"What! I can't do that. We have—we have a business—"
"I changed my mind. Twenty is too low. Someone would steal him away from you. Let's do twenty-five."
"Twenty-five!"
"Still too low? You think we should do thirty?"
"But twenty-five is more than I make!"
"Let's make it twenty-six, then. Seems fair."
John stewed in silence. He wasn't a complicated man. Watching his gears turn was like watching a child's engineering kit, one with all the moving parts made obvious. Mel made a sound that was half sigh and half whimper.
"Okay," he said.
"Say again?" Gage asked.
"I said okay. I'll give him the raise."
"Good, good. I think that's a wise choice. Ron seems like just the sort of person I want to keep in touch with, by the way. He seems to know things. So I figure I'll stop by from time to time and see how things are going. I'll expect he'll be here for a long time. Wouldn't you agree?"
John mumbled something.
"What's that?" Gage said.
"Yes," John said, "he'll be here for a long time."
"Fantastic." Gage got to his feet, then turned back for one last remark because he couldn't help himself. He tapped his forehead. "Because, you know, I'd hate to think what I'd remember if I couldn't get in touch with Ron. Think of him as a way of distracting me from those unpleasant memories."
If John or Mel had even one ounce of real courage, they might have given Gage a nice, cold stare, but instead they barely lifted their gazes from the floor. When he left, Gage almost felt bad for them.
Almost.
Chapter 8
Ron was waiting for him when Gage parked the van in front of Unit 6. He leaned against one side of the doorframe of Ed Boone's apartment, so broad-chested his other shoulder nearly brushed the other side. The potted geraniums on either side of the door looked like dandelions in child-size paper cups next to Ron's work boots. He was such a massive physical specimen that Gage felt self-conscious about taking his cane, but trying to take the stairs without it was a risk he wasn't willing to take just for his pride.
When he managed to trudge up to the top, Ron nodded to him.
"I read about what happened to your knee," he said. "That's the shits, man."
This comment surprised Gage on two levels. First, and most embarrassingly, Gage wouldn't have expected Ron to be much of a reader. The second surprise, of course, was that Ron had not only read about the encounter with the mafia hit man who'd maimed Gage and killed his wife, but remembered it, felt bad about it, and decided he should express some sympathy. This embarrassed Gage because he knew he'd typecast the big guy, both in his literacy level and his ability to express empathy.
"Thanks," Gage said, because he didn't know what else to say.
"Why don't you get it fixed?"
"What's that?"
"The knee. I got mine fixed after I got back from Iraq. Ortho doc was great."
"Oh. I don't know."
"You should."
"Yeah."
"It'll make you feel loads better. I know how it is. You feel like maybe you're a pussy for not just toughing it out. But it's not worth it, man. Just get the sucker fixed."
Gage nodded, not knowing what to say. He had no intention of getting his knee fixed, but somehow, hearing it from Ron instead of all the other people in his life, he found it hard to muster any indignation. He just felt a little sorry for himself, and that wasn't a feeling he wanted to dwell on for long.
"Can I see the apartment?" he asked.
Ron backed inside and gestured for Gage to enter. He stepped into a tiny foyer, a square of pebbled yellow vinyl that was probably original to the apartment, but in surprisingly good shape. The wildflower design was scuffed and faded in a few spots, but it looked more like two years old than twenty. Beyond the vinyl was, just as John predicted, white-and-blue checkered carpet, and it was in even better shape than the vinyl. It did show some wear here and there, especially down the middle, but it also still bore tracks from a recent vacuuming. There was a pair of men's brown felt slippers on a black iron shoe rack by the door, as well as rubber boots, a pair of brown loafers, and a set of well-worn tennis shoes with sand stuck to the treads.
Gage made a quick first pass. The hall led to two doors, a bathroom and a bedroom. There were picture hooks on the hallway walls but no pictures. He peeked in both rooms and found their condition much like the hall: old, but well maintained, with only the minimum amount of furnishings. There was a well-worn toothbrush in a glass on the counter in the bathroom, a metal-frame bed and a dresser in the bedroom. The dresser was a golden color that was meant to look like pine but was probably just pressboard.
Three hardcover books with glossy protective covers sat on the matching bedside end table, all three bearing library labels on their spine. The first book was a biography of Howard Hughes, the second a history of the Civil War, and the last a historical novel set during the Great Depression that had won a Pulitzer. Gage knew it had won the Pulitzer because he had read it himself. The books were the only sign of personality in an otherwise sterile room. No photos on his end table. No paintings, posters, or prints on the walls—walls that were utterly white and bare except for a handful of picture hooks that somehow made the walls seem even more naked and barren.
"Ed sure liked to read," Ron said.
Gage looked at him. The big guy leaned his bearded face into the bedroom without entering it, like a giant peering into a dollhouse.
"You knew him personally?" Gage asked.
"A little. He was always going back and forth from the library. He used to buy a lot of books years ago, he said, but now he just uses the library. I like to buy mine. You know, for writing notes in them. Especially the heavier stuff, philosophy, that sort of thing."
An image of Ron scribbling notes in Plato's Republic popped into Gage's mind, nearly derailing him. "Where are the pictures?"
"What do you mean?"
"On the walls. Here, the hall. There are picture hooks, but no pictures."
"Oh." Ron shrugged. "I think those were here, you know, before."
"From the previous owners?"
"Yeah. They left them behind, I guess."
"Twenty years ago?"
"I guess so."
"And he never hung his own pictures?"
"I guess not."
Gage looked at the picture hooks again. For some reason, the sight of all those empty hooks made him feel a deep wellspring of sadness. It wasn't that the walls were bare. Usually that just showed either obliviousness or indifference to what a few pictures could do to change the mood of a room. But what kind of man moved into an apartment and not only didn't hang any pictures, but didn't even bother to take down the picture hooks the previous occupants had left behind? Maybe there were people who could remain oblivious to empty picture hooks for a week or a month, but twenty years?
That was an active choice, ignoring those picture hooks for that long, and what did that choice say about Ed Boone? To Gage, it said that Ed Boone refused to see this apartment as his home. No way he'd planned to live here twenty years. It was temporary, until other opportunities presented themselves, whatever those were.
Gage thought about himself. He had pictures on his walls, didn't he? Zoe certainly did, but what about him? Strangely, he couldn't recall, though he was sure he did. He distinctly remembered buying some prints of sunsets on the Oregon coast, though he couldn't remember actually hanging them. Yes, that was right, one in the living room and one in the hall. And, of course, he had those framed pictures of Janet by his bed.
But he didn't have a lot. More than Ed Boone, but that wasn't saying much.
He perused the kitchen and the living room, Ron dutifully following. If not for the sheer size of him, and the smell of garlic and cut grass that pervaded any room he occupied, the man was surprisingly unobtrusive. If it was possible for a mountain to be invisible, then Ron fit the bill. Gage wondered if any mountain
s smelled like garlic.
The living room also sported blank white walls with empty picture hooks, but, just as Ed Boone had indicated in his letter, there were lots of books. The books were contained in three six-foot adjoining bookshelves, the cheap kind you could buy at Walmart. The shelves were packed to the brim with a wide assortment of hardcovers and paperbacks of every size and color, neatly alphabetized by author.
The couch and loveseat were a muted gray that might have been the original tint or might have been muted because it had faded; in either case, there was so little wear Gage doubted either had been used much. The brown leather recliner next to the couch, however, looked well used indeed, with wear marks on both the seat and the arms. There was a cheap maple end table with a lamp on it, positioned to provide maximum lighting for the chair. Another library book, a recent Stephen King, lay on the end table.
The kitchen, a tiny nook beyond a simple oak table with four chairs, was just as a bare. The blue Formica countertop, a color and style Gage doubted existed anywhere else in the world other than this apartment, shone as if it had been recently installed. He checked the cabinets and the drawers, half expecting them to be empty, since the house had the feeling of Hollywood make-believe, but there were pots and pans and forks and knives and everything else a person would need. There were spices in the cupboard, milk, cheese, and other things in the fridge, even if it all felt a bit too sterile and organized.
"He spend a lot of time here?" Gage asked.
Ron shrugged.
"I thought you knew him?" Gage asked.
"Not that well."
"But you didn't get the sense that he actually lived somewhere else, did you?"
"No."
Gage stepped over to the bookcase. He saw a whole section of books on Heceta Head Lighthouse, all filed under H, but everything else was alphabetized by author. Between two hardcovers by Block and Bukowski, Gage thought he spotted a sliver of something white, like an envelope. He debated whether to pull it out in front of Ron. It might be better to look at it on his own, but he didn't know when he'd have a chance to do that, and he had a hunch there might be an advantage to extending some trust to Ron. It was just a gut feeling, but he had the sense Ron was holding back, something he knew, and if he felt like Gage was willing to trust him, well, then maybe Ron would trust him back.
"Can you keep a secret?" Gage asked him.
Ron stood there staring for a long time, as if nothing had been asked of him but to do just that.
"I asked—" Gage began.
"I heard you. Is it something about Ed?"
"Yes."
"Soon as I saw you, back in the van, I knew that's why you were here."
"What makes you say that?"
Ron shrugged. "I knew it was Ed who they said jumped from the lighthouse. I knew because that's where he went and he didn't come home. Then the police showed up and asked questions, but he's got no family so they told John and Mel to hold tight for now. Don't know why else you'd be here. What's the secret?"
It was quite a monologue for somebody like Ron. He visibly sagged, as if all those words strung together had depleted him. Gage reached between the books and pulled out a slender white envelope. The words "My Will, Ed Boone," were handwritten on the outside. The envelope was sealed.
He showed it to Ron.
"Oh," Ron said.
"I think it's a good idea that you just saw me do this," Gage said. "In case there's ever a challenge in court, now there are two of us who found this here."
"How'd you know it was there?"
"I can't say just yet."
"But that's part of the secret?"
"Yeah."
"And you're not going to tell anyone about it?"
"Not just yet. If I open it now, people might think it's been tampered with. I'm going to put it back and make sure the police are the ones who open it. I just wanted to confirm it was here."
Gage studied the envelope for a moment, then slid it back into place.
"Question," Ron said.
"Sure," Gage said.
"You think somebody's not gonna like what's inside there? Like his kids?"
"I think it's a distinct possibility."
Ron's expression turned sullen. Gage searched the rest of the apartment, hoping to find some hints of Ed's life, especially his life before coming to the apartment. He did find a wall calendar in the bathroom, one with several hand-written appointments throughout—not many, but a few. There were appointments with a Dr. Keene, one each month going back a year, plus other, more frequent visits with doctors the last few months. One, a Dr. Hambly, had OHSU written after it, which had to be Oregon Health Sciences University in Portland. A specialist for his Alzheimer's, no doubt. Dr. Keene was probably the local doctor.
There were also weekly notations, every Thursday, for HHL, which must have stood for Heceta Head Lighthouse. Other than that, the calendar was pretty barren. There were two appointments, six months apart, for BBAH, but Gage couldn't think what that was. Barnacle Bluffs was obvious, but nothing jumped to mind for the AH.
"What's BBAH?" he asked Ron.
Ron shrugged. The handwriting was clearer earlier in the year, shakier later. The ballpoint pen he'd probably used was in the top drawer, along with manual razors, shaving cream, and all the other basics for personal hygiene. In the medicine cabinet, a wide range of pills was on display. Beyond the usual, Aleve, Imodium, Sudafed, and the like, there was Donepezil and Rivastigmine, which Gage guessed was for the Alzheimer's. No Xanax, Lexapro, or other drugs to treat depression or anxiety, which didn't surprise Gage. This was a guy after his own heart, somebody who might take some pills for physical pain but would rather die than admit he couldn't keep his mental house in order.
Satisfied he'd searched as much as he could for now, Gage headed for the door. He'd confirmed the will was here, and he also had the names of some doctors, people who might shed more light on Ed's life. Nothing about Nora—CDs, biographies, and the like—which did seem odd.
"I know what BBAH is," Ron said.
Gage stopped. With the front door on one side, and Ron, who was essentially a wall, on the other, Gage felt like he was stuffed in a broom closet. There was an edge in Ron's voice that made Gage hyperconscious of the tight space, how much of a disadvantage he was at if Ron wasn't the good guy he thought he was.
"You do?"
Ron nodded.
"Well?"
"It's Barnacle Bluffs Animal Hospital."
"The animal hospital? But why? Did he volunteer there too?"
"No."
"Okay. Because if someone goes to a vet, that usually implies—"
"Yeah, he had a dog."
The big guy didn't appear to be joking. Gage hadn't seen any signs of a dog.
"He had a dog?"
"Didn't I just say that?"
"Right. What kind of dog?"
"A little one."
"You don't know the breed?"
"It's black. Some white. Funny snout."
"And you have it at your place?"
"You don't see it hiding around here, do ya?"
"All right. Why didn't you tell me this before?"
Ron hesitated. "I wasn't sure about you. He really loved that dog. For the short time he had her, he already loved her almost as much as his books."
"How long did he have it?"
"Not very long. A few months. He told me he got her from the Humane Society. I remember John and Mel making a stink about it back in May, but he told them to check his contract."
"And they allow dogs here?"
"Not anymore. But they did when he came here. I think his contract allows pets with a deposit. He told me he had a dog when he first got here, but when she passed he didn't get another until Lady."
"Why do you have it?"
"Sometimes he'd ask me to watch her. Like if he knew he was going to be gone a long time. Like when he stayed overnight in Portland for one of his appointments. Not a lot, just sometimes. He didn't want L
ady to be lonely."
"The dog's name is Lady?"
"Yeah. Lady Luck, but he just calls her Lady."
"So I want to be clear about this, Ron. When did Ed give you Lady?"
The big guy stared at Gage, but didn't say anything.
"Ron?"
"He didn't."
"Excuse me?"
"He didn't give her to me this time. That's why I didn't say anything at first. I came and got her."
"When?"
"Right away."
"Like how soon, right away?"
"Like, right when I heard he'd jumped." Ron paused. "I have a police scanner. I like to listen to it at night. Helps me sleep."
"I see. Odd, but okay."
"I knew it was him as soon as I heard the police talking about a possible suicide at the lighthouse. I knew how much Ed loved that dog. I knew about his mean sons. I didn't want no mean-ass kids to end up with the dog. Figured she'd just end up at the pound. So I came over here very late, and since Ed wasn't here I knew for sure it was him that jumped. I took Lady home."
"You must have taken everything for her, too. I didn't see a bowl, dog food—"
"Yeah, I took all of it. Ed kept all her food and stuff all neat and tidy in the cupboard, anyway. I just took her bed and her toys. I didn't want there to be no sign of her. Figured I could always give her to the kids if they turned out all right. But I saw the son that came yesterday. Real prick."
"But Ed didn't ask you to look after her this time?"
"No. When he was just going to the lighthouse for the afternoon, he usually didn't. He'd just leave Lady in the apartment."
Gage took his hand off the knob, absorbing this information. It troubled him. If Ed was the kind of guy who'd make sure his dog was looked after while he was at OHSU, certainly he was the kind of guy who would make sure his dog would have a new home if he planned on committing suicide. Yet he hadn't. Of course, someone who planned on killing himself wasn't in his right mind, but he hadn't mentioned Lady in his letter to Nora, either. Why?
And he'd only had Lady a few months. Why would someone intent on suicide get a dog?
A Lighthouse for the Lonely Heart: An Oregon Coast Mystery (Garrison Gage Series Book 5) Page 9