Dead Folks' blues d-1

by Steven Womack

“On a Sunday night?”

  “Yeah,” I said, lying as convincingly as I knew how. “It’s another client of mine. Sometimes he calls me up with some strange requests. I can’t really talk about it, and it’s not a big deal or anything. I’ll just need to reschedule with you.”

  “Okay, you want to give me a call tomorrow?”

  “Yeah, that’ll work. Okay with you?”

  “Sure. Harry, are you sure there’s nothing wrong?”

  My heart thumped in my chest. I swallowed a gulp of air, then let it out evenly as I spoke. “Yeah, everything’s fine, Rach. I’ll miss seeing you tonight. I’ll make it up to you, though.”

  “All right, Harry,” she said, hesitating like she wasn’t sure whether to believe me. If I were her, I wouldn’t. “Call me tomorrow, okay?”

  “Yeah, I will. Listen, you take care now.”

  “I will. You, too.”

  “Bye, now.”

  Yeah, I thought, take care. I wish she’d done that before, back before she got herself into something that was bigger than all of us.

  I didn’t have much appetite, but I figured a trip to the store would at least get me away from the shrinking walls of my apartment. I picked up some salad makings, a six-pack of beer, a few other munchies, then returned to my apartment in a fog that was at least as thick as what was on my windshield earlier.

  I turned on the television, looking for something totally mindless. Television being television, I found it with no trouble at all. But while my eyes watched “America’s Funniest Heart Attack Videos,” or some such crap, my mind was subliminally running around in circles.

  I still wasn’t sure, still couldn’t believe it. Could, in fact, still create a half-dozen ways in which she didn’t do it. Husbands die with lots of insurance every day; doesn’t mean the wife did it. Rachel was a nurse; that didn’t mean she was the one who shot Conrad full of protocurarine. She wasn’t the only person in the world who knew how to read a PDR, or how to fill a syringe.

  I bounced around from one extreme to the other, one moment my heart racing because she was innocent, the next sinking because she was guilty. I ate my salad without tasting it, drank a couple of beers, picked up books to read and couldn’t stay focused, looked for a decent old movie on television, found only trash. Mind pudding.

  Ten o’clock rolled around. I locked up, turned off the lights, stripped down to my shorts, and crawled in bed with another beer. Three beers on a Sunday night; Christ, this whole business was driving me to drink. The news came on. More disasters. Muggings, rapes, armed robberies-the whole litany of savage horrors in an allegedly civilized worid. I was beginning to think I needed to buy a gun, especially in my line of work. Maybe get one of those electronic zappers. I wondered if that was what she hit me over the head with the night of Conrad’s-

  Wait, I thought, shooting up in bed like a bird dog on point. That’s it. My head. I held the answers right beneath the butterfly strips on my head, only I’d been too stupid to see it. But maybe not. I had to be sure. If I were right, that cinched it. But if I were wrong …

  There was only one way to find out. And that wasn’t going to be pleasant. I flicked on the nightstand light, grabbed the white pages, flipped through to the Ss. I ran my finger down the column, hoping like the devil he wouldn’t have an unlisted number. I could see where he’d want to keep his number a secret. After all, cops probably get some pretty weird phone calls.

  “Spellman,” I said out loud, reading down the list. Then I came to it. He was listed as H, with no address. Just a number.

  “All right, Howard! Who loves ya’, baby?” I said, dialing the number. A few seconds later, a sleepy woman’s voice answered.

  “Mrs. Spellman?”

  “Yes?” She yawned as the end of the word rolled off her tongue.

  “May I speak to Lieutenant Spellman, please.”

  “He’s asleep right now. Is it important? Who is this?”

  “Ma’am, I hate to bother you. But this is important. This is Harry Denton. I’m a private investigator. He knows who I am.”

  Her voice changed from sleepy to irritated. “Can’t it wait until the morning?”

  It could wait until the morning, but I couldn’t. “Mrs. Spellman, it’s real important. And it’ll only take a minute. Please?”

  “Oh, all right.” There was a shuffle of blanket as she handed the phone over to Spellman.

  “Yeah?” his gruff voice answered.

  “Lieutenant Spellman, this is Harry Denton.”

  A long sigh came over the phone. “Damn it, what do you want?”

  “I hate to bother you so late.”

  “Then how come you’re doing it?”

  “Just one quick question, then I’ll let you go back to sleep. The night of Fletcher’s murder, when you interviewed other people in the hospital, his friends, notified his family, all that good stuff, did you tell anybody I got hit in the head?”

  “Aw, damn it, Denton, you woke me up to ask me that?”

  “Yeah.”

  There was a long pause, and I could hear something that almost sounded like growling over the phone. “I been investigating murders nearly twenty years, Denton. I got better sense than that.”

  “So you didn’t tell anybody?”

  “The only people who knew you got hit in the head were the people who saw you in the hospital and treated you.”

  “And you didn’t tell anybody the next day?”

  “No, nobody. What’s this about, Denton? You holding out on me?”

  “Thanks, Lieutenant,” I said blankly. “I’ll let you go back to sleep now.”

  I hung up and sat there in bed, staring at the silent, flickering images on the television.

  Now I knew.

  29

  I didn’t have to wake up the next morning; you can’t wake up when you’ve never been asleep. I’ve had some long nights before, but this was the longest night I’d ever spent. Even when things were at their worst with Lanie, when we lay next to each other, silent and sleepless, it was nothing like this. There was a kind of unreality about it, as if I’d gotten myself cast in a remake of some film noir classic. Only this was very real, and the difference between what this felt like and reality was the same as the difference between a gunfight on television and a gunfight in your neighborhood.

  I washed down the last of a tasteless biscuit with cold coffee, then started toward the door. The kitchen clock read 7:35, too early for me to be up as a rule. But these were days without rules. I put my hand on the doorknob, then stopped. I couldn’t do this alone. I needed help. Rachel would need help. It’s time we all came clean with each other.

  I walked back into my bedroom and called Walter’s office.

  “I’m sorry,” the receptionist said. “He’s not in yet.” I was surprised anyone was in yet, but after all, the sharks feed early.

  “Can I leave him a message? It’s urgent. In fact, it’s an emergency.”

  “Go ahead. I’ll see he gets the message.” Her voice was concerned, serious.

  I gave her Rachel’s address. “Tell him to meet me there as soon as he can. It’s very important.”

  “Can I tell him what it’s about?”

  I couldn’t leave that in a message. “Just tell him to be there.”

  The drive over to Rachel’s left me brittle, like the time Lanie wanted me to meet her for lunch. I knew she was going to divorce me; I knew that was what she was going to tell me. But I went to lunch anyway. It was like that today.

  I turned onto Golf Club Lane and drove quickly to Rachel’s driveway. I imagined Walter’s BMW pulling out just as I pulled in; the thought made me laugh out loud.

  The Ford chugged up the driveway, squealed to a stop behind Conrad’s Jag. I wondered if she’d keep the Jaguar, now that she had all that money. I rang the bell a few times, with no response. But the cars were there. Odd, I thought.

  I walked around the side of the house, down the driveway a few feet, and stood in the sun. The stor
m front had long since moved through. It was a beautiful, sunlit day. The sky was deep blue; even the air temporarily clean.

  Rachel shot into view, running at a good solid clip from up the street to my left. She disappeared behind a line of hedges, then came back into sight running the street in front of the house. She moved quickly, with an ease and grace that gave me an ache in my chest. Rachel really was beautiful, on the outside anyway.

  She turned into the driveway and slowed as she saw me. Her arms dropped to her side, and she loped up next to me, glistening with sweat and breathing hard.

  “Harry,” she panted. “What-”

  “Hi, Rachel,” I said. “How’re you doing?”

  “Tired. Out of breath. Glad to see you, though. C’mon inside.”

  She walked past me, head down, shaking her arms and shoulders to stay loose. She pulled her keys out of her fanny pack, turned off the burglar alarm, and opened the kitchen door. Inside, the remnants of a breakfast eaten solo remained on the table.

  “Let me run upstairs and get a towel,” she said, pulling off the fanny pack and laying it on the table. “Be right back.”

  She left the kitchen and went down the hall. I heard her footsteps on the stairs. The fanny pack was lying there; I reached over, unzipped it, spread it open wide.

  Inside the dark pouch, I could see what looked like a black plastic box. I pulled it out. A button on the side, four metal contacts on the end. Just like Lonnie showed me.

  I shoved the stun gun back inside the pouch, zipped it shut. Damn, I thought.

  Footsteps padded down the stairs, then through the hall. She stepped into the kitchen, hair combed straight back, face rinsed, towel around her neck.

  “Good run?”

  “Yeah, almost an hour. Great way to start the day. You want coffee or something?”

  “Sure.” I stepped around the counter to get out of her way.

  “You look like you’ve been up all night, darling. Been on a stakeout?”

  “Something like that.” It hurt to have her call me darling.

  She opened a bag of gourmet coffee. I recognized the store’s gold sticker. They imported it special, mixed the blend themselves, ground it right in front of you. Real class.

  “Harry,” she said, pouring water into the coffee maker, “how come you’re here?”

  My heart made a big thump inside my chest. I shut my eyes, tried to get centered, get ready.

  “Rachel, we have to talk,” I said.

  She turned to me, fidgeted with a couple of coffee mugs, sugar, milk pitcher. “About what?”

  “I found out how Conrad was killed.” She stopped cold, her eyes meeting mine for a split second, then turning away again.

  “We know how Conrad was killed, don’t we?”

  “That’s not what I meant. I meant how he came to be killed.”

  “Really? Who killed my husband?” she asked. “If you know who killed him, you should tell me.” Her voice was soft, almost far away. But a deep red color rose in her cheeks.

  “The way I see it, whoever killed Conrad was paid to do it. A contract job. Paid by somebody who knew their way around the hospital, knew pharmaceuticals. Somebody with medical training. Somebody who could get into a hospital, steal what was needed, then make sure the hired killer did it right.”

  She laughed, a short, nervous snicker. “Well, that narrows it down. Only about a thousand suspects.”

  “It does, Rachel. It narrows it down a lot.”

  “So who was it?”

  “The only person I can find who not only had the knowledge and the opportunity, but the motive. Homicide 101, Rachel. I should have figured it out sooner. The first thing you ask is ‘Who benefits?’ ”

  She looked up from the counter. The color that rose so quickly in her face had drained away just as fast, leaving her skin a perfect, almost translucent alabaster.

  “There’s only one person who benefits,” I whispered. “You.”

  Nothing showed in her face, no reaction, no flicker of reflex or fear. Her eyes were steady, calm.

  “Harry, you’ve been watching too much television.”

  “It would have been easy for you to steal the protocurarine. It wasn’t a class narcotic, would have been accessible for somebody who fit in at the hospital.”

  “Harry,” she laughed, “I didn’t even work there.”

  “But you spent time there. Your husband worked there. You put him through med school. You’re a nurse. You knew how the system worked. There are hundreds of nurses in that facility every day. You put on the uniform, blend right in with them. You just went where you wanted. Who was going to stop you?”

  “You’re crazy,” she said quietly after a long moment.

  “I even know how he was put down without a mark on him. I know about the stun gun,” I said. I reached over, unzipped the pack, turned it upside down and poured all her belongings onto the kitchen table.

  Her eyes darkened. “No marks,” I continued. “No permanent damage. When he was lying on the bed helpless, the killer shot him full right through his pants leg.”

  “Harry, I-”

  “Did you imagine you heard his breathing after that?” I demanded. “Could you hear his death rattle inside you? I did, Rachel. I felt him die under me.”

  Her eyes reddened, filled with tears. “I don’t know why you’re doing this to me.”

  “Am I wrong, Rachel? If I am, show me how.”

  “You are wrong! Why would I want him killed? I loved him!” she yelled.

  “I know about the money, Rachel. I know how far in debt you were. I know how close to collapse you were.” I paused a moment, steadying myself against the back of a chair. “And I know about the insurance. You’re a wealthy woman, Rachel. If you get away with it.”

  She stared at me silently, her face a blank. We stood there like that for what seemed like a long time.

  “How much did it cost you, Rachel? Where’d you find the guy? I’m glad, for some reason, that you couldn’t do it yourself.”

  “I didn’t kill him, Harry. And I didn’t pay to have him killed.”

  “How long,” I asked, “have you been seeing Walter Quinlan?”

  For the first time, I saw real fear in her face. She seemed to sway on her feet, as if her knees were about to give way.

  “I don’t feel well,” she said. “I need to sit down.”

  I stood aside, pulled out a chair for her. She came around the counter, slumped in the chair with her arms on the table. I crossed around to the other side of the table and sat opposite her. The stun gun lay between us. She looked at it, then quickly at me.

  “Dogs, Harry. I run. I’ve been attacked by dogs.”

  “And you saw what it could do, didn’t you?”

  “You’re twisting things,” she cried. “These are horrible accusations!”

  “Does Walter know about this, about how you had Conrad killed?”

  “I didn’t kill him!”

  “Tell me, Rachel,” I said. It was time to play my last card. “The morning after Conrad was murdered, I came over to see you. Remember?”

  “Yes.”

  “You ran up to me in the kitchen, when Mrs. Goddard was here and the police were in the den. And the first thing you said was that you’d heard I got hit. You said that before you even saw the back of my head.”

  “Well, yes, I know, I-”

  “How did you know I got hit, Rachel?”

  “Well,” she stammered, “I-I, the police told me. The police told me when they questioned me.”

  “No, Rachel. The cops wouldn’t tell you anything like that. And they didn’t. I checked. The only way you could know I got hit on the back of the head was if you were there, or if somebody who was there told you about it.”

  She had this shocked look on her face, as if I’d grabbed the stun gun and jammed it into her. She stared through me, about a mile off, her mouth cracked barely open.

  “Jesus,” she whispered.

  “Rachel,�
� I said, my arms on the table toward her. I reached over, took one of her hands in mine. “I want to help you. We can help you. This doesn’t have to be the end of everything.”

  “You don’t know what you’re saying,” she said, her voice faint. “I asked you to let it go. Why didn’t you let it go, Harry?”

  “Rachel, I called Walter. He’s a good lawyer, the best. He’ll help you. I’ll help you. We both care about you.”

  Her eyes shot open. She jerked her hand away from me. “You did what?”

  “He’s on his way here, Rachel. He’ll want to help you.”

  She jumped up from the chair. “You fool,” she screamed. “You idiot!”

  I stood up, confused. “What the hell are you talking about? I only want to help you.”

  She stepped quickly up to me, got right in my face, yelling so loud spit flew. “Oh, you’ve helped all right! You damned fool, you’ve ruined everything!”

  “Rachel,” I said, as soothingly as I could, “please …”

  Her eyes welled up; tears began to run down her cheeks. “Why couldn’t you just leave it alone,” she sobbed. “Why didn’t you do what I asked?”

  She hid her face in the palms of her hands. Her shoulders heaved. Something in me melted; I couldn’t help it. I took two steps and wrapped my arms around her, pulling her tightly to me. Her breath came in ragged gulps, her body shaking as if she were freezing to death.

  The kitchen door opened, and Walter Quinlan stepped in. He was wearing a starched white shirt, gray suit, and carried an expensive leather briefcase. His hair was swept back neatly. He was lawyer to the core of his soul. Good thing, too. Rachel would need the best.

  “Walter,” I said. “Hey, man, thanks for coming.”

  Rachel stiffened; the shaking stopped, every muscle in her slim body seemed to lock up. She pushed away from me, turned toward him and stared.

  “Well, well, well,” Walter said. “Harry and Rachel. How nice to see you guys again. Hope I didn’t interrupt anything.”

  “Walt, this isn’t some kind of relationship confrontation,” I said. “We’ve got some serious problems here.”

  He smiled, but it was more of a contemptuous sneer than anything funny. “Oh, yeah, I’d say we got problems all right. Enormous problems.”