by Jon McGoran
She shook her head. “No, it’s not that. It’s just … I mean, it’s nothing.”
“Want me to talk to the developer? I could put a little fear of God in him. Or at least fear of the IRS.”
Moose leaned forward. “You have friends at the IRS?”
I shook my head. “Nobody has friends at the IRS. But I know some people.”
She looked at me with an odd smile: part patronizing, like she thought it was cute, and part annoyed, like she really didn’t. “If you want to talk to the developer about paving over all the farmland around here, that would be great. But this”— she reached over and put her hand on my knee—“this is just a minor nuisance.”
Then she got up and headed toward the kitchen. I had never thought of myself as having particularly sensitive knees, but my knee was tingling where her hand had been.
Then I noticed Moose looking at me with that same drunk-but-smug look. “It’s probably not the developer, anyway,” he whispered loudly, his words bumping up against each other.
“What do you mean?”
“If the developer can’t assemble the whole parcel, the whole deal could fall through. The developer can just walk away, find another place to pave over. The people who already agreed to sell, the ones who’ve already made other plans, picked out other houses and spent all that developer money—I bet that’s who’s calling.”
13
Nola and I switched from beer to coffee after dinner, but Moose stuck with his squish and the effect was visible. He poured another inch into his glass and sloshed some onto the coffee table.
I reached over and grabbed the bottle as he put it down. “What the hell is this stuff, anyway?” I sniffed the mouth of the bottle. It smelled like a cross between dry wine, rotten apples, and vinegar.
“Try it,” he said, sliding back in the armchair and closing his eyes for a second. “You’ll like it.”
I poured an inch into my glass and sipped it.
“Not as bad as I expected,” I said, surprised.
“It’s not just the taste that’s the deal breaker,” Nola said, returning with a plate of brownies. “Have a few more and tell me how you feel.”
Moose let out a drunken giggle and closed his eyes.
I finished what was in my glass, but didn’t pour any more. The events of the past few days suddenly weighed heavily on me, pushing me down against the sofa. I broke a brownie in half and went back to my coffee.
“Hey, sleepyhead,” Nola said loudly, nudging Moose’s leg with her toe. “You want a brownie?”
He flopped an arm over his belly. “Stuffed,” he said without opening his eyes.
“See what I mean about that stuff?” she said, turning to me.
“Point taken.” I sipped my coffee. “So who was that guy, anyway?”
“Who?”
“The guy who swiped your chip. Back at Branson’s.”
She frowned. “Oh, that.”
For a moment, I regretted reminding her about it.
“That’s Dwight Cooney.” The way she said it sounded like she was more annoyed at him than me. “He’s harmless. Just a meathead with an underinflated sense of his own repulsiveness.”
“You got a lot of them out here?”
She smiled sweetly. “Not just around here.”
I put my hand against the slight swelling along my cheekbone. “I don’t know if I’d say he’s that harmless, by the way.”
“No, he is. Annoying, but harmless. Besides, you seemed to be able to handle him without much trouble.” She smiled. “Until you got distracted, that is.”
I could feel my face warming. “Right.”
“I suppose I should say thank you for coming to my rescue and all,” she said, reaching over to run her fingertips lightly across my bruised cheek. Apparently, my cheeks are sensitive, too. “But I had the situation under control, so I won’t.”
She grinned at me as she took her hand away, letting me know she was yanking my chain. I grinned back at her, because I couldn’t help myself.
If I had been better at that sort of thing, I might have gone in for a kiss. I was still considering it when Moose snuffled loudly and let out a long sigh.
It was an undeniable cue to call it a night, and a pause hung in the air, waiting for one of us to acknowledge it. Instead, she got up from her chair and sat next to me on the sofa. “So how does someone end up being a cop, anyway?” she asked.
I smiled. She didn’t want me to leave. She smiled back conspiratorially, like she knew I knew, but she expected me to go along with it.
I laughed. “By ignoring lots of good career advice.”
She laughed, too, putting her hand on my knee again, this time leaving it there. Now, my knee is connected directly to my thigh. And I don’t want to get into what my thigh is connected to, but her hand had an effect on me. It might have shown on my face, because she smiled mischievously as she took her hand away.
“Come on,” she said, “seriously.”
“Seriously?” I shrugged. “A buddy of mine talked me into going into the police academy with him. He washed out; I didn’t.”
“Hmmm. The thing is … you don’t seem like a cop.”
“Yeah, I get that a lot. My lieutenant tells me that all the time.”
“But you’re a detective, right? So you must be pretty good at it.”
“That’s where you and my lieutenant differ. But I am pretty good at parts of it.”
“So what do you have, issues with authority?”
“You don’t?”
She shrugged.
This time, when Moose snorted, he opened his eyes and looked around, confused.
I looked over at him, and when I looked back at Nola, she was stifling a yawn.
“I guess it’s that time,” she said, looking at her watch. “And I guess I’ll be picking the tomatoes by myself. I have some other crops to check on as well, so don’t be alarmed if you see me sneaking through your backyard early in the morning.”
Moose let out a sigh and fell back to sleep. Nola shook her head. “You can leave him here, if you like.”
“Nah, he’ll be all right,” I said, for some reason not crazy about the idea of Moose spending the night there. I slipped a shoulder under his arm and hoisted him out of the armchair. His eye opened but remained unfocused. “But he’s going to be a mess in the morning.”
14
I got up at seven the next morning, not hungover but tired and unprepared for the horrifying revelation that now there was no coffee at all. I managed to assemble a lukewarm cup of tea that not only confused my metabolism, but I think actually pissed it off.
I had an appointment with a lawyer to read Frank’s will at nine and an appointment at the funeral home at nine forty-five. I told myself I had gotten up early to get a jump on the day. But I lingered by the kitchen window and pretended to drink tea until seven-thirty, when Nola showed up in the backyard. I took a step back and watched as she walked barefoot up the path between the tomatoes, carrying a large basket. As she bent over to pick some tomatoes, I leaned closer. She stopped and turned, smiling right at me.
I smiled back and waved. Busted again.
* * *
Moose woke up as I was getting ready to leave. He looked worse than I felt, stumbling downstairs in the same clothes he’d been wearing the night before.
“Tell me there’s coffee,” he mumbled as he entered the kitchen.
“You look like shit.”
“Coffee?”
I picked up the empty coffee can and tapped it loudly with a spoon.
He winced and groaned and covered his head with his hands. “Shit, that’s my bad. I finished it before I left. I meant to pick some up.”
I let him take the rap; instant doesn’t count. “I wish you had, because I just started my morning with a lovely cup of tea. I’m going into town, and I’m definitely getting a cup of coffee. If you want, you can tag along, but we’re leaving now.”
He groaned. “Can you wait ten minutes? I just h
ave to go out back and pick some tomatoes.”
“I think Nola already picked them.”
“She did?”
I nodded.
“Damn. She’s going to be annoyed.” He seemed perturbed for half a second, then he said, “Let’s go.”
* * *
We drove in silence marred only by an occasional soft groan as Moose massaged his temples. I thought about cranking up the radio, just for laughs, but I wasn’t too far away from a headache myself. As it was, Moose winced when my cell phone started playing “Watching the Detectives.”
I snatched it up. “Danny-o!”
“Doyle. You sound distressingly chipper. Staying out of trouble?”
“One day at a time.”
“Got those plates back on your friend there.”
I’d almost forgotten I had called. “The plates, right. So what’s the story?”
“Well, it’s no epic, but there’s a story. George Arnett. Assault, a couple of possessions, possession with intent. Nine months at Graterford. Got out two months ago.”
“Any good reason he would be out here?”
“Nothing that jumps out. Born in Kensington, raised in Kensington, went to school in Kensington, arrested in Kensington. I think the trip to Graterford was his first time out of the ’hood.”
“Well, it’s nice that he got a chance to get out and see the world. Hey, does he have any piercings?”
“Piercings?”
“Yeah, you know, nose rings, that sort of thing.”
“No, nothing like that in the mug shot.”
“Why don’t you send me the mug shot anyway?”
“Doyle…”
“Danny, come on, it’s just a mug shot.”
He sighed. “So what’s your interest in Arnett, anyway?”
“Nothing really. A big Escalade driving around Dunston looking suspicious, all out-of-place with its rims and tinted windows.”
“Got the old Spidey sense tingling?”
“Something like that. It’s a hell of a car for a loser just a few months out of jail.”
“You know, technically, you’re not supposed to be using your Spidey sense.”
“It’s okay—I’m only using it for the forces of good.” My phone beeped to let me know I had a message. It was the photo from Danny.
Arnett didn’t look familiar, but he looked like a lot of other losers I’d known. His eyes were half-closed in the picture, trying to look tough but coming off stupid. He had too much forehead and not enough chin, with reddish brown hair that was very short on the sides and nonexistent on top.
I had only caught a glimpse of the guy in the Escalade, and this wasn’t him. But that made sense; Arnett would have been the one driving.
“Seriously, dude,” Danny said. “You got a few weeks of this to go yet. Don’t be getting in trouble right off the bat.”
“I know. I’m cool.”
“Yeah, all right, you lying dirtbag. Take care of yourself, okay, buddy?”
“I always do.”
* * *
We stopped at a mini-mart on the edge of town and got two coffees and a bag for later. I filled a bag with cans of chili and boxes of granola bars, food I could eat without thinking. As we stepped outside, I took a long, scalding sip that immediately improved my outlook.
In the parking lot, we bumped into a skinny white kid with a dirty neck and an awkward attempt at dreadlocks. I thought he was going to ask us for money, until Moose said, “Hey, Squirrel!”
The other kid’s eyes widened, but just a little. “Moose. Yo, what’s up, man?” He looked at me the way skinny white kids with dreadlocks look at people they think are cops. “Hey,” he said warily.
“It’s cool,” Moose said. “This is Doyle. Mrs. Menlow’s son.” Then to me, “Doyle, this is my friend Squirrel.”
“Right.” Squirrel stared at me for a second, his eyes suspicious and strangely pale. His pupils were tiny. “I’m sorry about your folks.”
I nodded. “Thanks.” Then, turning to Moose, “Anyway, I got to get going. I’ll be heading back in an hour and a half or so if you want a ride.”
Moose turned to his friend. “Where’re you headed?”
“Back home. Want to stop by?”
“Sure.” Moose turned back to me. “I’ll see you back at the house.”
Squirrel immediately took a step back, like he couldn’t wait to be away from me. “Good to meet you,” he said, wiping his nose with the base of his thumb.
“You, too,” I replied.
I watched for a moment as they walked down the street. Squirrel looked back at me over his shoulder.
* * *
Sydney Bricker, Esq., had a brick storefront on the last commercial block at the center of town. If it wasn’t for the planter full of petunias out front I would have wondered if the place was technically still in the business district. Across the street was a row of stucco singles with big lawns.
Bricker wasn’t exactly what I had expected. First off, she was a she. Late forties, tall, blond, and striking, if not exactly attractive. Her legs were long and her skirt was short, and her blouse had enough buttons undone to show a little cleavage. She seemed incongruously polished, like someone had forgotten to tell her she was working in Dunston. I wondered if she was involved in local politics, maybe with an eye on Harrisburg.
“Mr. Carrick,” she said, shaking my hand firmly. “I’m Sydney Bricker.”
I smiled and shook firmly back. “Nice to meet you.”
“You were expecting a man,” she said with a knowing smile, leaning back against her desk.
I had pictured Sid Bricker as a short, fat, bald guy, but I wouldn’t admit that. “I was expecting a lawyer.”
“So, I understand you’re a detective,” Bricker said, leaning against her desk.
“That’s right,” I replied. “So, should we get right to it?”
I knew the meeting wouldn’t take very long. The will would be simple, and since the lawyer was a lawyer, I figured she’d be unlikely to waste much time with unbillable chitchat. And since I would be paying the bill, I knew I wasn’t going to waste much time on billable chitchat.
Frank and my mom had left everything to me. There were some stocks, some life insurance, and some money, and there was the house and the land. Bricker gave me a list of insurance and bank documents I should look for at the house.
After a brief recap of the will, I signed next to the red tab on a dozen pieces of paper. The whole thing took thirteen minutes. I figured Bricker billed in tenths-of-an-hour, six-minute chunks, meaning I had just crossed into the third tenth of an hour.
So when she asked me if I wanted some advice on what to do with the place, I figured if it took less than five minutes, I was all ears. I had time to kill before going to the funeral home anyway.
“By far the biggest asset left to you is the real estate,” she said. “You’re not in a great market right now, and there’s not usually much demand out here, even in the best of times.”
“But?”
“I know a developer putting plots together.” She shrugged, giving her hair a practiced toss. “Your property might be a little too far, and you might have missed the boat already, but if you were planning on selling, this might be a smart time to do it.”
“Thanks for the tip.”
“I also have a real-estate license. If you’re interested, I might be able to broker that for you.”
“I’ll think about that.” I looked at my watch. “One more thing: Where can I get breakfast around here?”
“Branson’s is great. It’s over—”
“I know where it is. That’s the only place?”
“Unless you feel like driving.”
Sixteen minutes. Best not to cut it too close. I stood up. “Thanks.”
* * *
I got to the funeral home early, but they didn’t seem to mind. The place was called McClintock’s, and Alfred McClintock himself came to meet me. He was a gaunt man with thinning hair
that had turned translucent on its way from red to gray. He gave the impression that he was ready to share whatever sorrow was around without soothing any of it.
He assured me that Frank had arranged everything, but still insisted on walking me through all the different options. He’d wait for me to say, “Okay, that one,” then he’d smile sadly and say, “Actually, Mr. Menlow selected this one.” Like it was some sort of quiz, a test to see how poorly I knew my deceased stepfather, to show what a terrible stepson I was.
I didn’t need that. I already knew it.
Frank had arranged for his remains to be cremated and his ashes placed in an urn matching the one he’d selected for my mother. There would be a memorial service on Wednesday, after which he would be buried beside my mother in the small plot next to the chapel.
He asked if I wanted a reception afterward, invite people back to the house.
I stared at him for a moment, remembering the excruciating awkwardness that had followed my mom’s funeral. “No.”
He nodded sadly, like he already knew the answer. “Mr. Menlow said you wouldn’t.”
When we were done, McClintock walked me outside, clapped a hand onto my arm and gave me what I think was a smile. I felt new respect for Frank, who’d had to deal with this guy to arrange my mom’s funeral as well as his own.
I said thanks as I approached my car, then I got out of there as fast as I could.
15
When I walked into Branson’s, I expected one of those scenes where the music stops and everyone turns to look at me. But there was no music, just the buzz and bustle of breakfast. That didn’t stop, either.
The PLEASE SEAT YOURSELF sign was still up, so I sat in the same table as the day before and hid behind a menu.
I knew I was getting the two eggs, wheat toast, and home fries, but as I was trying to decide whether to get bacon or sausage or both, a cup of coffee appeared on the table, and I looked up to see the guy from behind the bar standing there holding a second cup.
“Sorry,” he said. “A little short-staffed.” I was about to give him my order when he said, “Mind if I join you?”