Lasting Doubts (The Red Lake Series Book 2)

by Rich Foster

  His house was minutes away from the Antolli’s. He laid his thoughts aside and went in for lunch. After a Bass ale and a grilled cheese topped with dill pickles and mustard, he was back on the road.

  Traffic was heavy on the shore road but it thinned north of the prison. Twenty-five minutes later he was in Mason Forks. Failure clung to the village’s main street. Several buildings were boarded up; others struggled on, though prosperity eluded them. The town lay in the shadow of the mountain that rose loftily behind it left the area dim and depleted.

  Halfway down the hill into town he saw a sign, Farron Real Estate. Harry pulled over. Before he was out of this car a man quickly left the office and slid into a sedan. The car pulled away. The man hadn’t locked the office door so Harry assumed someone was in.

  He trotted across the highway. An air horn blasted and a logging truck roared past, the displaced air buffeted him as he barely made it onto the sidewalk. That was close. This case could have killed me.

  Inside the realty office, an attractive woman of thirty-five or so sat at a desk. Her hair, just off the shoulder, swayed as she typed at her computer. A bell rang as Harry opened the door. The woman looked up.

  “May I help you?” Her eyes were bright and her smile friendly.

  “Harry Grim,” he said.

  “Jessica Farron.” She extended her hand.

  “I wanted to talk to you about Alison Albright.”

  The hand retracted as quick as a turtle withdrawing into its shell. The smile crumbled and the sham affability of the salesperson vanished from her eyes.

  “Who?”

  “Alison Albright. She turned up dead wrapped in plastic a month ago.”

  “Oh, her. I read about that in the paper.”

  “Well, the last time anybody saw her, you were with her.”

  “Really?” Wariness clung to her. The words were a stall for time.

  “Graduation night, twenty years ago? Alison was the life of the party.”

  “I don’t know what you are talking about Mr. Finn.”

  “Grim, with a “G”, not Finn.”

  “Whatever, I don’t remember.”

  “That’s funny, a lot of people remember you!”

  A rosy flush rose in her cheeks. Panic flashed across her eyes.

  “What did they tell you?”

  “What are you afraid they told me?”

  “Nothing. I have no idea what you are inferring. I am a God fearing woman and I won’t listen to your innuendo.”

  “Any innuendo you hear is in your head, Mrs. Farron. I asked, I did not infer.”

  The front door swung open. The driver of the sedan was back.

  “Get out!” Jessica spat the words out. “Leave me alone!”

  Harry turned and walked toward the door. As he passed, the man reached out and grabbed Harry’s shoulder.

  “What are you doing to my wife?” he demanded.

  Harry looked down at the hand on his shoulder and pulled the hand away.

  “Nothing.” He began to move.

  “I’m talking to you mister!” The hand was back on his shoulder.

  Farron was on an adrenaline rush.

  Harry pulled the man’s hand away for the second time.

  “I asked her some questions she didn’t like.”

  “Well stay away from her!” Farron jabbed one finger into Harry’s chest to emphasize each word.

  Harry grabbed the digit and twisted. Farron fell to his knees. He cranked back on the finger as he spoke. “I respect a man who looks out for his wife, so I won’t break your finger. But you should learn some manners.”

  Farron stopped struggling. From on his knees he had seen the shoulder holster and gun under Harry's jacket.

  “You a cop?” he asked.

  “No. Poke a cop like that and your whole arm would be broken.”

  Harry let go. He walked out leaving the door open. When he glanced back Farron was still on his knees, rubbing his hand. In the office behind him Jessica Farron looked pale and frightened.

  Harry started his truck, pulled a u-turn, and headed back toward Red Lake. Just north of the lake his cell phone rang. The screen read ‘unlisted’.

  “Grim, speaking,” he answered.

  “It’s me,” Barton Dirk’s familiar voice said. “I’m home.”

  Harry did not mention the news story. What he did not know, he could not testify about under subpoena.

  “Are you free for a day or two?”

  “Sure. You need me to fly up?”

  Barton owned a Piper PA-30 Twin Comanche. It made moving the tools of his trade through airports easier.

  “No, I need you to interview some junior muscle in Las Vegas. Do you still have any connections there?”

  “I know a man who is happy his daughter is alive. Depends on what you need, on how far I can push his gratitude. Does this have anything to do with Vegas business?”

  “No, it’s ancient history. Questions about a party twenty years ago when my guy was still living in Red Lake. His name is Vinnie Tagliero. I figure he’s not the type to volunteer information.”

  “Let me make a call. I can fly over tomorrow morning if my contact gives the okay.”

  As they talked, Harry eyed the clouds that were building in the western sky. Dark ominous thunderheads slid over the mountains, covering the area in shadows. The temperature fell hard and fast. Soon he rolled up his truck window. The afternoon lost thirty degrees in only a few minutes as the front pressed in.

  Thunder rolled up the valley and the clouds pulsated with lightning bolts. Suddenly a burst of hail fell from the sky, dancing off the pavement and clicking on the roof. In minutes the ground had a whitish hue. Then the rain came. It was hard and torrential. The trucks wipers slogged at the water and Harry had to squint to see the road. After five minutes it eased up into a steady rain. Gusts of wind rocked his truck and sent sheets of water sliding across the pavement.

  Harry rolled in to Red Lake. The beach crowds were rushing home and traffic was snarled. Pick-ups and sport utility vehicles were packed with inflatable rafts and sodden people who hurriedly packed caught out by the storm. The ride through town was stop and go. It took twenty minutes for him to get through the downtown area.

  The storm passed as quickly as it formed. Oblique rays of sunlight shot at obtuse angles from between the cumulus clouds. Harry picked up his cell.

  “Hey babe,” he said when Paula answered the office phone. “I’m heading home, why don’t you do the same?”

  “Okay. No calls, but I did finish the report for Mrs. Stevenson.”

  “Send it off. Then we can watch the divorce filings.”

  “Not funny Harry.”

  “Sorry, but it is what I do and that sort of job always ends the same way.”

  “I think it’s sad.”

  “Mrs. Stevenson should have chosen better.” As an afterthought he added, “Love you.”

  “Me, too!”

  Harry closed his cell phone as he turned his truck onto Ridgecrest. He parked at the Danby house. No car in the driveway, but he tried the doorbell again, because he was there. He heard nothing, so he tried knocking.

  “The asshole took off!” a voice shouted from the next yard.

  An old man rocked on the porch of his house. It was immaculate. Considering the state of Danby’s property, Harry figured the neighbor hated him. Angry people like to talk.

  Harry strolled over. Nice flowers.”

  “The hail tore the heck out of them. You should have seen 'em this morning.”

  “You know when Danby will be back?”

  “Hopefully never! But he only took his boat so I reckon I’ll see him, again. Probably off fishing. Only useful thing he does. He gives me the guts for fertilizer.”

  “I needed to talk to him.”

  “Can’t help you. The guy’s a jerk. Last week he was burning trash despite the burn ban. You wouldn’t think it with this rain, but those hills are tinder dry. One spark and the whole damn
mountain might go up!”

  Harry stroked his cheek as if thinking. “Maybe I’ll leave him a note.”

  The old man waved as if dismissing him.

  Harry strolled toward the backdoor of Danby’s house and out of the neighbor's sight. Danby's backyard was worse than the front, narrow trails led between stacks of construction debris, ladders, scaffolds, dead wheelbarrows, and assorted piles of ceramic tile.

  He roamed around the lot, near alley he found Danby's burn can and trashcans. The trash was empty, but the burn can held a foot of ashes. It looked a sodden mess following the rain, but when Harry turned over the surface with a stick he found dry ashes about an inch down. He tilted the can over. A cloud of fine ash rose and got carried off by the wind.

  Harry poked at the pile. Among the ashes he found part of the number ninety-two stitched on thick fabric. The edges were singed and the fibers scorched. Attached to the back was a piece of charred quilted fabric. After a moment he realized what it was. He prodded some more and found a few metal snaps in the ash. Other than bits of coal and parts of fabric, he found nothing more. He put the number in his pocket. The old man next door was asleep on his porch when Harry left.

  Paula was on the porch when he pulled in.

  “Happy hour! she called out, holding up a pink foamy drink with a wedge of pineapple on the rim.

  “What’s that?”

  “A Singapore Sling, try it.”

  He sipped the drink. “It’ll do.”

  “It was invented a hundred years ago by Ngiam Tong Boon, a bartender at the Raffles Hotel, Singapore. It has gin, cherry brandy, Cointreau, Benedictine, pineapple and lemon juice, and a dash of Angostura bitters.”

  “Interesting.” Harry gave her a quick kiss. “I’ll be back.”

  Inside the house he took off his jacket and holster, picked up the Red Lake yearbook from his desk, and re-joined Paula.

  “Walking down memory lane?” she asked as he flipped pages.

  “Wrong school. I was a member of the Wallford High Warriors.”

  Harry ran his finger down the index. Danby was on page thirty. On the lower left side he found the picture of Danby. At eighteen Frank had an acne problem. His face was narrow with a weak jaw and protruding brow, as if too many of his forebearers intermarried. Under his picture no clubs were listed, no academic awards, his sole extra-curricular activity was basketball. Harry thumbed through the book and found the athletics section. Danby was in the front row of the 1992 varsity basketball team. He was gangly in an adolescent way, and the photo did not project an impression of native intelligence.

  “Why would someone burn their high school jacket?” Harry mused aloud.

  “Maybe they hated school?” Paula said between sips.

  “Twenty years after the fact?”

  “Maybe they were cleaning house?”

  “It’s a strange way to do it. Besides this guy doesn’t clean house.”

  He mulled the possibilities in silence. Paula took his hand and gave it a small squeeze. It feels good to do nothing, he thought. But their moment together was too good to last; the phone disturbed it.

  “Let it go,” Paula advised holding more tightly to his hand.

  Harry got up anyway. “Hello?”

  “Harry, Sheriff Gaines here.”

  “Afternoon, sir. What can I do for you?”

  “We had a complaint about you from a man in Mason Forks.”

  “That would be Will Farron.”

  “Yes. He said you were harassing his wife and assaulted him.”

  Harry chuckled. “You and I both know Sheriff that if I assaulted him he would be calling from the hospital. The facts are, I spoke with his wife briefly; Mr. Farron arrived and took umbrage. When he poked me with his finger I put him down. I was careful not to break anything.”

  “Very considerate of you. He omitted the poking on his part. I’ll call him back.”

  “Thank you, Sheriff. By the way, what can you tell me about Frank Danby?”

  “Why do you ask?”

  “I’m still looking at the Albright thing. His name came up and he seems to be out of town.”

  “No crime in that.”

  “Does he have a record?”

  Gaines was feeling amicable. “Just a second.”

  Harry heard the clatter of a keyboard.

  “He did two years in Harmon Penitentiary upstate for sexual battery on his ex-wife. He was drunk and didn’t take no for an answer. That was fifteen years ago. Since then he has a few DUI’s, the latest one last week. Do you have something?”

  “Not yet, but something went down twenty years ago that has people acting nervous.”

  “If you uncover any evidence don’t hold out on me Harry. Never forget that I am official and you are private, live and let live I say, but if you screw with me I will hang you out to dry.”

  Harry glanced over to the burnt letter jacket number lying on the kitchen table.

  “Always a pleasure Sheriff. I will remember that advice.”

  Chapter 8

  “Lets go to church,” Harry said, much to Paula’s surprise.

  She rolled over and sat up in bed to face him.

  “When?”

  “Today.”

  Paula flopped back down

  “It’s Saturday.”

  “Doesn’t mean we can’t go,” Harry said, running his fingers up her back.

  “The only things that take place at a church on Saturday are weddings or funerals.” Paula looked toward him. “Are we getting married?”

  “Not today.”

  The parking lot of the Episcopal Church where Alison Albright was being laid to rest was far from crowded. The funeral of a young person is usually heavily attended. However, after almost twenty years of resting someplace unknown, sentiment for Alison was eroded .

  Harry put little stock in the theory that the killer might return. He would grant it could happen, but as an investigative technique it was useless because one never knew whether the killer attended or not. The only way to know if the killer came, was to solve the crime. That said, he thought it useful to know who was moved, concerned, worried, or hurt enough to show up.

  Paula looked stunning in a black sheath dress. Harry felt himself more respectable with her at his side. Alone he looked like a thug. They stepped out of Paula’s air-conditioned car, a feature her totaled car had lacked, and into an afternoon that was intolerably hot and humid. The searing heat of the asphalt radiated through the sole of their shoes. In the distance the mountains were out of focus, distorted and muted by the heavy air.

  Inside the wood frame church there was no relief. The stained glass windows were propped open and several pole fans shoved the air around but they only moved the scent of flowers, aftershaves and perfumes about the room. Gradually, the air became pungent with the scent of sweat. Women used hankies to dab at their cheeks, while men wiped their brows with the back of their hands and wondered why they came.

  A white casket dominated the altar. Harry studied his fellow mourners. The majority were in their fifties and sixties, friends, he assumed of Alison’s mother. Carole Albright was vivacious; she likely went to the church. Fellow members would turn out to support her in her time of sorrow. Jack Albright sat alone in the front row, drunks seldom had friends, at least ones who would leave a bar.

  Readings were taken from the Book of Common Prayer. The passages were familiar to Harry either from other funerals or perhaps the movies. The priest who read the liturgy for the dead was too young to have known Alison. To Grim’s ears, the priest's post-pubescent voice droned on and on like an angry insect.

  Around him, Harry saw faces that were vaguely familiar from around town or the marina. However, faces from Alison’s past seemed absent. Then he recognized Herb Lanski when Herb turned his head. From a distance he appeared more nervous than sorrowful to Harry. He was evidently alone because couples sat on either side of him.

  The priest reached the climax of the service.

 
“Into your hands, O merciful Savior, we commend your servant Alison Albright. Acknowledge, we humbly beseech you, a sheep of your own fold, a lamb of your own flock, a sinner of your own redeeming. Receive her into the arms of your mercy, into the blessed rest of everlasting peace, and into the glorious company of the saints in light. Amen.”

  Fat chance!

  The priest moved down the center aisle. Six pallbearers lifted the casket and followed after him. The Albrights left together but not walking too close to each other. They were followed by the congregants who exited aisle by aisle to join the procession that walked into the cemetery next to the church.

  Outside the air was marginally better than inside. Somewhere over the mountains thunder rumbled and anvil shaped thunderheads rose toward the jet stream. A number of people made good their escape by turning toward the parking lot that was not visible from the cemetery due to the church.

  In the cemetery, beads of sweat covered the priest’s forehead who, unfortunately, was obligated to stand in the full sun. Harry spotted Jack Albright taking a nip from a hip flask. Carole Albright sobbed on the near side of hysteria. It played false to Harry’s ear, whatever grief she suffered was long spent, this was singing for the choir.

  To his surprise he spotted Jessica Farron in the shadows of a spreading oak. She was alone. She showed genuine grief mixed with animosity. Whatever the relationship was between Alison and Jessica, its ambivalence was still being played out in Jessica’s mind.

  Minutes later, Alison Albright's mortal remains were lowered into the ground and the service was over.

  “I want to speak with the priest.” Harry said, to Paula.

  “I’ll wait in the car.”

  She left to find relief in the A/C. Harry patiently waited and sweated while the young priest made final comments to Carole Albright. Jack was already gone.

  Finally the priest turned toward the church where Harry loitered in the buildings shade.

  “Could I help you?”

  “I wanted to ask a few questions about Alison Albright.”

  “Were you a friend?”

  “I never knew her. I’m merely looking into her death.”