Murder by Candlelight

by John Stockmyer

  All Z had to do now was get out of the house. (He'd already decided to hide behind the big tree; close to the front door but hidden from the street.) After that, would come the hard part. Waiting for the "party" to arrive.

  Out the front door, clicking the lock shut behind him, Z stepped behind the oak's thick trunk to become as much a part of its rough bark as an ancient wen.

  A quick review of the situation told him that the vehicles he'd be looking for would park on the street; conveyances driven by Dan -- the D.J. -- Jewell and Philip -- the Asshole -- Scherer.

  Z knew Scherer and, while Z had only met Jewell once -- to Z's sorrow -- Z had also learned a thing or two about that slippery bastard. What Z was betting his reputation on was that both men would show. And show up early.

  Z's calculations proving to be accurate, the headlights of the first "interesting" car soon flashed into view, its engine winding down, the car parking five houses away, headlights switched off, no sound of a door opening to let its driver out.

  Scherer?

  Risking a glance from behind his tree trunk, Z could tell the vehicle was the sort of "unmarked" car Scherer would be driving: a low-rent, fleet-purchased junker any criminal would immediately type as cop bait.

  Nor was Scherer -- eager as he was to add to his fabricated reputation as Clay County drug-buster -- content to stay in the comparative safety of his heap. Not Scherer. He hadn't been on the scene five minutes when he got out to move closer to the "drug" house.

  With Scherer approaching, Z backed away from the tree, turning to retreat in the opposite direction, down the completely dark side yard.

  At the back, Z pivoted to trot across other yards; Z's plan, to circle the police captain.

  Returning to the front sidewalk several houses down, Z saw he was now behind Scherer.

  With the advantage of surprise, Z tiptoed after the captain, using the soft grass bordering the sidewalk to absorb his footsteps, until he was within striking range of the cautiously advancing cop, Z tapping Scherer asleep with Z's blackjack. (To Z's discredit -- the Zapolska Code not allowing Z to take pleasure in violence -- Z got a little thrill out of slugging Scherer. Z could only hope that, in his enthusiasm, he hadn't zapped the rat-faced cop too hard.)

  As an afterthought, Z looked around to see if anyone along the dark street had "caught" this action; was relieved to find no one looking, everyone in the neighborhood inside their houses, stuck to their TV screens like ancient insects trapped in amber.

  Scherer slumped to the ole-timey, cracked-brick sidewalk, it was now only a matter of toting Scherer's limp body to the Ashlock house; a feat, using a "dead man" carry, Z accomplished with acceptable strain, getting the captain through the front door, down the hall and into one of the back bedrooms.

  Dumping the still inert cop on the bedspread, Z first unbuttoned the captain's neatly pressed, snow white shirt -- before going to the kitchen to get a bottle of booze and one of Ashlock's shot glasses, returning to the bedroom to pour a drink, then to splash some hooch over Scherer's chest. After which, Scherer certainly smelled like a party.

  Pressing the Dean's fingerprints around the glass and bottle, Z poured some whiskey into the glass, then put both bottle and glass on a convenient night stand.

  Z quickly out of the house; he was, once again (as lumber men always intimated about environmentalists,) eager to hug his tree. There, to wait for the next sucker to arrive, D.J. Jewell not taking long, an antenna-festooned panel van passing the house, squeaking to a stop up the street.

  Z flashed his penlight at his wristwatch. Eight-thirty.

  Unless Z missed his guess by what his father would have called a "country mile," Jewell would, even now, be observing the "drug" house in his rear view mirror, waiting for signs of a "party" before sneaking up to try to capture the promised "police disgrace" on videotape. Also picking up some "illegal" substances for evidence.

  Time getting short, Z backed away from the tree, careful to keep the tree trunk between him and the van in question.

  Clear of the tree, hustling down the side of the house, turning at the back, Z broke into a knee-straining trot across the Ashlock yard and through other, moonlit backyards until he was certain he'd outdistanced the parked van.

  Slowing, coming back through a distant neighbor's side yard, approaching White Street again, Z saw he was now two houses in front of the panel truck. A safe enough distance for him to cross the street before slithering back to squat down directly across the street from the van, in the vehicle's blind spot, Z hoped!

  The question of the moment was, would Jewell have a camera-man with him? ... Unlikely. A hot dog like Jewell would do the job himself. Credit-hounds worked alone.

  Nor was Z disappointed, the ethereal halo of a distant streetlight showing the shadow of but one head in the van.

  Bending low, Z crept across the dark street until he'd reached the van's side, squatting down there below the high, driver's window of what was more truck than minivan.

  Now what? Jewell, lone wolf of the airwaves, wasn't stupid. He'd have locked the doors ....

  No problem.

  Bending lower still, Z patted the surface of the street until he found what all streets had to offer. A pebble.

  Duck-walking to put himself closer to the driver's door, blackjack out and in his right hand, Z lobbed the small rock with his left, a clumsy toss but one sure to have the pebble hit the hood of the truck.

  Click!

  Not disappointing Z, Jewell followed the course of action any man would have: opened the door to find out what made that peculiar "engine" noise, receiving his complimentary tap by way of explanation.

  Another "body" delivered to Jewell's house.

  Put in yet another bedroom.

  Anointed with still another drizzle of alcohol, plus shot glass, and booze bottle.

  Z's part in the evening's festivities over for the moment, he left the house again to hide behind the tree, Z hoping the rest of the plan went as smoothly as the evening had gone so far. (Proud to be Immune from superstitions, he couldn't help but feel he was overdo for some good luck.)

  At least five, hour long minutes passed before Z heard the sound he was hoping for, a car slowing as it approached.

  Z risked a flash of light at his watch.

  Eight forty-five.

  Like the automaton his was, Dean Ashlock was coming home.

  Car lights raked the front lawn as the dean swung from the street into the small driveway on the other side of the house.

  Followed by the metallic slam of the car door.

  Steps.

  A squeak .... A sound Z hoped he'd hear: the lid of the mailbox being lifted.

  After that, came the scrape of the dean's key slotting into the lock, followed by the opening and closing of the door.

  As the swallows returned to Capistrano, as spawning salmon swam up stream, Z's pigeon had come home to roost!

  Z saw a rectangle of light appear on the lawn; the living room light switched on, shining through the front window.

  No sign, as yet, that the dean knew anything was wrong inside.

  After all, it was unlikely that Ashlock would go into the bedrooms when first coming home.

  What Z was counting on was that, before doing anything else, Ashlock would spend some time in the bathroom. Who, upon arriving at home after eating and drinking, didn't?

  A car drove by.

  Another car.

  Another car coming: this time featuring the sound of Jamie's mini-truck.

  Z huddled behind the tree again, his black outfit a perfect blend with the oak's night-black trunk.

  Yes.

  Headlights. Jamie, slowing to park at the curb across the street.

  As he'd explained to her, to pass herself off as a Johnny D. hooker she must both look and act the part, a task for which -- privately -- Z thought she was perfectly suited. He'd also cautioned her to wait for Johnny's girls to arrive -- should be any moment -- John's "ponies" the last piece of
the puzzle to be snapped in place.

  The night had become cooler; the breeze freshening. The air smelled ... damp. Though the "dead" of winter was still months away, its skeletal footsteps were already stalking all things green.

  No ... girls.

  Z was worried. He certainly didn't want Jamie going up to the house alone; had strictly forbidden her to do that. Still, as bold as Jamie was ....

  Ah! Another car coming. If only ....

  Yes. It, too, was slowing to a crunch of gravel along the curb. The car parking out front.

  In quick succession, four doors opened ... then slammed like the ragged volley of a drunken firing squad, the high chatter of women's voices drifting with the wind. Also the smell of hot perfume.

  Cautiously peeking out, Z saw Jamie's car door crack open; glimpsed the dome light flash on, then off as she swung the door shut.

  Next, came a momentary confrontation between Jamie and the other women as they met on the sidewalk in front of the house.

  Some girl talk. A little laughter. The flash of a cigarette lighter. A flounce of red and black.

  Apparently satisfied with Jamie's explanation of her presence -- that she was new to the life -- the women, impossible to count in the dark, wiggled up the walk to Ashlock's front door.

  One of the women rang the bell.

  A pause.

  Followed by the opening of the door, the women noisily pushing their way inside.

  And the trap was sprung!

  The rest was easy. All Z had to do was circle the house, pausing to take "candid" shots of the inside action through the slashes he'd made in the bedroom blinds, a task he set about after an "indecent" interval, Z beginning his photographic foray by peeking through the first slit he came to, seeing into the bedroom where he'd stashed Scherer. To find that the captain, now buck naked and awake, had been securely tied to the bedposts, a colorful silk scarf gagging his mouth. And ... something Z hadn't planned!

  What Z had failed to consider was that the hookers would find the package of drugs Z had mailed to Ashlock's home, the package Ashlock had found in his mailbox and taken inside the house. Z's plan was to have the dope there to be "discovered" by a later police search, Z taking a childish delight in boomeranging the coke to Scherer, Scherer's "boy" trying to stick Z with the snow. Special delivery. Return to sender.

  But the B-girls had found the flake. Already using it liberally themselves, they were "sharing" by dusting Scherer's nose, Scherer plainly beginning to get a rise out of the drug. (Also a "rise" out of the girls' more professional ministrations.)

  A couple of fast-film snapshots -- Scherer prominently featured -- and Z was around the house to another bedroom to take photos of similar scenes of Ashlock.

  Ditto, for D.J. Jewell.

  When it came right down to it, few things were as enjoyable -- either to participate in or to watch -- as men and women sporting in the altogether, though few wished to share the photos that were taken of themselves in these zestful moments.

  As for Jamie, she was going from room to room, enthusiastically clicking the flash camera, Jamie seeming to be enjoying her first brush with detective work. (To be truthful, she was now "getting into the spirit" of things even more than the job required.) For his part, Z was careful to take a few snaps of Jamie -- in positions a psychologist like Calder might describe as "parallel play."

  Finished photographing at last, Z crossed the backyard to limp back down the alley to 7-Eleven where he cranked up the Cavalier and drove back to Gladstone.

  Nearing home, he stopped at the busy, 72nd street QuikTrip's pay phone to rattle in his first quarter.

  "Gladstone Public Safety," whined the girl "manning" the phone, Gladstone Public Safety the local euphemism for the cops.

  "Detective Tabor."

  "Who should I say is calling?"

  "Me."

  "Me ... who?"

  "Got a tip."

  "One moment."

  A moment.

  "Detective Tabor, here."

  "Your boss is in trouble."

  "Who's speaking?"

  "Your boss is in trouble."

  "I don't know what you mean."

  "He's at 1256 White in Liberty. Girls. Dope."

  "But ...."

  Z hung up. If he knew Tabor, the rotund little toady would hop out of the police station, eager to do Scherer a favor by rescuing his captain from these alleged vices. Which was OK with Z, Z having had something of a change of plans since the party had gotten underway. Z's afterthought was that he wanted Scherer slowed down, not ruined. The captain could be dealt with, after all. His replacement, on the other hand ....

  Another call.

  "Who's this, honey?" asked a boozy voice.

  "Cops coming."

  "What you mean?"

  "Dosso said, get out."

  "Oh ... OK."

  Z owed John too much to get John's girls in trouble.

  The sequence of events as Z saw it was that John's joy girls -- plus Jamie -- would now make tracks. A quarter of an hour later, Tabor would arrive and free the three men; at about the same time, Jamie, coming the opposite direction, would reach Z's house to deposit her camera as he'd instructed her to do. Maybe.

  Except ... that, even after an hour, Jamie hadn't stopped by the apartment with the film -- not altogether a surprise.

  What "playful" purposes Jamie thought she might have for the dirty pictures she'd taken, Z couldn't imagine -- the best of reasons he'd "forgotten" to put film in Jamie's camera.

  On the other hand, in addition to sending the naughty pictures Z had taken to the men who'd starred in them, he'd be sure that Jamie got some of the "arty" photos he'd shot of her. It had been Z's experience that women (even more than men) disliked the idea of having revealing pictures of themselves ... out there ... somewhere, to say nothing of Jamie needing to at least appear circumspect since she made her living by teaching at a Catholic girls school. Jamie would give him trouble, would she? Not with that kind of can tied to her tail!

  Finished "settled everybody's hash" (as his sainted Mother used to say,) Z could now go to bed in the hope, at long last, of enjoying the "sleep of the righteous" -- another saying of good old Mom. When it came right down to it, there was nothing more satisfying than to be in a position to help good triumph over evil!

  * * * * *

  Chapter 22

  It was on the following Tuesday that Z got a skip-trace job from "Freedom Now," a Kansas City, Missouri bonding agency, the man on the run rumored to be hiding out with an uncle North-of-the-River. An unsuccessful enterprise, as it turned out, the relative long since moved away, Z having nowhere else to look.

  Failing to produce the felon, Z mailed back half the small advance, keeping the rest -- a fair deal, considering he'd spent the whole day looking for the runaway.

  A day later, Z had just entered his office at 9:00, when he got an angry call from Jamie Stewart.

  "What are you up to, you son-of-a-bitch!?" Not the kind of question anyone wants to hear after picking up his "secretary's" phone.

  "What?"

  "You know what I mean. There wasn't any film in the camera!"

  "That right?" Z settled himself on the front desk.

  "You know damn well that's right!"

  "Is that why you didn't bring the camera by after the job like you were supposed to?"

  A pause for thought. "I decided to get the film developed first."

  For all her experience as a liar, Jamie couldn't make that fib ring true.

  "Yeah."

  "If there was no film in the camera, what was I doing there? Just to give the impression that pictures were being taken?"

  "Yeah."

  "But why not actually take pictures?"

  "Wouldn't be nice."

  "I always thought you were a wimp," Jamie grumped.

  "Yeah."

  "But you can't shuck me. You took out the film because you didn't trust me!"

  "Since you failed to bring me the fi
lm like you promised ...."

  "Think you're pretty smart, don't you?" Jamie cut in, her voice thick with threat. "OK. You win this time. But I wouldn't count on winning round two!" Slam!

  Though Jamie didn't know it, Z planned on picking up the prints of the shots he'd taken this very afternoon, in time to mail them to their respective subjects by Five o'clock. Round two would begin when Jamie received the pictures Z had snapped of her sexual activities at the party, making Z the winner of that one, too.

  A prediction that came true, days passing after Z sent his pictures to their respective "stars" with no response from Jamie, the girl realizing her best strategy was not to make him angry. What she could not know -- nor could the others who received equally intriguing photos of themselves in action -- was that they were in possession of the only prints made; Z had just the one copy made before burning the negatives. While the Zapolksa code was flexible enough to allow the hint of blackmail, it positively forbade the use of blackmail.

  Visiting the other side of the "love front," Z's relationship with Susan was the best it had been in quite awhile, Susan's sunny mood providing that happy circumstance, her pleasant disposition a reflection of the smug self-satisfaction of her bosses at the insurance company. The tricky bastards beating back the government's attempt to reduce the cost of health insurance, the company's higher-ups now anticipated even greater ripoffs of the American public -- in Z's case, proving the truth of the old saying, "It's an ill wind that bloweth no man good." While America's people might be the losers for the collapse of government health care, Z's personal life was benefited, Susan better in bed than she'd been for some time.

  On the fifteenth of September, after a delightfully sweaty night of lovemaking at Susan's apartment, Z got a second indication that the Ashlock-Jewell-Scherer "party" was bearing fruit.

  Both Z and Susan still in the state of nature, covers thrown back, Z was about to drift off, this, in spite of the nausea Z always felt after having made love on Susan's waterbed. Susan, on the other hand, energized by sex (instead of falling sensibly asleep like God intended,) was rattling on about her week; had already "shared" the "hot" news that her immediate superior had gotten a fat bonus with which he planned to expand his already Olympic-sized swimming pool. Susan was now bringing Z up-to-date on the file clerk who'd quit and the "inexperienced child" who'd been hired to replace her. As one of the firm's "old girls," Susan took delight in bitching about the impossibility of hiring competent help. The obvious solution, of course, was for the insurance company to pay higher than starvation wages to attract quality employees, an option with little appeal to the firm's bosses, particularly when they had swimming pools that "needed" to be enlarged.