Dead Calm

by Annelise Ryan

  I listen, holding my breath and counting footfalls as I hear his little feet clump down the stairs. Two feet for each stair. When I get to twenty-four, I breathe again.

  I roll over and look at the clock. It’s six-thirty and a workday, so I need to get moving. I toss back the covers and grab my robe. It’s early February, and Old Man Winter is clinging to life with a vengeance. The temperature outside is a frigid 4 degrees, and there is a wind howling past my brand-new, double-paned, thermal windows that promises some chapped lips and cheeks.

  I shuffle into the bathroom, which is as big as the living room I had in the cottage. I turn on the shower with its multiple jets and overhead rain shower, and brush my teeth while I wait for the water to heat up.

  Fifteen luxurious minutes later, I step out of the shower and dry off. Then I head into the large walk-in closet off the bathroom, pick out some heavy slacks and a blue wool sweater, and dress for work.

  By the time I make it downstairs to our state-of-the-art kitchen with its six-burner stove, a refrigerator almost as big as our shower, and beautiful stone countertops, Hurley and Matthew are seated at the table in our breakfast nook, having a man-to-man discussion about the importance of eating vegetables. I grab a cup of coffee—just plain old coffee for now, although we do have one of those fancy coffee machines that can give Starbucks a run for its money—and join them.

  “Morning, Squatch,” Hurley says. He half stands so he can lean across the table and kiss me. “Should I make you an omelet?”

  “No, thanks. I’m not very hungry at the moment. And today is the day that Christopher and I overlap, so he’s going to be in the library with me all day. It’s hard to deal with that on a full stomach.”

  Despite his physical ailment, which has been mitigated somewhat by Izzy finding a product called Shreddies—underwear with an activated charcoal lining—Christopher has turned out to be an excellent employee. He is smart, reliable, eager to work, and has a good sense of humor, even about his gas problem. The Shreddies aren’t bulletproof, which is why I’m passing on breakfast for now, but they have definitely helped.

  “Are they calling for more snow?” I ask Hurley.

  “Not today. But there’s a storm coming in tomorrow that will probably drop half a foot or so.”

  “Buying that plow was a brilliant idea,” I tell him. In truth, it was a necessity. Negotiating our driveway when there’s a significant amount of snow and ice on the ground is a daunting challenge.

  “Personally, I think the truck that goes with it was an even better idea,” Hurley says.

  Our car shopping turned into quite the escapade back when we met with Penny Cook’s ex-husband. He was so delighted to learn that we had taken Penny off his hands for good that he gave us an unbelievable deal on a new four-wheel drive truck (in a shade of blue that matches Hurley’s eyes) in addition to the cherry-red Jeep Cherokee we bought for Emily. Hurley was hesitant at first, worried about the costs, but Cook made us such a good offer both on price and the trade-in on Hurley’s car, it was impossible to refuse. And once Hurley got behind the wheel of that truck, he was sold.

  We presented Emily with the car at the end of August so she would have it when she started school. She had been shopping for used cars for several weeks and bemoaning what she could get for the money she had saved up. We let her whine for a while and got what babysitting services out of her that we could before surprising her with the car. Her reaction was priceless. She laughed, she cried, she yelped, she danced, and in the end, she hugged both of us so tight we could barely breathe.

  Of course, Hurley mitigated the joy shortly thereafter by giving her a stern lecture on safe, defensive driving, and then making her drive him around in it and show him how she planned to make use of the Bluetooth capabilities. The fact that the car could provide hands-free phone and messaging capabilities gave us a semblance of comfort. The heated seat and steering wheel would give Emily a lot of comfort on days like this.

  I’m glad we sprang for four-wheel drive on both vehicles. It has proven invaluable this winter. I still have the hearse, and while it doesn’t have four-wheel drive, it handles nicely in the snow because of its wide wheel base and heaviness. The thing drives like a tank.

  As I sit at the table in my brand-new, spacious kitchen, sipping my coffee and watching my husband and son eat their breakfast and banter with one another, I feel a rush of contentment. Life is good right now. Hurley and I are both getting plenty of sleep, we are all happy and healthy, and Matthew is finally pooping and peeing in the potty with regularity. For the first time since Matthew’s birth, I start to think that maybe Hurley is right. We should have another kid.

  Before I can let that thought get too far into my head, I get up and carry my cup to the sink, rinse it out, and put it in the dishwasher. “I’m going to head into the office,” I tell Hurley. “When you drop Matthew off with Dom, ask him when opening night is for his new play. I think it’s coming up soon.”

  “Will do,” Hurley says. I walk toward the foyer and the coat closet, glancing out the huge wall of windows in the living room that look over the bluff. I stop when I see a car chugging up the drive, a small, black SUV that I don’t recognize.

  “Hurley, someone is here,” I holler.

  Hurley is at my side seconds later. The two of us watch as the car pulls into the circle out front and stops, and then Hurley goes to the coat closet, punches in the number code for the gun safe on the top shelf, and removes his service weapon.

  Matthew appears at my side and looks out the window with me. “Who dat?” he asks, pointing at the car.

  Just then, the driver-side door to the car opens, and a young man steps out. I breathe a sigh of relief and hear Hurley do the same in the foyer. I hear the sound of his gun going back into the safe, and the safe door shutting and whining as the lock resets. Then I hear Hurley punching in the numbers for the front-door alarm. He opens the door before our visitor has a chance to knock or ring the bell.

  “Cletus!” I say once he’s inside. “I hardly recognized you.” Cletus clearly took our advice to heart and has totally cleaned up his act. The skin on his face is almost completely clear, his hair is still looking great even when he pulls off the knit cap he’s wearing, and beneath his long, wool coat he is wearing khakis and a button-down shirt. “What brings you out this way?” I ask him.

  “I have some news for you,” he says, taking off his stylish glasses because they have fogged up. “Is there somewhere we can talk?” He shoots a sidelong glance at Matthew.

  “Um, sure,” I say. “Just give me a minute.” I take Matthew by the hand and walk him into the living room, sitting him down in front of the TV. “Want to watch some cartoons?” I say.

  “PongeBob,” he yells. I turn the TV on and then hand him the remote. I don’t know if SpongeBob is on any of the channels, but I figure hunting for him will keep Matthew occupied for a while.

  Hurley, Cletus, and I move into the kitchen and huddle around the end of the breakfast bar, far enough away from Matthew to talk without him hearing us, but still within line of sight of him. Cletus is carrying a briefcase, and he sets it on the counter and opens it.

  “I don’t know if you have seen this yet or not, but this is today’s copy of the Tribune.” He sets the newspaper on the bar with the front-page headline showing. I read it, and then I read it again, wanting to believe it but afraid to:

  INDICTMENTS ISSUED IN BIG PHARMA SCANDAL

  I look at Cletus. “You did it?” I say.

  “I did it,” he says with a big grin. “Of course, I had a little help. Actually, I had a lot of help,” he adds with a sheepish grin.

  I start scanning the article, and my eyes zero in on several words and names: Leptosoma, Drake Industries, Algernon Medical, Desmond and Marilyn Townsend, Wesley, Jason, and Randall Kupper. There are several other big, recognizable names in the article, including a couple of political bigwigs, a district attorney in Milwaukee, doctors, and several lawyers. I note that the
law firm hired to represent Tomas Wyzinski is mentioned, but I don’t see Joan Mackey’s name anywhere. Maybe she wasn’t in on it. Either way, Tomas should be able to get a second trial, if nothing else, though I’m hoping we can simply get him exonerated and freed. With the help of Marshal Washington, we had his brother, Lech, hidden away in the Witness Protection Program six months ago, a fact I communicated to Tomas when I paid him a second visit—this time without Mackey—and told him to sit tight.

  “Holy cow, Cletus. You really did it!” I say.

  “And it’s not done yet. There are more names coming. You were right. This thing is huge.”

  I open the paper to continue reading the article on another page, still scanning for names.

  “Once we cracked this nut a little, a whole lot of stuff spilled out,” Cletus says. “We have people who are now willing to come forward. That ME who disappeared down in Brazil was offered immunity and protection, and he’s now willing to testify. And I heard a rumor that Tomas Wyzinski might finally talk.”

  I’ve finished scanning the article, and one name didn’t show up anywhere. I look at Cletus. “David?”

  “He’s cooperated fully and been guaranteed immunity by the DA’s office. We made sure we had a DA we could trust before moving ahead with it. I don’t think he’ll see any repercussions from this, and his real name was never used anywhere in any of the documents. So I think we’re good.”

  This is good news. I saw Patty just the other day, and she looked like an overinflated balloon ready to burst. She’s due to drop that kid any day now, and as far as I can tell from what’s circulating on the rumor mill, she and David seem to be doing just fine. And since David now has a new office nurse, I’m hoping that just maybe he’s finally seen the error of his ways. But I wouldn’t bet money on it.

  Thoughts of betting money make me think of Penny Cook, and as if Cletus has read my mind, he says, “I spoke to Pamela Knowlton yesterday. She sounds like she’s doing well. She really likes it down in Arizona, and she said she has plenty of clients, thanks to all the retirees down there.”

  “That’s good to hear,” I say. “She was smart to relocate. And Arizona is sounding mighty good right about now.”

  “No kidding,” Cletus says.

  Hurley has remained quiet throughout our discussion, and he’s now reading the article on the front page. I offer Cletus a cup of coffee—or a latte, if he prefers. He opts for the plain coffee, and while I’m pouring him a cup, he asks me how his replacement at the local paper is doing. Cletus quit his job here several months back and headed out of town. We didn’t contact him or ask any questions at the time because we didn’t want to rouse anyone’s curiosity.

  “It’s some goofy guy named Irwin Cleese who’s tall, thin, has huge feet, and is clumsier than I am,” I tell him. “I swear, that man must have rubber for bones, because he’s fallen more times than I can remember, but he never seems to hurt himself. So far, he’s been easy enough to work with other than that. He cooperates with us.”

  “That’s good,” Cletus says.

  “And what are you doing these days?” I ask him. “Are you with the Trib?”

  “I am,” he says with a smile. “Thanks to you.”

  I am about to hand Cletus his cup of coffee when Hurley comes up behind him, grabs him by the shoulders, and spins him around. He holds him at arm’s length and says, “Man, you did one hell of a job with this. Mattie saw something in you that made her think you could pull this thing off, but I’ll be honest, I was skeptical. I figured you’d end up dead.”

  Cletus coughs, and lets out a nervous laugh. “Um, thanks, I think?”

  Hurley lets go of Cletus’s shoulders and extends a hand. Cletus takes it, and the two men shake. “Thank you, Cletus,” Hurley says. “We owe you one. If you ever need help with anything, don’t hesitate to ask.”

  “Thanks, man,” he says. “You guys have done enough for me already, but I appreciate the offer.”

  “Hey,” I say. “Never turn down an offer like that. You never know when you might need our help down the road.”

  Cletus nods and smiles. “Okay.” He glances at his watch and says, “On second thought, I think I’ll have to pass on that coffee. I have a lot of ground to cover today, and I should get going.”

  “That’s an easy fix,” I tell him. I take the mug of coffee I’ve prepared and pour it into one of the dozen or so to-go mugs we have. “Take it with you,” I say, handing it to him. “And keep the mug. We have a ton of them.”

  “Thanks,” Cletus says, accepting the mug.

  “I’m heading out myself,” I say. “Give me a second to get my coat on, and I’ll go out with you.” I hurry into the living room, give my son, whose attention is riveted on the TV, a kiss on the head, and then grab my coat, scarf, gloves, and boots from the foyer closet.

  “Ready when you are,” I announce to Cletus. Hurley has him again, one arm draped over his shoulder, telling him how impressed he is with what he’s done. Cletus is smiling, but it looks forced, and I suspect his decision to leave is because Hurley’s attention is making him uncomfortable.

  Hurley finally releases him, and the two of us make a quick exit. “Hold on a second, Cletus,” I say as I shut the door behind us. “I want to show you something.” I lead him off the porch and over to the side of the house near one edge of the bluff. A few feet from the edge is a large boulder some three feet across and two feet high. It was the very last piece of landscaping we had installed, and getting it up here was a bit of a nightmare.

  “Check it out,” I say, pointing to a flat area on top of the rock. “We put him back where we found him.”

  Cletus looks and then nods as he reads what’s etched into the stone:

  IN MEMORY OF OSKAR

  1950–1960

  NOW FLYING FREE

  Annelise Ryan also writes as Allyson K. Abbott.

  In August don’t miss Allyson’s next book

  LAST CALL

  from her critically acclaimed series:

  A Mack’s Bar Mystery!

  Turn the page for a sneak peek of

  LAST CALL

  CHAPTER 1

  It is the beginning of a new year, and for many, it feels like a fresh start, an artificial marker that gives the day some imagined significance over its predecessor. For some, it signifies hope for the future; for others, it may mean establishing new motivations for personal growth. Sometimes it simply offers a fresh outlook on life. For me, it means better than average business, and in the case of this particular coming year, a fresh—or at least different—outlook on death.

  My name is Mackenzie Dalton, though everyone calls me Mack, and I own a bar located in downtown Milwaukee. The post-holiday season is a busy one for the bar. Some people come in hoping to extend their holiday spirit by lifting a few holiday spirits with their friends, family, or coworkers. Others come in to celebrate the end of the hectic mad rush that always seems to be a hallmark of the holiday season. Still others come in simply because it’s part of their regular routine to visit the neighborhood bar, exercise their elbows, and share their holiday tales with other regulars they see throughout the year. And more than a few come in simply to escape the bone-chilling cold that is part and parcel of a Milwaukee winter. Cozying up to a drink with some friends is a great way to warm both the body and the soul.

  My bar has a lot of regulars, the most notable of whom are an assemblage of bar stool detectives who call themselves the Capone Club. This group is an eclectic collection of folks from many walks of life who share a common interest in crime solving. The Club got its start through some tragic events that happened over the past year, not the least of which was the murder of my father, Mack, exactly a year ago today. My father opened Mack’s Bar thirty-five years ago, naming it after himself and then giving me a name that would allow me to eponymously inherit. It was a huge assumption on his part that I would want to do this, but he guessed right. For me, the decision was a no-brainer.

  My mo
ther died shortly after giving birth to me, so it was always just me and Dad, running the bar day in and day out. We lived in a three-bedroom apartment above it, and this made for a strange and memorable childhood. I knew how to mix a host of cocktails before I knew my ABCs, my extended family consisted of some of the bar’s regular customers, and I was the envy of many of my high school friends, who coveted my constant exposure to free alcohol. Despite my unusual childhood, I’d have to say it was a happy and simple one. My life up until a year ago was uncomplicated and enjoyable for the most part.

  Of course, there were a few rough spots. One in particular that marked me as different from the other kids and nearly got me declared insane, is a neurological disorder I have that is called synesthesia. It’s an odd cross-wiring of the senses that results in its victims experiencing the world around them in ways that others don’t. According to the doctors who evaluated me over the years, my synesthesia is a particularly severe case. The most commonly ascribed-to theory about how I acquired this disorder is that it resulted from the unusual circumstances surrounding my birth. My mother ended up in a coma due to injuries from a car accident that happened while she was pregnant with me. She sustained severe brain damage that left her essentially dead, but her heart—and mine—kept going. So she was hooked up to machines, and her body was kept alive until it was safe for me to be born. Then the machines were removed, and she was allowed to die. Whenever I asked about my mother’s death, my father always told me it was peaceful—he believed my mother’s soul had slipped away the night of the accident—but there was a haunted look in his eyes whenever he spoke of it that let me know he had his doubts.

  The doctors speculated that the conditions surrounding my gestation and birth contributed to an abnormal development of my neurological system. The end result is that I experience each of my senses—sight, sound, smell, taste, and touch—in at least two ways. For instance, I taste certain sounds; this typically is the case with men’s voices. Other sounds, such as music, are accompanied by visual manifestations, like floating geometric shapes or colorful designs. Most of my tastes are accompanied by sounds. The taste of champagne makes me hear violin music, whereas beer makes me hear the deep bass notes of a cello. But there are some tastes that trigger a physical or emotional sensation instead. For instance, I confess to being something of a coffee snob, and when I drink coffee that’s brewed just right, it makes me feel happy inside, almost giddy. Bad coffee makes me feel irritable and angry. I’m something of a coffee addict, and no coffee for a length of time makes me feel almost homicidal, though I suspect this is more of a caffeine addiction issue as opposed to a manifestation of my synesthesia.