by Tim Cockey
I nodded sagely. “I see. And touchy.”
He growled.
“And grouchy.” I turned. “Hey, Pete, this guy’s reminding me of you.”
Pete dropped me off at my car and suggested we stop for a beer. Rain clouds had rolled in as we were heading back in from the country. We went to the Mount Washington Tavern. The skies opened up while we were sitting in the bar. The bartender had a goatee and was wearing a Duke baseball cap. He wanted to be friendly, but Pete put the whammy on him.
“I need this kid to pretend he’s my chum?”
“God forbid, Pete.”
We got a couple of beers. Pete took up his bottle, sliding the empty mug down along the bar away from him. Pete’s gaze wandered about the bar. It had a high ceiling, an open area upstairs for eating, as well as a covered area outside. Blond wood. Behind the liquor were large plate-glass windows that reached all the way up to the ceiling.
“There used to be a place called Sparwasser’s here,” Pete told me. “Nice old place. Big horseshoe bar. Pool table. And the best French fries and gravy you’ve ever had. There used to be a school or something up the road. Maybe it’s still there. These kids with something wrong with their heads. They’d come streaming into Sparwasser’s and get Cokes. Whole bar full of these poor nutty kids. Add that to your standard daytime drunks. . . . Hell of a place.”
Pete’s neck was still sore. He was palming it every so often and testing its turning radius.
“Christ, I should have taken that guy’s neck brace.”
I picked up my story. I told Pete about the lovely Shannon and how she blamed me for Tom Cushman’s being run over and killed.
Pete asked, “This actor guy was screwing her, right?”
“Yes.”
“And he was chummy with the pregnant nanny?” I nodded. “Friendly guy,” Pete said.
“According to Tom he was just doing Sophie a favor.”
“Some favor.” Pete looked up at the long windows. The rain was slapping against them as if it wanted to be let inside. “Looks to me like your actor friend did Sophie a little favor he just didn’t want to tell you about.”
“You think he’s the father?”
“I sure as hell don’t buy that story of his. Just helping the girl out? Why would he bother?”
“He probably saw it as an acting challenge.”
Pete thought a minute. “From the sound of it his little actress girlfriend wasn’t too keen on the nanny either.”
“Well, then maybe Shannon killed Sophie,” I said.
Pete waved his hand. “Sure, sure. Why not?”
“I think Tom was telling the truth. He didn’t have to tell me about his and Sophie’s going down to see Larue. If he wanted to keep the whole thing under wraps, why tell me that story?”
Pete shrugged. “Well, we’ve got the age-old problem now. Thems that knows is thems that’s dead. That’s a tough one to get around.”
I went on and told Pete about the license tag number on the car that killed Tom Cushman and about my talk with Croydon Floyd.
“I’m positive about the license tag number. All I can figure is that somebody stole those tags so that their car couldn’t be identified and then returned them afterward so that the police would figure it for a routine hit-and-run. Which is exactly what they do think.”
“You’re not convinced, I take it.”
“It was no accident. That car had Tom in its sights.”
“And you didn’t get a look at the driver?”
“It all happened too quick. I was on the sidewalk before I knew it.”
“Well, what do you expect from the police? You gave them a tag number and they ran it down.”
“I can’t quite get a read on Floyd. That’s the cop I talked with on the phone this morning. I tried to press him on why they’re so ready to pass Sophie off as a suicide and he told me both Libby and Mike reported to the police that Sophie was kind of unstable. Libby mentioned to me that the girl was acting a little peculiar, but she definitely didn’t suggest the girl seemed like she was on the edge.”
“Maybe the cops just remember wrong. Maybe it wasn’t Libby. Maybe it was just Gellman who said it.”
“But based on what? The girl was quiet and she kept to herself. Do you see the bridges of America lined with introverts all waiting their turn to jump?” I picked up my beer. “What if you went down and talked to the police, Pete? You habla the language. Maybe you can get a better take on this than I can.”
Pete shrugged. “I’ll have to check my date book.”
We finished our beers and called for another round. The bartender ignored Pete’s grumpiness and was as chipper as he damn well wanted to be. He asked us if we had seen the Maryland game. Apparently Maryland had been awesome. I told him that we hadn’t seen the game.
“Awesome,” he said.
I gestured to his baseball cap and asked him if he went to Duke. He flipped his bar rag onto his shoulder. “Nah. That’s just my nickname. I went to Maryland.”
“I went to Frostburg,” I told him.
Pete spoke up. “They call him Frosty.”
“Excuse my friend. I take him out for little walks on occasion, but I don’t think it really does much good.”
“Hey, no problem,” Duke said. “My dad’s the same way. But he’s cool. It’s just a thing.”
“There you go,” I said to Pete after Duke had moved down the bar. “It’s just a thing.”
Pete took up his beer. “I’m so relieved.”
“Let me throw the final piece at you,” I said. “This is the sexy part of the show.”
“I don’t like the sound of that.”
I went on and told Pete about my driving over to Mike and Libby’s house after leaving the hospital and about peeking in on Mike’s little hot-tub party.
“A shame I didn’t have your binoculars with me.”
“A shame you didn’t have the camera.”
“True. Except I couldn’t make out the woman’s face. That was my tailing job. When she took off I followed the car back to Georgetown.”
“So your friend’s husband is mixing it up with Virginia Larue.”
“Right. What’s the scrabble with that? One day Mike’s nanny is asking the Larues to adopt her baby, a week later she’s dead. And now it turns out Mike is screwing around with Larue’s wife?”
“Stinks, don’t it?”
Gusts of wind were kicking up. The rain slapped even harder against the windows. A tree branch, bent by the wind, was scraping against the top of one of the tavern’s high windows. Down at the far end of the bar, Duke was flirting with a pair of women who were drinking fruity drinks. I heard him saying, “That’s my nickname. I went to Maryland.”
“I have a theory,” I said. “About the hit-and-run. Actually, it’s only half a theory.”
“Let’s hear it,” Pete said.
“Mike Gellman and Ginny Larue.”
“What about them?”
“You don’t see it? The day before yesterday I identified this guy Tom for Crawford Larue. Tom used a different name when he and Sophie went down to D.C. When I went down to Larue’s place, he was expecting Tom, not me. Tom was the one he was anxious to talk with. I don’t think Larue was necessarily fishing for Tom’s name, but I ended up giving it to him anyway. I told him that Tom was an actor in a production of The Seagull over in Annapolis.”
“So?”
“So let’s say Crawford mentions it to his wife. ‘Hey, honey, do you remember that young man and that young woman I told you about?’ Ginny gets the name out of him, and the fact that he’s in Annapolis doing the The Seagull. She runs off and tells Gellman. The very next night Tom is plowed down by a car with a stolen plate—”
“You say.”
“I say. He’s plowed down and then several hours later the lovebirds are whooping it up in a hot tub.”
&n
bsp; Pete took a moment to finish off his beer. He studied the label as if it were . . . well, as if it were more fascinating than it was.
“So Mike Gellman and Ginny Larue killed the actor,” he said.
“That’s right.”
“I see. And do we know why?”
“I’m recharging my batteries, Pete. You’ll have to give me some time.”
“And so I guess they probably also killed the nanny? Is that where this is going?”
“Yes.”
Pete thought about it a moment. His thumbnail ran a tear through the label on his bottle. He ran the tear the complete length of the label with the precision of a glass cutter, then looked over at me.
“Why does it have to be both Gellman and Larue’s wife?” Pete asked. “Why couldn’t it simply be Virginia Larue who’s doing all this?”
“Why would she kill Sophie?” I asked. “Jealousy?”
“It wouldn’t be the first time. But why would either of them want to kill this actor? From the way you put it he was just an innocent bystander. You haven’t sold me.”
“Well, I told you it was only half a theory.”
“And who got the nanny pregnant?”
“You’re expecting a lot of me, Pete.”
Munger gave me his lopsided grin. “That’s how it works. Don’t forget, I used to be a lawyer. If you dropped this kind of thing into my lap I’d hand it right back to you.”
“Okay then. It could be Mike who got her pregnant,” I said. “It works for me. Mike can be a real charmer when he wants to be. I’m willing to bet a kid like Sophie would be more than susceptible to a snake like Gellman. And then when he found out about the baby he panicked.”
Pete was shaking his head. It was obvious that he was not terribly convinced by my sketchy scenarios. Not that I could blame him. The pieces weren’t fitting terribly smoothly for me either. Every so-called answer spawned a new pair of questions. An exponential experience.
Pete called Duke over and ordered a whiskey.
“Yes, sir,” Duke said. “Will Jack Daniel’s do?”
“Jack’s fine.” Pete asked me, “You want?” I passed. Duke brought up a tumbler and a bottle of Jack Daniel’s. He poured the whiskey with an unnecessary flourish, then returned to the two women.
“So what happened with you and Lee last night?” I asked, changing the subject. “I assume she gave you a ride home.”
“She did,” Pete said.
“Did you two straighten anything out?”
He took a dip into his glass. “About what?”
“Come on, Pete. You’ve got one foot in and one foot out. Lee doesn’t want to get in the middle of things with you and Susan, but otherwise she’s all over you. You’re her kind of bear. She told me so. So don’t get coy with me, Munger. It’s a long drive from Annapolis to Lutherville. You must have talked.”
“We talked.”
“See?”
“Then she dropped me off at the house.”
“Okay.”
“Then we made out in the car like a couple of teenagers.”
The wind slapped furiously against the windows. A noisy group came bursting through the front door, drenched and laughing.
“Duke!” I called out. “Get back over here. Another whiskey. Pronto.”
Pete was rubbing his sore neck. “I don’t know, Hitch. I really don’t know. . . .”
CHAPTER
17
The rain was still falling with verve and spunk and the sort of focused intensity that not a few people on this planet could stand to learn something from. The slightly tipsy mortician stood outside the town house à la wet rat. His shoes were filled with water. Rain ran unimpeded down into his eyes; no little windshield washers to keep things clear. He rapped a snappy shave-and-a-haircut, but held off on the two bits. A few seconds later the door opened.
“Hello, ma’am. Me and Mrs. Noah were wondering if you were up for a little sea cruise.”
“Jesus, Hitch,” Libby said. “Come in.” I stepped into the vestibule. “Did you walk here?”
Fighting off the urge to shake myself dry like a dog, I attempted to squeegee myself in the entranceway. “The closest parking spot was two blocks away. I forded.”
I peeled off my soaked sweatshirt, rolling it the way you crank the lid off a sardine can.
“What happened to your arm?”
The bandage on my wrist was soaked through and pretty much at the end of its usefulness. The adhesive was barely clinging. The puffy red edges of my wound were showing through.
“Oh,” I said. “Look at that.”
Libby directed me to take off my shoes and leave them by the front door.
“Give me your socks and your sweatshirt. I’ll throw them in the dryer. You might as well give me your T-shirt as well.”
I peeled off the wet T-shirt and handed it to her. “Do you want my pants, too?”
Libby smirked. “Keep your pants on.”
I followed her downstairs to the basement, where she tossed my stuff into the dryer. She pulled a clean T-shirt from a pile of folded clothes and tossed it to me.
“This will probably fit. I use it as a nightshirt.”
I held it up. The T-shirt had Nancy and Sluggo on the front. Handsome devils, as always.
“I’ll bet you look sexy in this,” I said.
“I do. Especially when I’ve got rollers in my hair.”
“I go wild for that look.”
We went back upstairs and I waited in the kitchen while Libby went off to fetch something to replace my dead bandage. While I was waiting, Libby’s daughter stepped tentatively into the kitchen. She stopped just inside the door. Her little brother followed a second behind. Toby was wearing a pair of plastic pants as big as his head. He stood motionless on his chubby legs, wavering slightly.
“I want a hot dog,” Lily said.
“Hot dogs are nice.”
“I’m four.”
“Four.” I nodded approvingly. “How about that?”
“Toby hit me.”
“I see.”
“You’re wet,” Lily said.
“Yes. It’s raining outside.”
“I have a go-fish.”
“Goldfish?”
“I can take a bath.”
“That’s right,” I said. “And then you’d be wet, too. Just like me.”
She stood a moment, absently picking her nose. I couldn’t imagine a comb ever getting through all those dark curls. Toby was staring at me with large baleful eyes. He looked stupefied. But then I suppose I was a stupefying sight.
“Daddy is mad at me,” Lily blurted. “My go-fish is Debbie. She doesn’t have a mommy. She can swim.”
“And she’s wet,” I pointed out.
The little girl’s face crunched up. “She’s a fish.”
Libby came in to rescue me. She had a package of gauze as well as some adhesive tape. Lily was still making her troll face.
“Have you two been talking?”
“I want a hot dog,” Lily said again. Then she performed a ballerina move.
Libby pulled a chair up next to mine. Lily’s eyes went wide as her mother peeled the soaked bandages off my wrist. My stitches were black and ugly. Toby wobbled and dropped to the floor, his plastic pants arriving well in advance of the rest of him. Libby tore a strip of gauze with her teeth.
“So tell me what happened.”
“It’s a long story,” I said. “Just an accident.”
Libby paused. “Isn’t it either one or the other? Accidents are generally quick.”
“But getting to it,” I said. “That’s a little involved.”
Libby made quick work of putting fresh gauze on my wrist and wrapping it with adhesive tape. She leaned down close to bite the tape clear.
“That should hold you.”
Lily was fascinated with th
e operation. She held her arm out to her mother.
“Me.”
“Not you, honey,” Libby said. “You don’t have an injury.”
The girl persisted until her mother went ahead and bit off a length of adhesive tape and wrapped it around Lily’s wrist. From the floor, Toby made a noise.
“Nrgmm.”
He was holding out his pudgy arm.
“I detect a trend,” I said. Libby wrapped the boy’s arm in tape. “You’re next.”
“Sorry. I’m not going to play.” Libby stood up and marshaled the children into a small room just down the hall and parked them in front of a television.
“Electronic baby-sitter. A mother’s dream.”
We went into the front room and settled on the couch. The large windows were nearly black, the rain slapped invisibly against them.
Libby turned to me. “So, Sluggo, to what do I owe the pleasure of your drenched visit?”
I had determined on the drive over that I wouldn’t tell Libby what I had seen out on her deck the night before. The name Larue had drawn no reaction when I had mentioned it in the park the day before and I saw no need to toss a new log onto the fire. Even if Libby had her suspicions about Mike, it seemed she was in the dark about the specifics.
“There’s something I’m not clear about, Libby. When the police came out to your house to take the missing persons report . . . isn’t that a little unusual? I mean, why didn’t you and Mike go down to the station to file your report?”
“I guess that’s the way it’s normally done. But Mike has pull. He knows those people. He got on the phone and arranged with Captain Talbot to send someone out.”
“That’s convenient.”
“Why are you asking? What’s so strange about that?”
“Nothing, I guess. I spoke with Officer Floyd on the phone this morning. He indicated to me that you and Mike painted a fairly dire picture of Sophie. I wanted to know why it is they’ve leaned so quickly to her having killed herself, and he said that from what he had gathered it seemed Sophie was pretty unstable.”
“I never said anything of the kind. He told you that?”
“Mike was the one who identified the body. That’s right, isn’t it?”