The Shadow of Seth

by Tom Llewellyn

  He returned ten minutes later, looking even more tired than when he’d gone in. “I suppose you think this is related to your mom somehow.”

  “I do. The guy who did this is the same guy who almost killed Azura, ChooChoo, and me. I saw him ride away from here right before I called.”

  “And that would be King George?”

  “How’d you know that?”

  “Your friend ChooChoo gave us his name in the hospital. Unlike you. Real name is George Carson. Bad news. Used to drive around a big Lincoln SUV. Now he rides around on a kid’s bike. How you know him?”

  “Known him half my life. Used to go to school together. Least when he wasn’t in jail. He hangs out at Shotgun Shack and terrorizes customers.”

  “Why’d he try to kill you?”

  “Because I was snooping around about Mom’s murder.”

  “If you knew he was the one who nearly killed you, why didn’t you tell me when I asked earlier?”

  I shrugged.

  “And now another innocent man’s dead.”

  “Maybe not innocent.”

  “Meaning?”

  “I think maybe Nadel killed my mom.”

  “What makes you think that?”

  “A couple of things. First of all, I saw Nadel and King George eating together at Shotgun Shack after mom died.”

  “So?”

  “Nadel eats vegetarian. Even the cornbread at Shotgun Shack has pig fat in it. And the only people who ever sit with King George are other thugs and girls who are stupid enough to think George might give them a little of his money.”

  “You think Nadel killed your mom, then went to one of your favorite hangouts to hire some protection? Is he really that stupid?”

  “Shotgun Shack is like King George’s office. If you want George, that’s where you have to go. And maybe Nadel didn’t know I hung out there.”

  “You’re saying he didn’t know?”

  “I’m saying I doubt he would. Nadel wasn’t interested in much other than clocks and money.”

  “What’d Nadel and George talk about?”

  “How should I know? But I bet it had something to do with my mom.”

  “I knew you’d say that.”

  “Azura and I went to pick up a clock at Nadel’s. He seemed really nervous when he saw me. And after he thought Azura and I had left, he called someone to tell them that I was there. That was the same day that King George practically beat us to death.”

  “Nadel and your mom get along?”

  “Like family. One of her oldest customers. I practically grew up in his shop.”

  “But you still think he killed her?”

  “You saying family members never kill each other?”

  Carlyle rubbed his eyes with the palms of his hands. “No. I’m not saying that.”

  I thought about that old man lying broken on his workshop floor. Nadel and I had history together—thousands of hours in his workshop. Was it really that easy for him to kill my mom? What was worth more to him than her life?

  Carlyle spoke. “Nadel died of a broken neck and blows to the head. He was beaten to death. He was a small man, but it’s harder to kill someone that way than most people think. Whoever did it was big and strong. For now, King George is our primary suspect. I’ll radio in his information now, but you better be playing straight with me.”

  “I am.”

  Carlyle sighed. “I’m sure you have a theory on why Nadel would have killed your mother.”

  “I don’t, but there’s one other thing I want to show you.” Carlyle followed me inside. I told him to look in the cabinet above the workbench. Carlyle sighed again and climbed the stepstool. He stared inside the cabinet for a few seconds, then said, “How long have you known this was here?”

  “I just found it tonight, but I should have figured it out sooner. Cyanide is one of the chemicals used in metal plating. Nadel’s had it here for years.”

  Carlyle reached in and pulled out a small brown bottle with a white label that read sodium cyanide. It was identical to the bottle Checker Cab found at Shotgun Shack.

  “Is there anything else you know that you’re keeping from me?”

  I thought about the books I’d put in the truck, but said, “No.”

  “Go home, Seth. Leave this work to us now, okay?”

  I left without answering, but wasn’t about to go home. If King George was riding around tying up loose ends, I didn’t want him to find me.

  Instead I drove to King’s Books. The store was closed, but Sweet Pea was still inside, sorting stacks of used paperbacks. He let me in, where the smell of dust and old paper made my nose wrinkle.

  I set the books down on the counter. One was A Detailed Account of the Battle of Yorktown by an Attendant Soldier, by Captain Elliot Black. The other, Private Affairs of George Washington, from the Records and Accounts of Tobias Lear, Esquire, His Secretary by Stephen Decatur Jr. As Sweet Pea picked them up he said, “These seem pretty rare. You looking for cash or credit?”

  “Neither. I’m looking for Mom’s murderer. And I think these books might help me.”

  “How?”

  “I was hoping you could tell me. Any obvious connections between these two books?”

  “Sure. The Battle of Yorktown was the most famous battle led by George Washington. Turning point of the Revolutionary War and all that. And Tobias Lear was George Washington’s secretary. That the kind of connection you’re talking about?”

  “Not what I was thinking. Any of this connected to anyone in Tacoma?”

  “No. This is all East Coast stuff. Snooty old rich families who trace their lineage back to the Mayflower. That sort of nonsense. You don’t get much of that here, which is one of the reasons we all love Tacoma so.”

  The name Lear seemed too much of a coincidence. “What about Lear?”

  “What about him?”

  “You think this Tobias could be connected to the Lears who live around here?”

  “You mean the investment guy? The rich one?”

  “That’s the one.” I told Sweet Pea about Azura and her family—how I’d gone to the Lear house to pick up an antique clock the day before my mom was murdered. Sweet Pea listened while his eyes scanned the spines of the books in his store, as if he was cataloging my conversation in its proper place.

  When I finished, he said, “Let me tell you what I know. Tobias Lear was a real rascal. George Washington hired him to run his private affairs. Lear was once caught collecting rent from one of Washington’s tenants and putting the money in his own pocket. When Washington died, Lear had possession of all of Washington’s papers. When other founding fathers asked for them, Lear handed over a very incomplete collection. In fact, he destroyed whole sections of Washington’s personal diary. Some say it was to save key government leaders from the embarrassment of scandal. Because you know those old boys had a few scandals. Chopping down cherry trees was just the beginning.”

  “What’s that have to do with the Battle of Yorktown?”

  “I give up. What?”

  “You don’t know?”

  “No. You want me to do some research?”

  “Would you?”

  “I should make you do it, you slacker. Why aren’t you in school?”

  “I’m trying to decide if I want to go back. If it’s worth it.”

  “Of course it’s not worth it. But you do it because you have to. Every now and then you just have to suck it up and play by the rules. That’s the only way to get your union card.”

  “Kind of blows, though.”

  “High school is supposed to be hell. You’re supposed to be miserable during it. That’s how it’s designed.”

  It was nine o’clock. I was tired again. I drove to Frisko Freeze to pick up some dinner for ChooChoo and me. Two cheeseburgers. Two fries. Two
butterscotch shakes. Frisko Freeze is famous for being delicious but slow, so while I waited, I kept a close eye out for King George’s bike. That got me paying attention to cars—and the people inside of them. It made me realize how not-happy people look most of the time. Not sad, necessarily. Just not happy. Most drivers were either hunched over their wheels or slumped back in their seats, looking sleepy, bored, or mildly disgusted with where they were going. Not all. A blue Subaru wagon full of teenagers pulled into the Frisko Freeze lot. Their windows were rolled down and the music was blaring. Three boys and two girls were singing along with a song I didn’t recognize. They were high school kids and they’d figured out how not to be miserable.

  When my order came, I consoled my lonely soul with grease.

  I drove back toward the hospital to deliver ChooChoo’s dinner, then remembered his request to pick up the envelopes from his office. I changed my route and parked in front of the gym.

  The photo of ChooChoo and Mom stared at me from the top of ChooChoo’s messy desk. I picked it up and pried the cardboard off the back. A small brass key fell out. I fit it into a keyhole on his bottom desk drawer. The drawer was full of receipts and bank statements. I dug through those until I came upon a box of envelopes. I picked it up and opened it.

  The envelopes inside were blue—the same color as the envelopes I’d received once a month, from my absent father, for as long as I could remember.

  I drove in a fog back to the hospital, trying to make sense of the box lying on the seat next to me. ChooChoo was asleep when I arrived, but I shook his shoulder roughly and told him to wake up. He opened his eyes, then sat up with only the slightest groan, his eyes locking on the box of blue envelopes in my hand. I set his food on his tray, but he didn’t touch it.

  He struggled to sit up. “Not sure if you’ll think this is good news or not.”

  “So you’ve been the one sending the checks to me?”

  “Me? No.” He held out his big hand. I put the envelopes in them. “Y’ mom asked me to keep these for her. Once a month she’d come ’n get one from me. Just did it again a week or so ago.” He paused to catch his breath, while his thick fingers pulled a single envelope from the box.

  I stood next to the bed, not saying a word.

  “You wanna set down?” said ChooChoo.

  “No.”

  “You sure?”

  “Just tell me.”

  “Your dad ain’t never sent you anything, Seth. An’ I’m sorry ’bout that. It was your mom the whole time, ev’ry time.”

  “What the hell.” It wasn’t a question.

  “Thought you should know.”

  “It doesn’t make any sense.”

  “Did to her. She wanted you t’ think your dad cared ’bout you. So she’d set aside some money and write you the little notes each month—”

  “I’ve always hated those notes.”

  “Wasn’t easy for her to keep that money aside. Sometimes she had t’ borrow it from me. Lots of times Miss Eye paid.”

  I nodded, thinking back to Miss Eye’s comment about paying back the money she stole. “Did everyone know about this but me?”

  “Just us three. Each month she’d send these envelopes inside another letter to a couple of her friends in some far-off cities.”

  “Let me guess. St. Louis. And Pensacola and Taos, New Mexico.”

  “Might be. She’d ask ’em to mail ’em back to you. She thought you might be a bit more forgivin’ of your father if you thought he was far away.”

  “What the hell?” I looked at the blue envelope in ChooChoo’s hand. “So my dad—”

  “She’s never heard from him. Never wanted to. But she wanted you—”

  “I get it,” I lied.

  “Thought you should know.”

  “So you said.”

  I took the remaining envelopes and left. On the way to Stanley Chang’s house, I opened the window of the Jeep and threw them out. Through the rearview mirror, I could see the envelopes fluttering in the air, then sticking to the wet pavement. A car ran over them and they mixed in permanently with the rest of the litter.

  The problem with dead parents and with missing parents is that there’s no one left to yell at.

  Twenty-five

  I woke up the next morning to the smell of coffee and biscuits. The smell was the only thing that pulled me out of my backroom bed. I walked into the kitchen, where Miss Irene was washing the dishes. I was still deciding if I was mad at her for her part in the whole envelope thing. She turned around when I came in and passed me a sad smile.

  “You hungry?”

  “I could eat a little something.”

  “That’s just what your mom always said. You got that part of her. That ungreedy nature.”

  “You saying I’m like her?”

  “I’m saying part of you is. And the rest of you is just Seth.”

  I pulled a couple of Miss Eye’s hot biscuits apart with my fingers as she poured me a cup of coffee and milk. I wiped butter across the insides of the biscuits. She slid the cup my direction and said, “What you gonna do when you find the man who killed your mom?”

  “You ask like you think it’ll happen.”

  “Course it will, Slugger. You’re one of the smartest people I know.”

  “How do you know it’s a man?”

  “Honey, it’s always a man. Trust me on that one. Only time it’s a woman is when a man drove her to it, so even then it’s a man. That’s how God made them. Men are born killers.”

  “Me too?”

  She smiled, “When you become a man, I’ll let you know.”

  “Damn. And what are women? Born liars?”

  “You’re all full of love this morning.”

  My phone buzzed then. It was a text from Azura.

  You still alive?

  I texted back. Still am.

  I miss you. Hope you can come and see me.

  I need a few days.

  I need to tell you something.

  Give me a few more days, I texted. I needed to keep her out of this business until it was over. Got to focus on this mess and get it behind me.

  My phone stared at me without a response for a while, then buzzed. Okay, but I really need to talk to you.

  I need to talk to you, too, I texted. I hoped we both meant need the same way.

  I checked in with Sweet Pea at noon, but the store had been unusually busy that morning and he hadn’t found anything yet. He told me to check back around dinnertime. I didn’t much feel like driving around in broad daylight while King George and who knew which of his friends were out looking for me, so I spent the afternoon cleaning Stanley’s house. I owed Stanley for taking me in and for me bringing more danger into his life.

  While I mixed bleach and water and pulled one rubber glove onto my hand that wasn’t in a sling, I thought about Mom, about how she’d taken this humble job seriously, night after night, even if she seemed to treat the rest of her life as if it was one big vacation, me included. With one arm, I scrubbed Stanley’s kitchen floor and the tubs and toilets in the two bathrooms. I polished chrome faucets and mirrors. I used vinegar and old newspapers to clean the dust and streaks off his windows. I vacuumed his carpets and dusted his crappy, dark-wood furniture. The house was still a dump when I was done, but it was a clean dump, from top to bottom. It smelled sharp.

  Sweet Pea finally called me at a few minutes past seven. “I think I’ve got as much as I can manage to pull together. It’s something, but I don’t know what it means. You want to come by?”

  Fifteen minutes later, I was inside King’s Books, where Sweet Pea had both of the old books laid out on a side counter. A half-dozen pages in each volume were marked with yellow Post-it notes.

  “So here’s the deal: Aside from being a helluva soldier, George Washington was pretty serious about
record-keeping. Immediately after the Battle of Yorktown, Washington had two maps of the battle commissioned. Both were hand-drawn by a Frenchman named Jean Baptiste Gouvion. The first one was made as the official record of the battle. But Washington had Gouvion make him another map as well—a smaller one that Washington could carry around in his pocket. Supposedly, Washington liked to pull that map out with his buddies and show them just how amazing a feat the battle was. But after Washington’s death, that map disappeared.”

  “Okay. So that’s the Yorktown connection. What’s that have to do with Tobias Lear?”

  “Like I told you yesterday, Lear was Washington’s personal secretary and a real rascal. He had sticky fingers. And when Washington died, quite a bit of Washington’s personal documents seemed to have stuck to Tobias Lear’s fingers.”

  “Including the map?”

  “That’s the theory by plenty of historians. But look. Your girlfriend’s last name is Lear. A pretty common name, but there aren’t that many Lears with as much money as your Lear has. And guess what else?”

  “What?”

  “I did a search online for Tobias Lear and found this article.” Sweet Pea pointed to his computer screen. The website was called Frobisher’s Auction News. The headline of the article said, “Lear-Olmstead estate sets Maine auction record.”

  “Don’t read the whole thing,” said Sweet Pea. “Skip down to right…about…here.” His finger pointed to the following paragraph:

  Last December, a barn on the Olmstead estate was sold to one of the family members. The barn contained a large collection of furnishings and documents. Most of the property was auctioned off last Saturday. Notable items that were listed as being distributed to other Olmstead and Lear family members included a collection of silver, a set of personal letters of Tobias Lear, and a pendulum wall clock.

  “I picked up a clock from the Lears’ house. Nadel fixed it.”

  “So you told me. It’s got to be the same clock. Too much of a coincidence.”

  “But you weren’t talking about a clock. You were talking about a map.”

  “Sure. But at least we’ve made a connection. Your Lears must be connected to the Battle of Yorktown Lear. And that map is mentioned in these last couple sentences. Listen.” He read from the website.