Reed Ferguson 1-3

by Renee Pawlish

  “Damn it!” I tossed the phone down and threw on a pair of jeans and a shirt.

  I didn’t bother with breakfast, but flew out the door, down the stairs and to the garage. In fifteen minutes, I was sprinting into the ICU, where Evaline was perched by Henri’s bed, a Bible in her hands. She was quietly reading from the Psalms.

  “It keeps him calm,” she said, looking up from the book. “It keeps me calm, too.”

  I pulled up a chair beside her and surveyed Henri. He didn’t seem as pale, but he’d taken on a grizzled look with his stubbly jaw and matted hair. He did seem peaceful however, with his chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm.

  “Evaline, I need to get into the store,” I said. “Henri has something there that I need. I think he was going to give it to me the other day, but by the time I showed up at the shop, he’d already been attacked.”

  Evaline closed the Bible and swiveled in the chair so she was facing me directly. “But I cannot leave my Henri. What if he wakes up? He will need me.”

  I reached out and grasped her hand. “I know. That’s very important, and I wouldn’t be asking if this weren’t important as well. It won’t take very long.”

  She searched my eyes. “Okay. If it means that much to you, we will go to the shop.”

  “Thank you,” I murmured.

  Evaline gathered up a purse the size of a grocery sack, laid the Bible on a small nightstand by the bed, and followed me to my car. I drove us from St. Anthony’s to the shop and parked around back by the alley entrance.

  “I set the alarm,” I said. "Do you know the code?"

  “I think so,” Evaline nodded as we walked to the back door.

  I hoped she did know the code because I didn't want to see any police at the store again.

  “Let me find the right key,” Evaline paused by the back door. She dug around in her purse. I thought she’d be able to find Texas in that bag by the time she extracted a set of keys. She fanned them out, and finally selected one.

  “Here it is,” she said as she inserted it into the lock.

  The door opened with a squeak and we stepped through a tiny hallway and into the back workroom area. The room was hot and stuffy, and I immediately began to sweat. Loud beeps pierced the silence. Evaline rushed to the alarm, pressed a few buttons, and the beeping stopped.

  “Oh, my Henri loves this place,” she mused, her eyes brimming with tears.

  I hadn’t been aware of the toll this was taking on her. Her eyes seemed more concave, and weary lines etched the soft skin on her face.

  “Everything will be fine.” I put my arm around her shoulder, trying to comfort her.

  After a small moment of tears, Evaline pulled a handkerchief from her purse – she found this right away – dabbed her eyes, and pushed me into the store.

  “I’m fine. Go. Find what you need.”

  I rushed to the counter and found Henri’s notes. I perused them quickly and found exactly what I thought I would find: Information about the Oscar statuette, its weight, the reel of film with 8 slots, and details about an award for Luise Rainer. Best Supporting Actress, 1937. The very same description for the same Oscar had been in Ned's scribbled notes.

  “Bingo,” I said, grabbing the notes.

  “Just that?” Evaline came around behind me. “Take them.”

  “Are you sure?”

  She nodded her head vigorously. “It will be fine. You can return it when Henri is better.”

  “Thank you.” I leaned down and planted a kiss on her cheek. She blushed as shyly as a teenager.

  “Let’s lock up,” she said. “I must get back to my Henri.”

  *****

  I drove Evaline back to the hospital and sat with her for a while, but my mind was on the folder that sat on the back seat of the 4-Runner. I was sure I was onto something, but a piece or two were missing.

  When it seemed like a polite amount of time had passed, I thanked Evaline for her time, and left.

  I nearly ran to the car, jumped in, and defied all traffic laws for speeding as I raced home. I parked on the street and ran up the front porch steps just as Deuce came out of his condo.

  “Hey, where’s the fire?” he asked. He had on slacks and a nice shirt, a sure sign that he was on his way to work.

  “What?” I asked him.

  “That’s what Bob says whenever I’m in a hurry.”

  “Oh, yeah.” I chuckled. “I finally got a break on the case. That’s what I’m going to check on.”

  “Cool.” Deuce pulled the hood of his coat over his head. “It’s gray out here.”

  I was headed up the stairs, but I stopped with one foot in midair.

  “What?”

  “It’s gray.” Deuce pointed at the sky, which had turned overcast in the last hour. “It might rain.”

  “Yeah, it might.”

  I waved goodbye and continued up the stairs to my place.

  I let myself in, grabbed a soda from the refrigerator, and plopped down at the kitchen table. I spread out Henri’s notes and read through them carefully. When I was finished, one more brick in the proverbial wall of this case was in place.

  Elbows on the table, I stared out the small, square kitchen window that overlooked the backyard. If what I was thinking was true, another question remained. How had Ned gotten the poster?

  It all seemed too crazy to be believed.

  Menacing clouds formed in the sky. They rolled around, as if they were mulling over the decision whether to rain or not. A bolt of lightning flashed in the distance. The wind was picking up and the branches on the big oak trees in the yard were swaying.

  Deuce was right. It was definitely gray out.

  I sat up.

  Some tidbit of a clue hovered around in my brain, just out of grasp of my conscious retrieval. It was right there, so close I could almost touch it. What had I missed?

  I went to the living room and again looked at the notepad that I’d taken from Ned’s house. I flipped through his notes until I found it.

  A list of colors. Including “gray”, with a circle around it.

  I grabbed Ned’s real estate files and my notes. The connection hit me like a bullet. I rushed into the other room, searched the Internet for a number, picked up the phone and dialed.

  “Edna? It’s...” I paused. “Philip Marlowe,” I said, hoping that was the same name I’d used when I’d met her in Conifer. When she didn’t react, I said, “I met you at your place and we talked about your father’s house.”

  “Oh, yes. You’re the young man who was interested in architecture. How are you?”

  “I’m fine, thanks. I was doing some research about the neighborhood around 210 Madison, and I have a question for you.”

  “Yes?”

  “What was your father’s name?”

  “Gray. Robert Gray. But he went by Frank.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  210 Madison Avenue looked the same as it did the last time I saw it. Quiet and unoccupied. The red brick burned adobe red beneath the hot sun, and even with the rain, the yard was succumbing to the heat, showing more brown patches. The For Sale sign had a “Sold” placard pasted across it.

  I stood across the street, watching the house, waiting for any signs of life, such as realtors or inspectors. No cars were parked in front, but I knew from experience that someone could still be inside. I stared at the notes I held, specifically the ones with Cal’s research about the house. The last owner was R. F. Gray, Edna Mills’ father, who was also, apparently, known as Frank Gray. Who was Henri’s client.

  Before coming over, I had researched R. F. Gray on the Internet. I wanted to know more about this collector that Henri knew. Gray was a well-known name in the Hollywood memorabilia community because of his extensive collection of pre-World War II items. Known to have lived modestly, Gray spent most of his resources on his family and his collection. He had amassed numerous rare posters and props from the movies, and had hundreds of signed pieces – pictures, stills, l
etters, postcards, and other things. After the death of his wife in 1994, Gray quit purchasing any more collectibles, and a year later sold off what he had. His collected works garnered millions at a New York auction. He died peacefully in his sleep, right here in Denver.

  “What’re you doing there?”

  I whirled around to see the old, gardening neighbor shamble around from the side of his house. He wheeled a cart piled with tools, peat moss, and a case of flowers in front of him.

  “I’m interested in that house,” I said, gesturing at 210 Madison Avenue.

  He pushed the cart up to a beautiful rose bush and unloaded the bag of dirt as if it were feathers, showing strength that seemed impossible for a man of his fragile appearance. His face was wrinkled with a texture like old parchment. I would’ve sworn he was born at the beginning of the century – the last century.

  “It’s sold,” he said, matter-of-factly, tipping a tattered straw hat at me.

  “I know, but I like it.” I shaded my eyes against the glare of the sun.

  “Huh,” he said, his lips protruding out. His faded denim overalls were at least three sizes too big, and his scrawny arms protruded from a threadbare cotton shirt he wore with the sleeves rolled up to the elbows. “It’s just a house.”

  “Did you know the owner?”

  “Frank?” The gums worked, moving his jaws forward and back. “Sure. What a character he was. We used to go fishing together, back in the day. Never did cotton to the movies like he did. Waste of time, if you ask me. I don’t even have a television.”

  “Did you ever see Frank’s memorabilia collection?”

  “Had the stuff all over the house. But he sold it all.”

  “I see,” I said.

  The old man picked up a hand shovel, knelt down, and dug into the peat moss, throwing some of it around the base of the rose bush.

  “Thanks for your time,” I said, starting back to my car parked around the corner.

  “That place is haunted,” he said, catching me by surprise. It came out “hanted”, like he was from the South. I hadn’t detected an accent before, but the longer he talked, the more I distinguished one.

  “You don’t say,” I murmured back at him.

  “Ay.” He dropped the shovel down and grabbed a pair of pruning shears, and set to work on the bushes. After a moment, when he was sure he had an audience, he scrutinized me with beady eyes. “Yep. Been all kinds of noises there.” I took a couple of steps down the front walk. “Mostly at night,” he continued with a knowing nod of his head.

  “What ghost ever traipsed around in the daytime?” I thought, but only smiled at him.

  “And lights,” he said. “Lights going on and off.”

  Great, now we were heading into the UFO arena.

  “You best watch for the screams, son.”

  Now that stopped me. Don’t get me wrong, I like a good scary movie, but this was going a little far.

  “Screams?”

  “One night, I heard ’em.” The wrinkles on his face moved as he spoke. “I let Penelope out to do her business.” I hoped Penelope was a four-legged critter. “I waited for her on the porch, watching the stars while she ran about the yard. And I heard it.” It came out as “heared”.

  “A scream?”

  He nodded.

  “Just one?”

  “No, wasn’t just one. More like two or three. Last one sounded funny. Like the person started to scream, but then it seemed like it got cut in half.”

  Now he was really giving me the creeps.

  “This happened just once?”

  “Screaming only happened once.” He stopped pruning, set the sheers down, and pulled a blue handkerchief from his pocket, wiping the sweat off his face as he talked. “The lights I’ve seen a lot.”

  I pondered what he was telling me. “You wouldn’t happen to remember when this was?”

  “Why dontcha just ask me, son? ‘Course I remember. Been happening for a month now. Couple of times a week.”

  He bobbed his head up and down thoughtfully.

  “Couple of times a week,” I repeated, nodding in the same slow manner as the old man. He was rubbing off on me.

  “Ay. You best think twice about buying that house.”

  “It’s sold,” I said.

  “That it is,” he mused. “That it is.”

  *****

  The moon hung behind clouds and any illumination from streetlights was too far away to make a dent in the dark alley behind Frank Gray’s former residence. The closed garages, trash cans, dumpsters, trees and bushes melded into the framework of the darkness, and the alley seemed alive with spooks.

  “Why exactly do you need me?” Cal asked as we got out of Cal's car.

  “I can’t do it myself.”

  “I could’ve shown you.”

  “What else do you have to do on a Friday night?”

  Cal rolled his eyes at me.

  “Come on.” I eased down the alley, with Cal right behind me, so close his black boots nearly clipped my heels with every footfall.

  “Are you going to complain all night?” I retorted in a whisper.

  “Maybe.”

  We walked in silence for a few moments. Our shoes made a crunching noise on the rocky pavement. A car drove by one block over, but since it was almost midnight, we heard little else but the sound of our breathing and our clothes rustling like leaves in a breeze.

  “This is crazy,” Cal whispered.

  “Maybe,” I murmured over my shoulder.

  “I’m hotter than hell.”

  He wore black jeans, a long sleeve black T-shirt, and a dark wool hat, what he called the “Navy Seal” look, inspired by an outfit I’d worn on a previous case.

  “Why’d you dress for winter?” I had on black khaki pants and a black short sleeve shirt. Much more comfortable. I was sweating, but I doubt as much as Cal.

  “I wanted to blend in.”

  That would make a good excuse for the Neighborhood Watch committee. But really, I always wear wool in July.

  We passed a high wooden fence.

  “ARF. ARF. ARF.” The deep, heavy barking of a big dog split the stillness, accompanied by snarls, low and menacing.

  Cal and I emitted curses at the same time. All thoughts of stealth left us, and simultaneously, our legs propelled us quickly down the alley until we halted directly behind 210 Madison Avenue. I peeked through the slits in the wooden fence to make sure I’d found the right house.

  “Oh, I’m going to die,” Cal wheezed, holding a hand over his heart. “Please God, just take me now.”

  “Shut up,” I gasped, crouching down. “It was just a dog.”

  “Man, the police are going to come for sure. What will I tell my mother?”

  I reached out and grabbed Cal’s sleeve and yanked for all I was worth. He stumbled and fell to his knees half on top of me.

  “Will you be quiet?” I hissed into his ear. “We haven’t broken any laws, you idiot.”

  With a querulous jerk of his arm, Cal extracted himself from me, and sat back on his haunches. But he was mute.

  Down the alley, the dog continued to bark.

  I eased partway to my feet and peered in the direction we’d come. I couldn’t see anything in the gloom.

  After five minutes of waiting and watching, the dog finally stopped his barking. I peered into the darkness. The only thing I could see, other than shadows, was Cal frowning at me.

  “Are you all right?” I asked in a low voice.

  “Do I look all right?”

  He crossed his arms over his chest, giving me his best “I’m disgusted” glare.

  “You look okay. Like a dog just scared the crap out of you, but okay.”

  The line of his lips quivered, and then Cal broke into a smile.

  “Why do I let you talk me into this stuff?” he asked softly.

  “Admit it, you love it.”

  I glanced up and down the alley once more before grabbing the handle on the gate. I
pulled it back and the gate swung open with a low creak of the hinges. I darted into the backyard with Cal so close I could smell the pepperoni pizza he’d had for dinner.

  We waited a second, and didn’t hear anything.

  “Let’s go.”

  We made a mad dash through the grass to the back porch of the house. Once there, we checked for signs of life, but the yard and surrounding houses were as still as tombstones.

  “You’re on,” I said, holding the back screen door open.

  Cal stepped around me and stooped down to examine the lock on the back door.

  “This doesn’t look hard.”

  He pulled a tiny set of tools from the pocket of his jeans, extracted a couple of thin pieces of metal, and inserted them into the lock mechanism.

  “One of these days I need to teach you how to do this,” Cal muttered.

  “Fine, but not tonight.”

  “I must be crazy to be doing this.”

  Cal fiddled with the tools for less than thirty seconds. I kept my eyes peeled on the backyard, but nothing moved.

  “There,” he grunted. The back door opened. I braced myself for the screeching of an alarm, but nothing happened.

  We both stood in the doorway, unsure of our next move.

  “Okay, Sherlock,” Cal finally whispered. “Lead the way.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Cal stepped aside. I flipped on a tiny flashlight and tiptoed into the small kitchen. Cal followed, pulling the door shut behind him.

  “Lock it,” I said, speaking in a low voice. “No use having someone surprise us.”

  “Good idea.” Cal turned the lock on the knob.

  “Now.” He mimicked my hushed tone. “What exactly are we looking for?”

  I flashed the light around the kitchen. The room was large, with a long laminate counter against the back wall and a shallow stainless steel sink. Over the sink a small window overlooked the backyard. The cupboards were the flat, pine style of the late ’50’s, with brass handles, and the wallpaper reminded me of something out of the ’70’s. The beam of light picked up faded spots on the walls where pictures once hung.