by Anne McAneny
I stepped out of my car and caught my reflection in a window. Not good. I looked too thin, with frown lines that ran too deep for a 26-year-old, and I’d forgotten make-up altogether. With a tired sigh, I headed down the sidewalk only to look up and see Rafe Borose-rhymes-with-morose approaching from the opposite direction. He’d already smiled at me, so I threw my shoulders back and marched on, determined to pretend I looked better than I did.
He grabbed the oversized pewter handle and held the door for me while simultaneously producing a yellow rose from his left palm. He presented it with a confident grin and I accepted with a smile. Sure, it was plastic, but a rose was a rose, and no one had given me flowers for a long time. Not knowing what else to do, I gave it a sniff but only caught whiffs of an essential oil—either patchouli or sandalwood—and realized I was probably smelling his cologne. It mingled with his natural scent, something reeking of confidence and danger.
“A rose for my neighbor who rescues the mournful,” he said.
My reporter hackles went up. “Mournful? What makes you think Mrs. Elbee was mournful?”
“A woman who takes her own life surely mourns it before committing the final act.”
I thought back to Macy’s name on the mirror. “I’m afraid Mrs. Elbee might have been mourning more than herself.”
“Herself, others, decisions. Life offers much to mourn.”
“That’s a dour outlook,” I said. “I like it.”
“I hope you won’t embrace it.” A look of warning flashed across his face. “Better to look forward brightly than to focus on the past through a dark lens.”
My gut constricted. The comment hit unusually close to home. “Thank you for the rose. Do you give them to all the ladies?”
I hadn’t intended the jealousy that tinged my comment, but I did feel oddly possessive of this new stranger, as if he were a plaything that existed solely to amuse me. Even when we met in the swamp, I’d felt a trace of resentment over Mrs. Elbee’s intrusion.
“I give roses to ladies I admire,” he said. “And I’m a big fan of your writing. You mingle hard-hitting facts with hard-won insights, and then sprinkle your stories with unexpected humanity.”
“Unexpected?”
“Oh yes. From you, it can be rather unexpected.” He grinned in such a way that I felt we’d shared an inside joke, but I was still stuck on the outside. “I don’t know your plans for your morning libation,” he continued, “but would you care to join me at one of the distressed tobaccowood tables in this pretentious establishment?”
His hypnotic gaze, coupled with the grin dancing on his lips, made me regret my answer. “I’d love to, but I’ve got an appointment.”
“I understand,” he said, as if he’d expected the refusal.
We ordered from Grinder Minder’s thirty-item menu, which essentially broke down to coffee, coffee with milk, and coffee with flavorings. He insisted on paying, and I squelched an unexpected bolt of jealousy when the petite cashier flirted with him.
As we waited for our order, Rafe gazed at me unabashedly. “I’ve never seen you here before. Are you trying it out because of the fire at Boyd’s?”
“Yes. You know all the sordid details?”
He leaned in confidentially. “Wouldn’t surprise me if half the folks in New Beulah were customers of Boyd’s basement business.”
The mention of the basement made me stiffen, but I remained mute.
“I was there a few times,” he said, and then clarified. “To the legitimate part of the store, I mean. Boyd carried great licorice but always struck me as an odd choice to run a neighborhood establishment.”
“His dad died years ago and left it to him. I doubt it would have been his first career choice.”
“Oh? What would have been?”
“Does it matter?” I said, bitterness lacing my tongue. “All his choices were bound to lead to felon.”
Rafe flicked up his eyebrows. “Something personal between you and this Boyd fellow?”
“That’s what I aim to find out. There was more to that basement than you know.”
Rafe’s rather expressive brows knitted together. “A reporter on a mission. How very Lois Lane.”
“Well, as Lois would tell you, people don’t just disappear without a trace.” I regretted the comment the moment it exited my mouth, but something about this guy flustered me.
Rafe crossed his arms and cocked his head like a curious dog. “I’m not sure I follow. Did someone disappear?”
“I’m sorry. It’s nothing.”
A freckled boy with a half-inch ear gauge announced our order. As we grabbed our respective cups, I noticed a bandage on Rafe’s forearm.
He saw me notice and smiled devilishly. “Dropped a mirror on a tile floor,” he said. “And may I say it was none too pleasant having a hundred images of my own face staring back at me, all of them declaring me a klutz.”
“Bad luck for seven years.”
His inky gaze grew intense. “Broken mirrors or no, I believe we create our own luck.”
“Really? Tell me how. I could use some today.”
“Chloe, I would very much like to know more about what goes on in your world.”
I plucked my cell phone from my pocket and checked the time. Fifteen minutes to get back over the bridge to Quail’s office. “More than I have time to say, I’m afraid. But thanks for the coffee. I’m going to be late for an interview.”
“With anyone interesting?”
“Richie Quail, one of the Lucky Four.”
“Oh, I know Mr. Quail. We run in the same investment circles.”
“Then you should probably watch your back.” My eyes narrowed. “What is it you do for a living, Rafe?”
He smiled and sipped his beverage before answering. “I research, invest, invent, scavenge, and program. And, of course, I dabble in magic and rose distribution.”
I twirled my yellow flower by way of acknowledgment. “And which of your many pursuits provides you a livelihood?”
“Is this on the record?”
“Is there a reason to keep it off the record?”
“Why don’t I show you?”
“Show me what?”
“What I do. Tonight. Over a glass of pinot grigio. Six o’clock?”
I had absolutely no time for a quasi-date tonight, and yet I knew my answer immediately. “Six thirty,” I said. “But I’m more of a pinot noir girl. I’ll bring it.”
“Perfect,” he said, and then he lowered his head but kept his eyes lifted. “You know where I live.”
I flushed with embarrassment but gave as good as I got. “Yes, I do. One Porro-prism length away.”
He beamed with delight.
“I’ve really got to go,” I said, my frown lines reaching their usual depth as reality invaded the espresso-scented fantasy world of Grinder Minder. I turned to leave, but Rafe called after me, his warm voice encompassing every note of the octave. “If you don’t mind my asking, Chloe, I’m dying of curiosity. Who disappeared?”
I stopped with my hand on the open door and turned back to him with a melancholy air. “Someone I wish I could stop looking at through a dark lens.”
Chapter 15
Despite ownership of a dozen apartment buildings along the east coast, two high-rises in the Carolinas, fourteen Creamy Cow franchises, and three homes, Richie Quail still maintained his original office in the middle of Beulah’s tiny industrial park—if a tile store, a drafting consultant, and a vague importer/exporter could pass as an industrial park. At least Quail seemed better tolerated in Beulah these days, perhaps because everyone had gotten used to his gregarious manner, his money-flaunting ways, and his lack of humility. Or maybe people were just kissing his ass.
About once a week, I’d see him promenading through town, usually running his mouth. And every time, his girth floored me. A swirl of nasty thoughts always crossed my mind: Was he the best choice to be representing a high-fat ice cream franchise? When was the last time he’d seen
the $800 loafers on his feet? And how in the world did he maintain his Top Five ranking at the tennis club?
As I entered his office, a bell tried to ring out. No go. I glanced up to see its cracked shell, a crooked clapper, and an interior caked with dirt. Turned out, it was a proper precursor to the office. Coffee stains dotted a puke-green rug, brown blemishes marked the faded paint on the walls, and the receptionist’s desk looked like a decades-old factory reject. The place also carried a mild scent of urine—I did not want to know.
In front of me, a full-bottomed, shapely woman stuck a leg into the air behind her as she leaned into the main office. She could definitely do justice to a mud flap. “Uh huh, uh huh, got it,” she said as her foot waggled. Presumably, she was speaking to Quail. His voice bellowed back at her, something about a Mr. Haverhill, and if Mr. Haverhill says it’s so, then it must be so. As he continued speaking, I gathered that Mr. Haverhill had made Quail some big bucks over the years. I wondered how many of those bucks had seen the underside of a table.
The secretary had now moved her ample backside all the way into Quail’s office. She let loose with another round of agreeable uh-huh’s before saying, “But ten million, Richie?”
“Ten million, yes, ma’am!” Quail said with a loud thwack, presumably a fist slamming a desk.
I considered myself a gifted eavesdropper, but my skills found no challenge here; these two were downright loud. I hoped Quail would specify ten million of what. Despite his alleged wealth, I could hardly imagine ten million dollars being bantered about in an office as shabby as this. I’d seen better while getting my oil changed.
“Awful lot of eggs in one basket,” the secretary said.
“Do I pay you to make omelets, Sarah, or to look good and move my money around when I tell you to?”
Sarah sighed but with a giggle behind it. “I just don’t feel like we’ve done our due diligence on this one.”
“He hasn’t steered us wrong yet. Now git.”
Sarah sashayed into the waiting area and looked startled to see me. “Oh, hello. Didn’t hear you come in.”
“I’m Chloe Keyes from The Herald. I have an—”
“The lottery interview, right? People never do tire of that story.” Despite Quail’s office being only a few feet away, she turned and yelled as if he were across a football field. “Richie! Chloe from The Herald is here!”
I expected to be told to wait on one of the lumpy couches, but Quail appeared at the door instantly. Maybe that was how he kept his tennis ranking—quick on his feet. I worked to banish the surprise from my eyes as the forty-something man filled the entire door frame. He’d easily gained a hundred pounds in the last ten years. Still, I couldn’t deny that his face looked good. Either the subcutaneous fat or an absence of stress made him glow. His smile caused the only wrinkles in his smooth complexion, and it provided a glimpse of crooked but shiny teeth. His plain brown eyes held decided warmth, and I wondered if I’d misjudged Richie Quail all these years, or if people simply became nicer when their bank accounts and stomachs were equally full.
“Chloe Keyes,” he said as if we were old friends. “How are you?”
He didn’t venture beyond the door frame, and it crossed my mind that he might be stuck in there. “I’m fine, sir, thank you.”
“I knew your parents. Your dad was the butcher, right? Funny guy?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And your mom was an accountant.”
“Still is, but they’re in Florida now.”
“Florida? No thank you. Can’t imagine leaving Beulah. We’ve got it all here.”
Well, he had it all. Owned it all, in fact, although I’d heard rumblings of trouble from Larry Gentry, the Herald’s business beat reporter. Larry did analytical freelance work for financial publications on the side, so his tentacles extended internationally. Told me that Quail was overleveraged and might well be living in a house of straw on a cotton candy foundation. Some of his investments had gone belly-up when the partners in his real estate trust had exhibited none of that quality. But the pending ten million dollar deal being bantered about the office belied that tale. Perhaps the mysterious Mr. Haverhill had saved the day.
“Sorry about this place,” he said, waving a thick arm around. “Got nice digs all over the country, but here’s where I get real work done.”
“I understand,” I said. “I work best in my cramped kitchen.”
At his behest, I entered his tiny office. Accolades and awards decorated the walls—along with photos of him accepting those accolades and awards. One high-def image showed him in front of a building, plunging open-mouthed scissors toward a red ribbon that seemed to be attempting an escape. Standard photo for Grand Openings, but the ravenous look on Quail’s face as his thick tongue licked his lips gave the image a grotesque sheen. I jerked my eyes away.
Quail walked around to his desk chair. It looked to be made of fibrous cobwebs and two hundred adjustment knobs. But when he sat down, it neither squealed nor dropped him on his ass. Perhaps that’s what had sucked up the office decorating budget.
I made myself comfortable in a brown leather chair that exhaled as if I were the one north of four hundred pounds.
“You live in that stilt house, don’t you?” he said.
“Yes, sir. Where river meets swamp.”
“Where river meets swamp! Now that’s a good tag line. Gonna have to put that on the brochure.”
“What brochure?”
“I’m buying up some acreage over there to develop. You like living there, do ya?”
Develop? The word might have good connotations, but in Quail’s lexicon, development meant destruction, delay, decay and de uglies. I’d lose trees, privacy, and salvation.
“I wouldn’t recommend it,” I said. “Lots of problems, unless you like unpredictable water levels, endless mud, mosquitoes galore, and if I’m not mistaken”—I knew I was—“the government is planning to take control of the water access. Going to make it illegal to put in docks and whatnot, so there goes your sales angle.”
I looked straight at him. Damn! My lamentations paled in comparison to the greedy glint I saw in his eyes.
He leaned back and chortled. “Sounds like someone don’t want no neighbors encroaching upon her.”
I shrugged, keeping up the façade. “Just wouldn’t want to see an investment of yours go south, Mr. Quail.”
A crack showed in his jolly armor. “Tell me more about this retrospective doodad you’re writing.”
“It’s about the week of the lottery win, sir. I’m interviewing the Lucky Four—”
“Not Grace Elbee, I imagine. What a shocker, eh?”
“Terrible,” I said, leaning forward and lowering my voice. “I’m the one who found the body, believe it or not.”
I’d found in my short career that confiding something early on made subjects more likely to return the favor.
Quail’s interest was piqued. “Now that would make sense, given where you and Grace live in relation to one another.” He leaned forward but didn’t get as far as I had. “What do they think happened exactly?”
“No official word yet, but I wouldn’t be surprised if it was suicide.”
“Now that’s a damn shame. Gotta be said, though, Grace was getting a little . . . eccentric lately. And mighty spiritual on top of that.”
I recalled the word I used when writing my post-interview notes with Mrs. Elbee. “I’d say mystical, putting faith in the idea of an alternative afterlife.”
“No desire for an afterlife myself. Having too good a time in this one.” A quick hammy fist slammed the desk in celebration. “Still, I had no idea the woman was so low. I built her house, you know.”
I pulled out my notebook and then laid my phone on his desk, the recorder app switched on.
“Tried to tell her and George not to build on that lot,” he continued. “Too much shrink-and-swell, too much settling yet to come, but George wanted that view and that water access so he could race
around on those ridiculous cigarette boats. Me, I prefer an oar and a slow ride in the shallow water.” He winked as he rubbed his stomach. “Not as buoyant as I look!”
“You were right about the Elbees’ house, sir. Didn’t they end up having some problems?”
“Did they ever! I tried to address each hitch, but I tell you, between Grace getting loopy and George not knowing how to manage much more than a bottle opener, it turned into a years-long nightmare. They even sued me.” He said it with a surprising lack of rancor. Maybe because he’d won.
“I guess you didn’t remain close to Mrs. Elbee after that?”
“Not true. She came to see me less than a week ago.”
“Really? About what?”
He sighed. “I shouldn’t say, and keep this off the record, but believe it or not, she wanted to borrow some money.”
Wow. I’d have thought Mrs. Elbee would bow down to the devil before begging from Richie Quail, though some would argue six of one, half a dozen of the other. “Did you two strike a deal?”
“Told her I’d work something up, with generous terms, of course. I mean, what the heck. The lottery bonded us for life, right?”
The sheriff might beg to differ. “I hate to say it, but the police will want to know about your meeting with her.”
“They already do. Indirectly, at least. The day Grace came by, Chad Ryker was here dropping off Sarah after lunch.”
A twinge tweaked my gut. “Your assistant is dating Chad?”
“Little bit, I suppose. You know Chad? What am I saying? A girl your age, of course you would. Good-looking fella, am I right?”
I gave a polite smile.
“Anyway, Chad and Grace would have run into each other in the waiting area. Of course, Chad probably wasn’t real eager to stick around and hear what Grace’s candlestick had to say!” Quail laughed hard enough to turn his forehead crimson. “And don’t think that candlestick didn’t give me second thoughts about lending her money. I mean, what if it told her to burn the money, am I right?”
I transitioned to my basic questions about how the lottery changed his life. I let him go on about investments, job creation, and respectable housing at reasonable prices. He peppered it with ample mention of his charitable giving. I nodded and let it all pour into my recorder. When he wound down, I changed the topic to The Week’s lowlights.