Jess is helping a lady choose the right pair of shoes and doesn’t see me enter. Chase is on bended knee over a box of knickknacks for counter display.
“Are those whistles?” I ask. I know the answer, but it’s as good an icebreaker as any.
Chase is startled by my voice but relaxes when he sees me. “Yes, they are. And mace key chains. I ordered this protective gear last month as new impulse buys but the wrist jewelry was still selling so well that I didn’t bother to put them out. I can’t help but wonder now—”
“If it would have made a difference? If maybe Marlene had had a whistle or mace she might not be missing?”
“It occurred to me.”
He sounds winded, not from exertion but worry.
“Marlene was a big girl and an experienced runner. I’m sure your counter stock didn’t play a part in whatever happened yesterday.”
“Was?”
“I’m sorry?”
Chase swivels around on his knee to face me. “You said she was a big girl. Do you assume she’s dead?’
Oops.
“I’m not assuming anything,” I stammer. “I guess I meant ‘was’ as in she’s not here now, for whatever reason.”
“Yeah, you’re right. I suppose we’ll know soon enough.”
He stands straight, towering over me, and looks me in the eye. I surprise myself by freezing. It is a moment before the spell breaks and I speak again.
“Soon enough?”
He nods. “Marti is out there now, on Chicken Hill, watching the search. She called a little while ago, said there’s a small army looking for … anything. So, I suppose we’ll know something soon enough.”
I was about to ask a more pointed question when Jess and her customer moved into hearing range. I inquire for a more private place to talk. I expect him to escort me to the brault, but instead I find myself following him through a door into the back rooms of the building, an area I’ve heard them refer to as the ‘catacombs’.
This is my first time seeing the catacombs and hints of its history as a bank are visible in the tanned wood doors with frosted glass windows and rustic brass knobs.
We end up in a spacious room that I assume once belonged to a bank manager. It now seems to double as the store’s head office and paper repository. It’s hard to see how this cluttered and disorganized mess is the engine behind Run For It as not a shred of the store proper’s Feng Shui is on display here.
I take my seat in a plastic chair in front of a chipped and stained desk piled high with papers, folders, and notebooks. Chase sits behind the desk facing me.
“What’s on your mind, Lacy?”
Where to start? “I suppose this business about Marlene has my head spinning. I was curious if you had any insight.”
My question appears to confuse Chase. His brown eyebrows arch and crinkle and for the first time I notice the start of crow’s feet at the corners of his eyes. “How could I have any insight?”
“Not about her disappearance, of course. I mean about her as a person. You know, her life. Did you know her socially at all?”
“No. Neither did Marti, as far as I know.”
“You never ran into her around town and grabbed lunch with her? Something like that?”
“Why would you ask that?”
“Well, she’s been running from this store a long time, so I just thought—”
“A lot of people run from this store, Lacy. As much time as this store takes from me, I’m afraid there’s little time left for entertaining.”
“So other than here and at runs, you didn’t know Marlene?”
Chase pushes his chair back from the desk, abandoning his relaxed posture. “These questions are beginning to make me feel a little uncomfortable. Is there an accusation somewhere in there?”
My interrogation skills apparently need a lot of work. But there is no going back now. “No, Chase, really. No accusations,” I lie, feigning shamed embarrassment. “I’m a little turned around by Marlene’s disappearance and I’m trying to get a handle on who she was.”
Chase stands from his chair, straightens the wrinkles in his yellow shirt, and sighs. My little act has not placated him.
“I need to get back to the store. As for Marlene, I’d let the cops ask the questions. That’s their job. If someone did do something to her, then there’s a bad guy out there. He may not take too kindly to you going around town asking questions.”
He steps in front of the door and my skin goes electric. It is a sense of panic, that I am no longer safe. I realize how helpless I am in this chair, in this room far away from civilization, with this tall, strong man who just lied to me about not seeing Marlene socially. Who told me that there might be a ‘bad guy’ out there who wouldn’t like me asking questions.
What if the bad guy isn’t ‘out there’ but in here, right now, with me?
ELEVEN
Chase opens the door.
“Are you coming?”
I practically jump from the chair. Once in the hall and moving towards the exit, I didn’t feel out of the woods just yet, so I say, “I’m sorry I upset you, Chase.”
His hand grips my shoulder. He’s strong. He breathes hard out his nose. “I was already upset, Lacy. I’m upset about Marlene. I’m upset Marti’s involved in this. That the store’s involved in this. No matter how it turns out, I don’t see a good side.”
He sounds sincere enough, but is it an act? I decide I can ponder such questions once I am out of this creepy back hall. I will myself to walk casually but my feet don’t obey and my pace quickens as I move.
Chase notices my urgency and moves to get ahead of me as we reach the door. He grabs the handle but doesn’t turn it to open.
“Lacy, I’m sorry if I made you nervous. That wasn’t my intention. To be honest, you were making me a bit nervous back there.”
You’re still making me nervous, I think. But he doesn’t seem so threatening now.
He opens the door and I slip out into the brightness of the store proper. Jess looks at us with a curious expression, no doubt wondering what we’d been talking about in private. Run For It is one of my favorite places in the world, but right now I can’t get out of here fast enough.
“Thanks for the talk, Chase. I need to get going.” I felt I had to say something. The lingering threat of danger and murder is no excuse for rudeness.
“Hey, Lacy,” Chase calls out behind me. I wait until I reach the side exit door before I turn to face him.
“Remember what I said,” he continues speaking once I make eye contact. “Sometimes, when you have an idea, it’s better to keep it to yourself.”
I wait until I’m halfway across the parking lot before I break into a run.
I stop outside the door of Read It or Eat It to take some deep breaths and calm my nerves. I catch myself looking over my shoulder. Do I really think Chase would follow me? I have to confront the possibility that this man I’ve known since I came to Cedar Mill could be dangerous.
Stax is busy at the register with a short line of customers, so I wander into the café to find Larry cleaning some utensils behind the counter. A young couple sips frothy drinks at a small table, but otherwise the café is unoccupied. I let my eyes wander over to the empty booth in the corner where last night so much had been discussed. It seems like a lifetime ago.
“Hey, Lacy, you’re getting to be a regular sight around here.”
Larry’s food is good, but I suspect it is his warmth and sincere enjoyment of people that keep his customers coming back.
“Hiya, Larry. Yes, I suppose my circle of friends is rather small.”
“You don’t see me complaining.”
There is no getting around Larry’s smile. He is more than a few years younger than myself, though not so many as to raise eyebrows; he is also more laid back and soft-spoken than the men of my past, which perhaps isn’t so bad a thing. The men of my past are in the past for a reason. But I never entertain the idea of getting to know Larry in any
way other than as Stax’s brother. Because he’s Stax’s brother.
“I’m waiting for Stax to free up,” I say. “Figured I’d put a little money in your pocket.”
“Oh yeah? What’s your poison?”
“Water, please, of the bottled variety.”
He waves away the dollar I hold out.
“No good here, Lacy.”
“Thanks, Larry. So, if I want to throw a party I can count on you to cater free of charge?”
“I’m generous, not stupid.”
We enjoy a laugh. Not a big one, but a good one. The kind you always need more of.
“Ixnay on the chuckles, you two. I make the funnies around here.” Stax enters the café carrying an armful of books.
“Just the lady I came to see,” I say. “Well, one of them anyways.”
“Ruby ain’t here.”
That surprises me. I thought we were due for another of our meeting of the minds when the store closed. “Everything okay?”
Stax shrugs. “Depends on how good of a cook she is.”
“Hey, I do the cooking around here,” Larry says.
Stax rolls her eyes.
“See, now you’ve got my brother stealing my lines. So lame. Ruby invited us over to her place tonight. Six o’clock. Be there or be square. Or, in your case, be there and be square, since you can’t help it.”
I bid adieu to the Bests and head home to clean up and spend a little QT with Meatball. The poor little guy is out of sorts with mommy gone so much lately. I find the paper towels on the kitchen floor and the toilet paper clawed off its roll. I feel guilty, but I can only be in so many places at once. I assuage my guilt by plying him with extra treats.
I put a load of laundry in and manage to grab a little ‘me’ time on the couch, cleaning out the rapidly-filling DVR. I didn’t realize how much time I waste in front of the tube until I spent a few minutes calculating the hours of vapid entertainment I had programmed.
Ruby once again dresses for the occasion: nothing too flashy, just a summer dress and a little rouge. But this time she adds jewelry of the variety you wouldn’t wear in just any neighborhood. And there is some sort of splendor circulating in the air around her. I step one foot into the house and the most wonderful aroma takes charge of my senses and pulls me over the threshold.
“Good evening, Lacy. What you’re smelling is beef stroganoff. An old Russian woman traded me the recipe for a signed copy of The Case of the Corpulent Corpse quite some years ago.”
“If it tastes anything like it smells, I’d say it was a good trade for both parties.” I mean it. Corpulent Corpse is one of my favorite Inspector Butterwell stories.
Ruby gushes appreciation for my kind words and disappears toward the kitchen with apologies. I follow her as far as the living room where once again I find myself entranced by the quaint opulence of her old-world décor. For all there is to look at, something I expect to see is missing.
“Where’s Stax?”
Rudy pokes her head around the corner from the kitchen. “She’s in the study, dear. Give me just a moment and I’ll take you to her. One must be careful not to burn one’s cream sauce.”
A moment later Ruby is at my elbow and ushering me past the divan and into the hall towards a door.
“You’ll find your friend in here.”
She opens the door to reveal the most remarkable room I’ve ever laid eyes on. It puts even her immaculate living room to shame. The plaster and wallpaper evident elsewhere in the house are here replaced with what appears to be oak wood and, over that, red velvet. The ceiling is oak as well, and from its center hangs a Victorian lamp with its glass shade stained soft amber. Similar standing lamps are scattered around the room atop tables and desks. On the far wall is a functional fireplace of the type one might imagine warmed the study of Charles Dickens. In the far-right corner something like a portrait painting on an easel is covered with a dark green sheet.
The walls are lined with floor-to-ceiling shelves weeping under the weight of first editions. Upon closer examination I realize I am gazing upon a treasure trove of classic mystery fiction. Dorothy Sayers, Margery Allingham, some chap named Carr, and a couple dozen more names, familiar and not so (and, of course, Queen Agatha); all first edition hard covers still in their dust jackets.
Oh, and Stax is here as promised. She has tears in her eyes and I’m about to rush to her side to offer comfort when she says “Look at these, books, Lace. Don’t touch them! But look at them. My word, if these were mine you’d be looking at my pension.”
I forgot for a moment that she is a bookseller, and to such a person this room is akin to Fort Knox.
It occurs to me that this study must originally have been the master bedroom of the house. I find myself wondering where Ruby sleeps—or, for that matter, if she sleeps—when in she walks with heaping bowls of beef stroganoff.
For the next few minutes all thoughts escape me except how much of this rich, creamy pasta I can fit into my body before I become dyspeptic. Following the example set at the café, and in what is becoming a tradition, we do not discuss the gruesome business of murder while eating. Instead, we partake of small talk, such as Ruby asking how my hind section feels since her massage, necessitating that I provide an explanation to Stax, who I’m certain will never let me hear the end of it.
It was an exceptional meal, but no meal can last forever. As the dishes are carried off and the evening tea is served, the air grows still and the atmosphere heavy with anticipation.
“Time to get down to work, ladies,” says Ruby, moving near the rectangular object hidden by the green sheet. Stax, behaving like an apt pupil, takes a seat facing Ruby. I haven’t budged from my chair since my gluttonous feast and don’t intend to do so for a while.
Ruby surprises us by jumping up from her chair with a startled ‘Oh!’ “I suppose one should prepare first, and I’ve set this up for our purpose.”
She removes the dark green sheet and reveals not a portrait but a shiny white board.
“A dry erase board?’ asks Stax.
“Precisely,” replies Ruby, pleased with herself. “In my writing days, I had a chalk board for the purpose of plotting out the intricacies of my murders—my fictional murders, that is—and also to help me keep my characters straight. One must be careful not to have two men named Bill if it’s not integral to the plot, or—Heaven forfend—give the damsel in distress blue eyes in the first act when you’ve jeweled her with orbs of emerald in Act Three. No, one must be organized. However, I was fussing endlessly over all the chalk dust settling on my knicks and knacks and mucking up my oriental rug. Insufferable! Edwyn, dear heart that he was, surprised me with a dry erase board one day and it is on this that I created my last five masterpieces—if you’ll allow a retired writer her delusions of grandeur.”
Ruby pauses a moment, her eyes settling fondly on the old board as though in it she could see her late husband. “It’s been in storage all these long years, but it’s time the old boy is called back into service.”
“So, we tell you things, and you’ll write ‘em up there?” asks Stax, as though the concept requires explanation.
“More or less. We’ll track our leads on this side (points to the upper left) and our suspects over here (points to upper right). When we exhaust a lead or clear a suspect, they’ll be erased with this (holds up eraser) and a new one added to take their place. Our challenge will be not to collect so many names that we run out of board.”
“And how do we do that?” I ask.
“Investigation. Good old fashioned knockin’ and talkin’ as the hardboiled boys used to say. Too many suspects means you’re not doing your job as a sleuth. In a typical whodunit, you have five to seven suspects, and certainly no more than nine—”
“But we’re in a Howdunit, aren’t we? Is that different?”
Ruby’s shoulder bounces a little at that. She nods grimly.
“Yes, yes, it is. Very different.”
“How many suspects
are there in a Howdunit?”
Ruby throws up her hands.
“One can never say, Miss Stax. If it’s a murder in an isolated location, such as a mansion that’s been snowed in, what you have is essentially a Whodunit with an impossible murder.”
“Why is that?” I inquire.
“Because you’ll have a limited pool of suspects.”
“Our pool is more like an ocean.”
“Exactly, but I don’t think it’s quite that bad.”
“How do you figure?”
“I’d say whoever is behind it must have been at the run.”
“One of the runners?”
“Most probably, but not necessarily.”
Stax runs a finger along the rim of her bowl, sopping up the delicious cream sauce. “The scissor killer from Marlene’s salon?”
Ruby nods.
Stax fidgets in her seat as though a ghost is playing with her hair. “Do we want to talk about that first, or talk about what I found out today?”
Ruby laughs. It is hearty and real, like her cooking. “Stax, you lovely creature, you’re nothing if not adorable. I know you’re itching to talk about your discovery. I’ve managed to drum up what little information there is about the salon killer. But what you have might prove more pertinent. So, without further ado…”
She motions for Stax to take the spotlight and returns to her chair.
Stax clears her throat. “Well, I was working my list today, showing Marlene’s picture around, and I wasn’t having any luck until I got to the Jazz Palace. You ever heard of the place?”
Ruby and I signal that we had not.
Stax sighs. “Me either. If Bon Jovi and Hank Jr. aren’t on the juke, then they ain’t getting my beer money. Anyway, this place is pretty fancy, like they are angling for a more highfalutin crowd. I thought to myself, ‘If I were a snob like Marlene, this is just the kind of joint I’d hang out in’, and so I showed her picture around.”
I am on the edge of my seat. “And?”
“Nope, she never went in there.”
“I believe that’s what you call an anti-climax,” I say.
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