Death in Living Gray

by John Clayton

  He turned to us, “Hello, Mr. and Miz Short. Nice night. I don’t want to intrude but…”

  Sambo gave me a comforting squeeze on the butt as he explained in a strong voice that he hadn’t seen anything unusual except the normal residents of Mason County.

  The sheriff laughed and started to move his questions on to Henry Adams, since it was outside the scope of his legal ethics to harass an agoraphobic in public.

  I took a sip of wine in relief. Except it wasn’t wine. It was a Martini, the like of which I had stopped drinking before Jack Junior was born. I gagged and then choked, spewing froth through the horse’s mouth. Henry and the sheriff were pounding me on the back as Sambo bounced me up and down.

  “Take the head off and give her some air,” Mr. Pickerill shouted from the porch.

  The sheriff tried to follow instructions, grappling with Henry, who was holding the head down.

  “We can’t,” Henry said. “You know how it is.”

  To bring an end to the struggle, Sambo’s booming voice bounced out of the horse’s midsection, “I think it’s time we went home, Sheriff Overhouse—that is, if you don’t have any more questions.

  I’d managed to stop heaving, so the sheriff stepped back.

  “Just let me know if you remember anything unusual,” he said as he turned back to Henry. “Do you know where Miz Abernathy is?” he asked; and then added, “Mr. Pickerill wants to know.”

  I was afraid Henry was going to say that I’d gone home about two hours before, and was ready to start choking again, but Henry managed to prove that honesty is the best policy by answering, “Oh, I haven’t actually seen her in over,” as he causally looked at his watch, “say half an hour.”

  ***

  Stuart, at Henry’s summons, led the two of us, Sambo and myself, clomping out to the Shorts’ Ford Sedan. Fortunately it was parked on the far side of the house, away from the dogs. Only, I couldn’t figure out what speed to go, and Sambo was either dragging behind or stumbling into my rear, as Stuart tried to regulate my progress. He didn’t say whether he recognized me or not, but I’d just mixed one more innocent person into the deception. And for nothing. It was with a feeling of ultimate relief that I settled into the front seat of the Ford. On the way down the drive we had to swing by the front portico, so I kept on the horse’s head as the prerogative of an agoraphobic. Through the mouth, as we whisked by, I could see Weevil standing on the porch and tapping his baseball bat in the palm of his left hand while listening to J. Augustus rail. Behind them, through the open door, I could see, Jack Senior spinning across the dance floor with Elvira Short held firmly in his arms.

  Chapter 12

  About nine the next morning, I was sitting out in the barn on my tractor sofa having coffee from a thermos. Cogitating. This, despite a crick that ran the length of my neck and back and legs. Jack Senior had quietly left before I got up. I hadn’t heard from Fanny. Henry had awakened Billy in Colorado to get permission to raid his collection of drug samples. Thanks to that Elvira was now sleeping soundly, if not peacefully. Of course, Billy was her regular doctor so prescribing medication over the phone was pretty much OK. Which reminds me that I’ve been so busy describing my own trials and tribulations that I never explained about Billy and Jack Junior, except that they were buddies in high school. They were both doctors—Billy in medicine having joined a group practice here in Mason County about two years before the events in this story and Jack Junior with a Ph.D. in Computer Science. Of course, Jack Junior had to stay in northern Virginia close to his clients, but Billy rapidly became a fixture here. Even Victoria switched over when old Doc Witzel retired.

  The odd thing was that neither Jack Senior nor Lucille Adams could understand how two kids, who played through high school, partied as roommates through college and caroused as apartment mates through graduate and medical school respectively could be incipient members of the upper middle class. Henry just accepted it as something that happened, but I must admit that to me, on a purely logical basis, it did seem implausible. Except that somewhere deep down in my gut, there was this little voice that said, “Why not?” Probably the voice of a mother’s genes. Or perhaps the stonewalling raison d’être of a future jailbird.

  ***

  I sat there about half an hour, trying to figure out what I had learned the night before. Nothing, except that I wasn’t cut out to be a horse impersonator. I was about to go over to Henry’s, to work off the frustration when there was a tapping on the side of the barn doorway.

  “I was just in the neighborhood,” A blond head popped in followed by the flowing pectorals of Peter Torgesen. Without asking, he plopped down on the other seat of the sofa and turned the big white teeth in my direction.

  “Coffee?” I asked, starting to get up to go to the kitchen for a cup.

  “This’ll do.” He said, as he picked up a beat-up paper cup that had been lying on one of the struts of the sofa, blew the dust out of it, took the thermos, and filled the cup half full. Then he offered the thermos back to me.

  “Any progress?” I asked, as I tilted the thermos toward my cup.

  “Not much in Washington.” He grinned. “But you seem to have been busy.”

  “How so? What with the ball, I haven’t had much time to work on the steeple.”

  “At the ball,” he said.

  I looked at him with my head cocked to the side, waiting, since I was unsure of what to say.

  “Oh come on,” he urged. “You’re among friends. Everybody knows you did it.”

  “Did what?”

  “Broke into Mr. Pickerill’s files.”

  “Why would I do that?”

  “You tell me.” His knee had inched over against mine.

  I inhaled and tried to get control. “I heard about some kind of uproar over there. But then I also heard they were chasing ghosts.”

  He flashed the teeth. “Mr. Pickerill found there was something missing.”

  “What?”

  “He wants it back.”

  “What, at the risk of being repetitive, does he want back?”

  “The letter from Priscilla Goodenough.”

  “What letter?”

  “The letter you took from his safe.”

  “Why do you think I did that?” I tried to look sincerely interested in the answer—which, in fact, I was, because I wanted to find out how much they knew.

  “You left,” he said slowly, “at a very convenient time, just before the ruckus. And Maurice thought he saw you.”

  I shrugged. “I thought Pickerill was a retired mobster,” I said. “A letter from Prissy would hardly prove that.”

  “He’s not a mobster,” Peter countered. “Where did you get that idea?”

  “From you,” I told him. “You implied that he had a shady past, and with all his screaming about his loss, I figured he was covering up something.”

  “He’s no more crooked than most who’ve got as much money as he has. But he is a respected philanthropist. There’s a room in some senior center up in Connecticut named for him.”

  Hell, I’d missed that one, I thought.

  “Pickerill’s as good as rich people come,” he went on.

  And that was when I couldn’t help myself. “Even if he finagles his donations just to make a name for himself,”

  “See, I knew you had it!” Peter gave me a big smile again, only this time there was a perceptible nasty smirk. “He wants it back.”

  “Trade?” I asked, with a belated instinct for self-preservation.

  “Some. He gets it back and you don’t get charged with stealing it. His reputation could be hurt if it’s made public.”

  “And he’ll stop harassing me about the jewels?”

  “The quid pro quo doesn’t extend to the jewels.”

  I guess I must have pouted because Peter took both my hands in his.

  “Please help me this time and give up the letter,” he cajoled. “Make a copy, if you want. It won’t hold up in court, but that’s not
what Mr. Pickerill’s interested in. And besides, he doesn’t have to know you’ve got a duplicate.”

  “The insurance company?”

  “Them neither. This is a private deal between Pickerill and me. I agreed to help him out.”

  “For a separate fee?” I was beginning to feel a little leery of the morals of this blond godlet.

  “Of course, it’s separate. That’s why I have the flexibility to make adjustments as required. I’m helping him and I can help you, too.” He gave me a little pat on the thigh.

  So, I got up to make a copy on the third-hand Xerox that I’d bought for fifty dollars from a retiring chicken farmer.

  I brought the original letter back and put it in his hands as I dropped down next to him on the sofa, close but not touching. “And about the jewels?” I asked as he set the letter in his lap.

  “None of them have ever come on the market, so we figure that whoever’s got them is still holding on. The insurance company thinks that the logical person is you.”

  “But why would I hang onto them?”

  “Because you’re too smart to draw attention to yourself by selling them right away. You’ve put up with that worthless husband of yours for over thirty years. What’s a few more to finally get rid of him and bolt to wherever?”

  Now, I know I’ve told the readers about my husband’s foibles, but he was my worthless husband, and, besides, he wasn’t all that worthless—at least some of the time. And in addition to that, I was slowly getting annoyed at the pretty pectorals. But I held my temper. “Why would I do that? I’ve got my art work here.”

  “Ha, ha!” He laughed so hard he wiggled the entire postmodern sofa. “If that old black preacher wants to give you charity, that’s fine. But I don’t think you’re going anywhere in art.” He let his hand settle gently on my kneecap, as if he was consoling a three-year-old with a scraped elbow.

  “How about the quintessential postmodern, the massive misdirection?”

  He stopped laughing and just smiled.

  So I supplied the answer myself. “That’s what they all say when nobody understands it but they got a fifty thousand dollar price on it.”

  “You got it.”

  “And I don’t suppose you put the pictures on your mother’s desk.”

  “Of course I did. I’m not a liar. It’s just that her inbox is about three feet high with pictures; all from artists wanting a big break.” He moved to face me more directly, his blond hair flopping down over his eyes. He pushed it back up with his free hand.

  I looked away.

  “The world,” he continued, “doesn’t need a Grandma Moses of postmodernism. Or any other kind of modern art. It’s all BS.” He gave my knee a consoling little squeeze.

  I managed to mumble, “Then you’re not a starving artist?”

  “Not on your life! I make lots of money cajoling stolen goods from crooked but stupid people. Why starve in a garret? My looks are great for sweet-talking old ladies like yourself, but for the kind of young women I like I’ve got to have real money—like what I’ll get for recovering the jewels.”

  “And you were playing the good guy to Pickerill’s bad guy.” I tried to return his smirk.

  “Yeah, we rehearsed it.” The bastard didn’t even take his hand off my knee as he destroyed my stupid little dream. And I took his crap—because I was to numb to do anything else.

  The godlet gave my knee a last pat and stood up. Holding Prissy’s letter to his chest, he glided toward the doorway, turning back as he got there. “And we’d have kept up the good guy, bad guy routine if we were getting somewhere. But you’re just too much of a loose cannon. There’s no point in pretending any longer. You can give the jewels up now and get a reduced sentence or we’ll really turn on the heat. Like those insurance guys in the mystery stories, I always get my man—or woman in this case.”

  I was at the end of my rope. It really was time to give it up and return the jewels. The only problem was that I didn’t have a clue as to where they were. So I just sat there with my arms wrapped around myself, watching him stride away into the midmorning sun, blond hair waving in a slight breeze, full of confidence. Shit.

  ***

  Which is just what I felt like as Jack Senior shuffled around from the side of the barn. He’d parked the tractor back there while Peter and I were talking. Not exactly surreptitious. Just suspicious.

  “Nice, isn’t he.”

  “Like a copperhead. Pretty from the distance,” I said, as he sat down on the sawhorse across from my tractor sofa. I had my legs tightly wrapped around one of the struts to keep from flying away.

  “You really did a job yesterday.” Jack Senior started, in the voice he used to use when correcting the kids.

  “Thanks for the help,” I murmured.

  “Instinctive. I didn’t want to.”

  “Save your wholehearted efforts for Jezebel?”

  “Look, I’ve told you a thousand times her name isn’t Jezebel.”

  I didn’t bite. “Look yourself,” I said. “Right now I need your help. I think I’m about ready for a lawyer. Who’s good? Will I do better in Richmond, or should I ask Jack Junior to find someone in northern Virginia?”

  “I’m a lawyer.”

  “Disbarred.”

  “I still know the judges. We can work something out.”

  “Plead guilty?”

  “It looks bad. Why waste the money when it’s hopeless?”

  ”It’s not hopeless, but since you bring it up, where’ll I get the money for a lawyer?”

  “I’m free.”

  “You’re disbarred and you’ve given up. On everything but that cow.”

  He sighed. I guess it was a sigh. His face was ashen gray, complementing his bright red knuckles. He threw himself upwards to standing. “Then pretend to buy some more parts for the steeple, and charge the church. They’re probably rolling in minority-oriented grants.”

  “I can’t ask for any more until they approve the design.”

  “Then don’t bitch about money. The police decided it wasn’t my fault that my car went into the river, but they still want five hundred dollars for hauling it out. Do you see me bitching?”

  “But there’s a big difference,” I said slowly. “Your car wouldn’t have gone into the river if you’d gone to Cleveland like you said.”

  His hands turned the same color as his face and I think his wavy hair went straight, turning from bright white to a sickly greenish gray. He just spun on his heel and left. I don’t know whether he would have slammed the door if he’d been able, but barn doors are notoriously hard to close in a hurry. He didn’t bother to try.

  My stomach had gone from feeling sour to feeling like a geyser about to erupt. I wrapped my legs tighter around the sofa, hanging on.

  ***

  But I had to let go about ten minutes later when Jack Senior called from across the yard, “Your mother’s on the phone.”

  Still in a daze, I slowly ambled over to pick up the barn extension.

  “He says you’ve gone crazy,” the voice on the other end screamed.

  “Who? Has Dad been having visions again?”

  “No,” it shrieked. “Jack called. He’s worried about you. He says you’ve gone crazy, breaking into other people’s houses.”

  “I was looking for evidence against the man who claims I took his jewels.”

  “Who claims you took his jewels?”

  “A rich man who moved to Virginia just to give big parties and show off how much money he has.”

  “I know rich people are difficult, but stealing his jewelry is a little much, don’t you think?”

  “I think so too. But I didn’t take his jewelry. I was trying to find out who did.”

  “Jack says you had the means, motive, and opportunity. Maybe you just forgot.”

  “I wouldn’t forget stealing a million and a half dollars worth of jewelry.”

  “You forgot my birthday.”

  Trapped, but I put up a brave
front. “When was that?”

  “The day before yesterday. Sissy sent me a card. A day late, but that’s better than you did. Then dear Jack called today to wish me happy birthday, and explained all about stealing the man’s jewels, but then, that’s not as bad a forgetting a mother’s birthday. It must be your father’s genes coming through. He’s ruined my whole family and you’ve helped him.”

  I started to point out that her grandson was a respectable computer geek and her granddaughter was working for the ruinous grandfather—Sissy had taken the job with my father that I’d turned down thirty years before. After almost graduating from college in three different majors, she’d become her grandfather’s administrative assistant and chief acolyte. But that was too much to get into the two words I was allowed. The line had gone dead.

  I looked out at Jack Senior quietly driving his tractor down the road. He’d turned my mother against me—the weasely bastard. On top of that, he really seemed to think that I’d stolen the jewels. And he was right up to a point. I was the most likely suspect. But after thirty years, he should have had some faith. Unless, of course, he was trying to set me up. He had the means: he knew where the secret compartment was. And maybe the opportunity. He wandered all over the county at will, being a sort of friendly mascot to those who did work. He could have gone into Pickerill’s house ostensibly looking for me, without anybody taking notice of it. And he could probably have handled my welding kit. I wouldn’t have missed a few pounds of oxygen or acetylene.

  And he had the motive: money, or at least more money than he got from me. And he’d rid himself of me in the process. Then he could be a full-time philanderer without having to bother with justifying himself even a little bit. My stomach was gurgling even worse. Jack Senior was the only one left who could have done it.

  ***

  “It’s not in his nature to deliberately steal anything except someone else’s affection. He’s just like his father about that.” Victoria said as she came into the barn, wearing a much-mended housedress and an apron embroidered with small green and purple lilacs. She’d undoubtedly been listening to Jack Senior’s end of the conversation with my mother. We’d lived under the same roof for over thirty years and she could figure out where things were going.