don’t know, and don’t laugh at me.” Emory pulled the shirt off and reached for another one. “I’m from the mountains. Spell-casters and curses are part of the lore I grew up with. My granny didn’t believe in fairy tales, so at bedtime she’d tell me stories of Cherokee vengeance that always started with a curse and ended with a grisly death. It’s no wonder I’m an insomniac. Her favorite one was about Hugo Hickory.”

  “Who?”

  Emory sighed as he tried on a pair of beryl-blue pants with a window-pane pattern. “It’s a long story. I’ll tell you later.”

  “Whatever. Now that you’re an adult, you should realize curses aren’t real. There’s no escaped lunatic with a hook hand looking to slice up kids who are making out in the woods. By the way, those pants look great on you.”

  “That hook hand story has nothing to do with a curse.” He gave a few tugs to the bottom of the shirt. “I don’t like how this bunches up at the waist.” He pulled the shirt off and let the pants drop to his ankles. “Poo-poo it all you want, but there are real, documented curses. King Tut’s tomb, the Crying Boy painting, Tecumseh, the Busby chair.”

  “Take some bus chair?”

  “Tecumseh and the Busby chair. They’re… Never mind.” Now in his underwear, Emory tried on another pair of pants from Jeff.

  “If this alleged curse bothers you so much, just get her to take it back.” Jeff handed him another shirt. “This will be good with those pants.”

  “How do I make her take it back?”

  “Go make nice with her, and give her what she wants.”

  “I can’t give her back the land.”

  “No, but you could give her closure.” Jeff pointed at the mirror. “I knew that combo would work for you.”

  “I look fat.” Emory removed the shirt in a single pull.

  “What are you talking about? You’ve got like a twenty-eight-inch waist.”

  “Which is why I don’t want a fat shirt.” Emory removed the last shirt from the hanger. “How do I give her closure?”

  “From what you’ve told me of her, I’m betting she didn’t know – or refused to believe – that the sheriff was actually going to come to kick her out, so she probably didn’t have a chance to say goodbye to her home. Take her to say goodbye.”

  Shaking his head, Emory looked at himself in the mirror, his eyes dropping to his bandaged hand. “I don’t want to see her again.”

  “Then live with the curse.” Jeff snapped his fingers. “Ooh! I have an idea. You could go to that fortune teller down the street from the office. Maybe she could lift the curse for you.”

  Emory shot him a derisive look. “A fortune teller? Really?”

  “You believe in curses but draw the line at fortune tellers?”

  “Let’s just drop it and get back to the case.”

  Jeff handed him a pair of black corduroy pants. “Try these on.”

  Emory removed the pants he had on but dismissed the new pair without trying them. “I don’t like those. I’ve been thinking maybe Corey’s death had nothing to do with his current work project. Unless you find out something provocative from Peter out there, I say tomorrow we should focus on his personal life.”

  “Works for me.” Jeff swooshed open the dressing room curtain.

  “I’m not dressed!” Emory shouted as he hurried to get his own clothes on.

  Jeff slapped the side of his own butt cheek and clenched his hand. “I guess it’s up to me to provoke Peter.”

  By the time they left the dressing room, Emory had four wardrobe changes in hand, while his partner had none.

  Jeff reached Peter first. “We left the items we didn’t like in the dressing room.”

  “I’ll rerack them.”

  “Forget about that. Tell me, Peter, did having to move into a tiny motel room with your wife and four kids drive you to kill the man who took your home?”

  Peter’s lips seemed unable to find each other in order to form a single word, but that d
idn’t stop a guttural “Huh?”

  “I do understand. I’ve met your kids.”

  Peter grabbed Jeff’s collar with both hands. “Who the hell are you?!”

  Chapter 9

  “Mr. West!” The attention of Peter West and the two PIs shot to the red-faced little man in a suit scuttling toward them. “What are you doing?”

  Peter released Jeff’s collar. “Mr. Hall, I—”

  Wearing a nametag with a manager title emblazoned in red, Mr. Hall turned his attention to Jeff. “Sir, I’m very sorry for my employee’s outburst.”

  Jeff responded with a laugh and a dismissive wave of his hand. “I’m the one who should apologize. I started it.”

  “I don’t care who started it. That’s not how we interact with our customers.” Mr. Hall glared at Peter. “What are you even doing in men’s wear, Mr. West?”

  Jeff interjected, “No, you misunderstand. Peter and I are old buddies. From high school. That’s how we always greet each other. It’s an inside joke that would take much too long to explain.”

  The manager jabbed his small fists into his robust waist. “High school? How many years were you held back, Mr. West?”

  In obvious desperation to save his job, Peter joined in the ruse. “Uh… I was his coach.”

  “I don’t recall seeing that on your resume.”

  “I uh… only did it for one season. Part time. It uh… wasn’t really worth mentioning.”

  The unclenching of the manager’s body signaled he was going to give him the benefit of the doubt. “Well, enough time visiting. You have work to do.”

  Jeff nodded toward Emory and his armful of potential purchases. “He’s helping implement a much needed wardrobe revision for my friend here.”

  Mr. Hall reiterated, “This isn’t his department.”

  Jeff nodded to Emory. “Okay. I guess we’ll just put all this back.”

  “Very well.” The manager pointed to Peter. “Finish up with your friend, and then return to your own department.” Mr. Hall toddled away but didn’t stray from eyeshot of the trio.

  Emory held up his laden arms. “I don’t need new clothes.”

  “You have to buy them now. Do you want Peter to lose his job?”

  Emory pursed his lips. “You planned this, didn’t you?”

  Jeff flashed a smile of success. “We’re ready to check out.”

  “This way.” Peter led them back to his register.

  As Emory unloaded the clothes onto the counter, Jeff continued his verbal poking. “That’s quite a temper you have there, Peter. Verging on murderous.”

  Peter glanced at his manager, who was still watching from sportswear, and he plastered a pleasant expression over his gritting teeth. “What in the hell are you talking about?”

  “Corey Melton, the TVA manager who took your land. He’s dead.”

  “Huh.” Peter scanned and folded Emory’s new clothes. “How’d he die?”

  Emory frowned at him. “Mr. West, I have to say, you seem unfazed by the news.”

  “Sorry, but I didn’t know the guy. Never met him. He was just a signature on a letter I received.”

  Jeff wiggled his hips. “I’m sure you’re doing a little happy dance in your head.”

  A sneer cracked Peter’s veneer. “I don’t wish anyone ill. I wasn’t happy about him and the TVA taking my house, but they paid me a fair price for it. And it’s for a good cause.” He announced the total cost of the purchases, and Emory inserted a card into the chip reader of the credit card machine.

  Jeff flared his left eyebrow. “And you’re not upset at being forced to live in a tiny motel room?”

  “It’s temporary. We’re looking for a new place now.”

  Emory picked up the full shopping bag from the counter. “Just one more question. Can you tell us where you were between eight-thirty and nine this morning?”

  Peter’s eyes shifted between the PIs. “Here. I get in at eight-thirty.”

  “Thank you for your time, Mr. West.” Emory glanced at his partner and nodded toward the exit. As they walked away, he asked, “What happened to putting people at ease so they want to talk to you?”

  “I never said that. I said that I make people realize they want to tell me what they know. That doesn’t rule out provocation.”

  Naked, Emory strode across his apartment, opened his laptop and dropped onto the comfort of his unyielding modern couch. As his fingers touched the keyboard, he heard the vibrations of the ringing phone atop his desk. “Damn.”

  He put the laptop aside and popped back up to answer it. “Hello?”

  From the Smoky Mountain town of Barter Ridge, Sheriff and Lula Mae Rome huddled around the speakerphone in their kitchen. “Emory, this is your mom and dad.” His mother always began phone conversations with Emory in a giddy tone – a tone that promised exciting news but only delivered on rare occasions.

  “Hi Son,” greeted the sheriff.

  Their voices lifted the corners of Emory’s mouth and peeled the day’s tension from his back and shoulders. “Hi there. What are y’all up to?”

  “Nothing much, sweetie.”

  “Son, how was your first day at your new job?”

  Emory moved the phone from his ear. Damn, Dad always shouts when he’s on speakerphone. “It was… okay.”

  “What’s wrong?” his father asked.

  “Nothing.” Emory returned to the couch and his laptop. “I don’t know exactly what I was expecting. I guess I just miss my old job.” He typed in the search engine, looking for information on curses.

  “Well, is there any way you could get your job back?” The giddiness dropped from Lula Mae’s voice.

  “No.” Emory pressed the Enter button on his keyboard, and as soon as he did, an ad for Mourning Dove Investigations popped up on his screen. He groaned when he saw Cowboy Emory smiling at him. “Son of a…”

  “What was that, Son?”

  “Nothing, Dad.”

  Lula Mae pressed him on the subject of his former job. “Honey, you never did tell us exactly why they let you go.”

  “They just said I didn’t fill out a report correctly.”

  The sheriff tsked at his answer. “It seems like such a small thing to get fired over.”

  As his back tightened, Emory sighed away from the phone. “Mom, Dad, I’m sorry to rush, but I have a lot of work to finish before bed.”

  “That’s okay,” said Lula Mae. “We just wanted to hear your voice.”

  “Take care, Son.”

  “We love you,” Emory heard his mother say before he hung up the phone. He closed the popup ad on his computer and cursed Jeff for the ridiculous campaign.

  His web search brought up multiple listings for do-it-yourself charms and spells, as well as ads for palm readers and spiritual guides.

  Emory glanced at the bandage on his hand and closed his laptop. “I’m being stupid.”

  The sheriff twitched his lips when he heard the dial tone. “Now that’s worrisome.”

  “I know.” Lula Mae placed a caressing hand on her husband’s forearm. “We should help him.”

  “I don’t think he needs our money.”

  “No. I mean you should offer him a job. He’d be a great deputy for you.”

  “Lula Mae, you know what his answer will be.”

  She removed her hand and jabbed her fingertip onto the tabletop. “No, I don’t, and you don’t either. He could just be waiting for you to ask.”

  “I’ll ask, but I wouldn’t count on Emory ever moving back here.”

  Chapter 10

  Emory darted from his apartment determined to get to work early. Even though he had a legitimate – and preapproved – reason for being late the day before, he wasn’t about to give Jeff a reason to rib him further about his punctuality.

  Hurrying down the sidewalk toward his car, Emory passed a parked SUV with tinted windows. His head whipped to the left when he heard the rustling of a wet wipe being pulled from a pop-up pack. On the other side
of the car, a man in a tailored blue suit leaned over the hood, a wipe in his manicured hand, and reached for a splat of fresh bird poop on the windshield.

  “I was just sitting in my car, minding my own business, when a mourning dove perched on my windshield wiper and laid waste on my windshield,” the handsome man with slicked-back grey hair explained. “Do you think he was trying to impart a message to me?”

  Since the man’s eyes remained focused on the windshield, Emory wasn’t certain he was even speaking to him. Just in case, he muttered, “I don’t know.”

  “Mourning doves are the most hunted species in America.” The man faced Emory and pointed at him with his wipe-clutching hand. “I can see you’re skeptical, but I assure you it’s a verifiable fact. Hunters kill more than 20 million of my avian attacker’s friends every year. Maybe that’s why their song is more of a dirge.”

  Emory stopped walking and stared at the man. I know him.

  “Do you suppose that’s how your new partners dreamt up that rather unusual identity for their establishment?” The man pulled a baggie from his pocket, stuck the soiled wipe inside and pocketed it. “They consider themselves prolific hunters?”

  “I’ve actually never asked that question, Mr. Alexander.”

  The man grinned. “You know who I am.”

  “Anderson Alexander, the director of the TBI. Your picture hangs in the TBI office where I used to work.”

  Anderson used another wipe to clean his hands as he approached Emory. “Of course. I would’ve made an appointment to see you at your new office, but I prefer to chat away from any prying eyes.”

  Whose prying eyes? Am I being watched? “What about?”

  Anderson shook hands with the former special agent. “I’ll get right to the point. I’d like for you to come back to the TBI.”

  Emory wanted to laugh, but he held it back. “I didn’t leave of my own accord, Mr. Alexander. Eve Bachman fired me.”

  “I was recently made aware of the circumstances surrounding your dismissal. I’ve verbally reprimanded Eve for her behavior. I’ve also done my homework on you. I’ve seen your test scores, and I’ve read your files. Mr. Buckwald might have been the senior partner, but his success rate jumped sixty-two percent during your tenure together. How would you like to lead your own division?”