Reed Ferguson 1-3

by Renee Pawlish

  “What time is it?” I mumbled to my mother.

  “It’s six o’clock. I called you yesterday at the office, and again last night at home. Deuce answered and said you were taking a nap. He’s such a nice boy. All of the Smith boys are nice, now that you mention it.” I hadn’t mentioned it, but didn’t bother to say so. “Deuce said he would leave you a note. I think it’s terribly rude of you to not call me back, Reed. I didn’t raise you to act that way…”

  “What time is it?” I asked again. I swung my legs over the side of the bed and sat up, immediately aware of dull pain throughout my body.

  “I told you, it’s six o’clock, dear.”

  That meant it was four o’clock in Colorado. “What day?”

  “What?” She huffed into the phone. “Why, it’s Sunday. Reed, what is going on?”

  I stared at my toes. I’d been asleep, or out of it, for more than a day. And I still felt groggy.

  “Reed?” my mother chirped. “Paul, find out what’s wrong.”

  “Wait, Mom…” I said into the receiver, but was too late. My father’s gruff voice came on.

  “Son, look what you’ve done. Your mother’s in a panic now, and you know I’ll never hear the end of it.”

  “I’m fine, Dad,” I said, and proceeded to explain that I’d encountered some minor trouble with the case I was working on. I left out my meeting with a man in a ski mask and the trip to the hospital.

  “Don’t know why you can’t get a decent job,” he said. I pictured him in his khaki shorts and polo shirt, sitting on the deck of their ritzy south Florida condo, overlooking the ocean, with his neatly trimmed salt-and-pepper hair gelled into place, and his gold jewelry and Rolex watch glinting in the late afternoon sun. The model of respectability and wealth. And here I was, tarnishing the family name and money in my quest for independence.

  I sighed heavily and gingerly put a hand to my side. Little breaths, I told myself.

  “I like what I’m doing,” I said. “It beats going to work in a suit and tie every day.”

  “I know, son. As long as you’re happy,” he said halfheartedly. I’d been doing the detective gig for over a year, and I knew my father secretly hoped that it was a passing fancy, like many of the other jobs I’d had since college. But since my grandparents left me some money, I could be choosy about what I did and how much money I needed to make.

  We did the small-talk routine for a couple of minutes. “Tell Mom I’m okay, and I’ll call her in a few days,” I said when I could tell that he’d covered all his bases.

  I hung up the phone and cautiously stood up. Once the stars subsided, I plodded to the bathroom where I surveyed myself in the mirror. My left eye was purple with a tinge of yellow around the edges, and the other bruises on my face looked like smudges of charcoal. My hair stuck out in all directions, and the stitches looked like a black ladder running along my head. The band-aid on my chin appeared the least threatening.

  I shuffled into the kitchen and made a PB&J, poured a cold glass of milk and took them to the living room. I ate slowly while I checked my phone messages. Three were from the Goofball Brothers, checking in and wondering how I could sleep so soundly. One from Cal, asking me to call him, no reason. One from Bob, inquiring if I was okay, and that he was available if I needed anything. A message from Jack was next, asking about progress in the case. Then Willie, wondering how I was doing, and that she was sorry she’d gotten upset with me the other night, but that she hoped I would understand her feelings. And finally Henri Benoit, asking me if I’d gotten the notes he had left at the office.

  What notes? I had to think back until I remembered that I had talked to Henri the other night. I was at B 52’s and he said he would leave notes about The Maltese Falcon poster under the door. I looked around the room but didn’t see anything. I wondered if I had left them at the office.

  I put the phone down and finished my sandwich. I’d lost a day on an investigation that was going nowhere, I’d scared Willie off, and I’d gotten my ass kicked. I finished off the glass of milk and leaned back, dozing.

  Who was I threatening? That question popped into my brain as I awoke with a start. The empty milk glass lay on the carpet, where I had dropped it.

  I set the glass on the coffee table and picked up a pen and paper to jot down some of my thoughts when I spied the note.

  “Dude,” it read. “We watched the house like you asked. Deuce saw a man go in with a black bag yesterday around lunchtime. I didn’t see anyone last night, but maybe there was a light on in the back window. I got scared and left. Sorry. Bob says to call us when you get up.” Deuce’s scrawled signature was at the bottom of the page. Underneath that: “P. S. – We got your car yesterday and took it to the shop. It should be ready in a day or two.” For a Goofball Brother, this was practically a novel.

  I sat back and shut my eyes. On top of everything else, the 4-Runner had been vandalized. I’d forgotten that piece, but I must’ve told the Brothers about it. They were doing a good job of watching over me. I owed them plenty.

  I read through the note again. There was a lot of activity at the house on Madison Avenue. I wondered if the owners were doing some remodeling before it sold. But didn’t Edna Mills tell me that she just wanted to be rid of the place? Maybe she had to repair a few things in order for that to happen.

  My files for the house on 210 Madison were at the office, but I got lucky and found Edna’s number online. The clock on the wall said it was 5:30. I hoped that Edna was enjoying a Sunday evening at home.

  She picked up on the third ring.

  “Oh, the man interested in the architecture of the house,” she said after I identified myself.

  We exchanged a few pleasantries, and then I asked her about repairs to the house.

  “We’re taking care of some stuff,” she answered. “Even though our price was so low, there were a few things this couple asked to be changed, and they weren’t all the big items like that young man wanted. My husband said we should turn them down and wait for the next buyer and we wouldn’t have to hassle with contractors and whatnot, but the buyers are such a nice couple, you see. I couldn’t bring myself to do that to them. And I didn’t want to go through finding another buyer, after all. We do want to finish all this and move on.”

  I thanked her for her time and hung up. That explained the activity at the house. And it meant I was barking up the wrong tree. But I was closing in on someone, or I wouldn’t have been assaulted.

  I grabbed the phone again and hit autodial. Ace picked up on the third ring.

  “Reed, how’s it going?”

  “Better,” I said, even though I didn’t really believe it.

  “Did you get our note? Bob said not to worry about your car. He’ll make sure it gets fixed, and let you know when it’s ready.”

  “Thanks. I appreciate his help. And you guys, too.”

  “No problem. Hey, you want to have dinner with us?”

  “I just ate, but thanks.”

  “You still want someone watching that house?”

  “No. You guys did a great job, but I don’t need you there anymore.”

  “Okay.” Ace sounded relieved. “That place is spooky.”

  “It’s probably just someone doing repairs. Thanks for your help.”

  “Deuce wants to know when he can carry a gun.”

  “Tell him when he gets his detective license, we’ll talk.” You didn’t need a license to be a detective in Colorado, but I knew Deuce would never discover this. He’d worry that he would have to take a test to get a license, and that would be enough to deter him.

  Ace hollered my answer to Deuce as I hung up.

  Next, I called Willie but she wasn’t home or wasn’t answering the phone. I left a message, thanking her for her kind treatment at the hospital – leaving out any snide remarks about walking out on me – and I let her know that I was home and recuperating okay. I said if she wanted, she could come over for a while.

  I got up and lo
oked around the house but didn’t find any notes from Henri. His notes were either at the office, or I must have dropped them during the attack. I couldn’t remember anything right before or after I was assaulted. The emergency room doctor had informed me that this was a common occurrence after sustaining a concussion, but it didn’t help the frustration I felt of not knowing what happened.

  I didn’t have any energy left so I eased back onto the couch and watched part of The Killers, an apt choice given my investigation. The 1946 movie was based on a short story by Ernest Hemingway. It had plenty of deception, dark characters, and a femme fatale, but even with all that I fell asleep halfway through. At midnight I awoke just long enough to realize that Willie never called. In a semi-stupor, I turned off the television and sprawled into bed.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  “Try the burritos,” I said. “They’re to die for.”

  Cal took my suggestion and ordered one, along with a Sprite.

  It was noon on Monday, and Cal and I were having lunch at Josephina’s, a hip hole-in-the-wall Mexican restaurant a few blocks from my condo.

  The waitress, an attractive brunette with piercing brown eyes, threw me a funny look when she saw my black eye. In the three days since the attack, the flesh around my left eye had morphed into a lovely shade of deep purple, and the other bruises that showed resembled an old banana. She barely made eye contact as she took my order, but smiled seductively at Cal as she jotted down his order. She followed the smile with a wink before sauntering away.

  “She’s flirting with you,” I said.

  “Huh?” Cal swiveled in his seat, eyeing the waitress as she disappeared into the kitchen. “You think so?” He turned back around and shrugged at me.

  I rolled my eyes at him. Clueless. “I want everything you can get on Samantha Healy,” I said, changing the subject. “I called Jack Healy earlier to give him a status report, and I found out her maiden name is Simpson.”

  Cal, the man who rarely leaves his house, had made an exception for his wounded friend. Since my 4-Runner wouldn’t be fixed until late in the day, and because I was still feeling stiff and sore, Cal had offered to take me to lunch, then over to Henri’s shop to get a new set of notes about The Maltese Falcon poster.

  Earlier that morning, I returned several phone calls. Jack had been surprised and concerned that I’d been assaulted. The maintenance crew of my office building hadn’t known about the door lock mechanism being jammed until yesterday. They had fixed it, explaining that a nail had been shoved into the slot, disabling the lock and the door. No one had turned in any paperwork from Henri Benoit. Then I had called Henri. After explaining what had happened and enduring a torrent of sympathies in French, we’d arranged to meet at his office after lunch.

  “Samantha’s the ex-wife?” Cal asked.

  “Right. And the logical person to kill Ned.”

  The waitress returned with our drinks. She took extra care to eye Cal again. He remained unbelievably clueless. I took a big gulp of soda.

  “Why didn’t the police suspect Samantha?” Cal asked.

  “There was no reason to,” I said. “I called the insurance company earlier today, and they said that the policy should have been taken care of, but because Ned moved, they had some clerical errors, and it wasn’t until recently that they even knew he had died. At that point they had to fulfill the policy.”

  “Who informed the insurance company that he died?”

  “An anonymous phone call. From a woman.”

  Cal cocked one eyebrow. “An anonymous woman? That’s what the insurance people said?”

  “Scout’s honor.” I held up three fingers in the Boy Scout salute. “If Samantha knew about the policy, she could’ve called and got the ball rolling.”

  “But why wait to kill him? It could’ve given Ned time to change the name on the policy, or cancel it.”

  “I don’t know. Maybe she just found out that her name was still on the policy, so that’s when she acted.”

  “Here you go, sport,” the waitress said as she set Cal’s plate down. Being called ‘sport’ would’ve turned me off, but it didn’t do a thing for Cal. A hint of disappointment crossed her face as she laid my plate down. I smiled as she flounced off.

  I devoured my burrito. It was the best meal I’d had in days, given that I’d been laid up since Friday. Now if my ribs would quit hurting and I could get rid of the headache, I’d be fine.

  “How would Samantha find out that her name was still on the policy?” Cal asked.

  “I don’t know,” I said as I loaded up a tortilla chip with salsa. “Maybe Ned said something. Samantha said she talked to Ned before he died, and that he told her things would be different. Maybe he mentioned the policy then. Or she could’ve checked on her own by calling the insurance company.”

  “Why would Ned tell her that? If he did.”

  “If I knew that, I wouldn’t be asking you for help.” Cal shrugged off my jab at him. “There’s something about Samantha that I can’t place,” I said, sliding back on the vinyl seat. “Something doesn’t fit.”

  Cal finished his lunch and pushed his plate away. “And I won’t ask what, because then you wouldn’t need me.”

  “Very funny,” I smirked.

  “Who mugged you the other night?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t remember much right before or after I got hit. But Samantha could’ve set me up. She could’ve been following me, and planned the whole thing.”

  “What about her alibi for the night Ned was killed?”

  “I haven’t had a chance to check anything out, but I’ll see what I can find out after we see Henri.”

  “Speaking of Henri…” Cal looked at his watch. “We should get going.”

  I dropped some bills on the table as we left. Our waitress was nowhere in sight, saving Cal from one last flirtatious run-in with her. Not that he was aware of any of it.

  *****

  The drizzly rain of yesterday had swept further east, and the sun was beating down on the city again. As we drove down Broadway I was thankful for the bright rays, as it gave me an excuse to wear dark sunglasses without looking funny. I would be exceedingly glad when my black eye went away, along with the stares. Cal parked on a side street and we walked down a block to Classic Hollywood Memorabilia.

  As we stepped inside, a bell over the door chimed. Henri Benoit limped over to greet us.

  “Ah, Reed, let me get a look at you,” he said, pursing his lips and nodding his head in sympathy. “This is just terrible, eh? Why would someone do this to you?”

  I was tempted to show Henri my side, where I’d been kicked in the ribs. The bruise there was the size of a football with similar coloration. I had another nice bruise along my back, too, but I didn’t think Henri would want to see that one either.

  “And look at your head.” Henri situated his bifocals on the tip of his nose and peered up at my scalp, where the hair around the black stitches had grown to the length of peach fuzz. I wanted to wear a hat, but when I attempted to put one on, the brim of the cap rested right over the stitches, irritating them, so I chose to go bareheaded and endure the stares. I planned on a trip to the barber soon, to even out the hair above both ears, but in the meantime I could only hope the wound made me look tough, because I wasn’t getting any other payoff from my injuries.

  “He’s a charmer,” Cal said with a lopsided grin.

  I introduced Cal to Henri as we followed Henri to the back of the shop.

  “I have the notes I gave you saved on the computer,” Henri said, limping around the counter. He perched on the edge of a stool and manipulated the mouse, and in seconds, a printer next to the monitor spat out some paper.

  “Here you go,” Henri handed them to me.

  “What’s the big deal with this stuff?” Cal asked. His eyes roved around the store, scanning all the items for sale.

  “You are not a collector, eh?”

  Cal shook his head.

  “Ah, that is too
bad.” Henri moved around the counter to a display case containing small props from a variety of movies. “There is much history in all this stuff.” He pointed to a tiny set of white gloves on a shelf. “You see these? Vivian Leigh wore those gloves during the shooting of Gone with the Wind. And this pair of boots,” he tapped on the glass. “They belonged to John Wayne.”

  Cal leaned down and studied the memorabilia. “Okay.”

  “Okay.” Henri threw up his hands at me. “What is this, ‘okay’?” Henri turned to me. “Your friend does not have a passion for art, eh? No sense of history?”

  Cal reddened. “I know history, just not about Hollywood.”

  Henri patted Cal on the arm. “It is okay, as you say. We all place our passions in different areas, eh?”

  Cal eyed the price tag on an autographed picture of Frank Sinatra. “So people really pay big money for this stuff?”

  Henri waggled his head enthusiastically. “Of course. Many collectors spend millions on their collections.”

  “Millions?” Cal asked. “What could sell for that much?”

  “Not all things are that expensive, but take Reed’s poster for instance. If it is real, it could be worth twelve to fifteen thousand dollars.”

  “For a piece of paper?”