Fixed in Fear

by T. E. Woods

  Mort followed his friend up the six stone steps leading to the house. He took in the neatly mown lawn and well-trimmed hedges in front. At the top of the stairs, matching urns held potted mums and cabbage plants, signaling the pending arrival of autumn. A teak patio settee with brightly colored cushions sat opposite two wicker chairs on the wide porch. In between, an iron coffee table supported another pot of mums. As Larry knocked on the door, Mort scanned the porch’s paneled ceiling and hanging glass lamps. He saw no trace of spiderweb, bird’s nest, or even dust. Larry was right. If the front porch was any indication, Bilbo kept an immaculate house.

  The heavy cedar door swung open.

  “Yeah?” A tall white man, thin enough to be called skinny, stood with one hand on the doorframe. His face was lined and marked with the fine red lines of a man who’d spent too much time on the open end of a liquor bottle. For someone who allegedly filled his days keeping the house shipshape, Bilbo seemed to give little attention to personal care. Though Mort stood five feet away, he could smell the heavy, sweet aroma of marijuana wafting from the man’s stained gray sweatpants and blue plaid flannel shirt. His shaggy hair, more gray than brown, looked like it hadn’t seen the business end of a brush for days.

  “Bilbo, I’m Larry Clark. Carlton’s friend. We’ve met.”

  Bilbo turned unfocused eyes toward Mort, who wondered what time a person would have to start smoking to be this stoned by midafternoon.

  “Who’s this?” Bilbo asked.

  “I’m Mort Grant.” Mort put out his hand in greeting. Bilbo looked at it with a curious half smile.

  “This about Carlton?” Bilbo asked. “He’s dead.”

  “Yes, we know,” Larry said. “Can we come in? Carlton asked that I see to his things.”

  Bilbo alternated glances between the two of them. “This is my house now.”

  Mort pushed his jacket aside and rested his hand on his right hip, exposing the Seattle PD badge clipped to his belt. “Larry here has some legal things to talk with you about. It’s the kind of conversation best had indoors.”

  Bilbo looked at the two of them again, as if considering his options. When Bilbo stepped aside and held the door open for them to enter, Mort figured Bilbo realized he didn’t have many. The thin man led them through a tiled foyer to a sitting room off to the right. Mort admired the woodwork on the stairway at the end of the hall. They didn’t make houses like this anymore.

  “Take a seat.” Bilbo flopped on a tweed sofa flanking a fireplace in the center of the far wall. Mort and Larry sat on its twin opposite him. Light poured into the room from a wide bank of windows overlooking the front porch, as well as two windows on each side of the fireplace. The walls were a pale shade of green that complimented the heavy woodwork wrapping the windows. A Persian rug in deep shades of red and blue covered narrow-planked maple flooring. The walls held paintings and masks. Mort didn’t have Larry’s wealth of knowledge, but he detected a theme. Every piece of artwork, including the various sculptures on the built-in bookcases, seemed to reflect some sort of religious image.

  “Do you remember me, Bilbo?” Larry asked.

  “Sure. Like you said, we’ve met.” Bilbo shoved a hank of hair off his face. “You just took me by surprise, that’s all. You’re Carlton’s buddy. Helen’s husband, right?”

  Mort caught the surprise in Larry’s eyes as he nodded. Helen had been dead twenty-five years now. It wasn’t often Larry got to hear his name and his wife’s in the same sentence.

  “Why’d you bring a cop?” Bilbo asked Larry. “If you wanted to swing by and say hey, maybe crack a beer or order in a pizza, I’d be happy to accommodate. No need to bring Johnny Law.”

  “Mort’s a friend. I asked him to come along.” Larry looked around the room. “The house looks great, Bilbo. Like always.”

  Bilbo’s nod went on long enough for Mort to wonder if he’d forgotten how to stop. “You want something, man?”

  “I’ve been named executor of Carlton’s estate,” Larry said. “Do you know what that means?”

  Bilbo looked to Mort and grinned. “Hey, I’m a loser. I’m not stupid. There’s a difference.”

  “I didn’t mean to offend,” Larry continued. “Sometimes legal terms can be confusing.”

  “There’s no confusion to be had. This is my house now. Carlton always told me that.”

  “The house is part of Carlton’s estate. It will be put into a trust.” Larry steepled his hands together to signify a protective covering. Mort kept an eye on Bilbo as Larry explained his role. If Bilbo was going to get riled, he’d be ready. “Everything Carlton owned and any income still being produced will be put into that trust. You’ll be able to live here as long as you’d like. Carlton kept his promise.”

  Bilbo’s thin face grew somber. “He was a stand-up guy. Made more of himself than I ever did, that’s for damned sure.”

  “He was a good man,” Larry agreed. “You’ll have full possession of the house, and a modest monthly income will be made available to you. As executor, I’ll oversee the trust.”

  The thin face clouded over instantly. “What’s this shit about modest monthly income? Carlton owned a piece of that shit-ass brother of his’s fish biz. That’s mine!”

  “Everything Carlton owned is in the trust now,” Larry explained, ignoring Bilbo’s aggressive tone. “You’ll be provided for, like I said, but it’s my understanding Carlton wanted to make sure you had an income to support you for the rest of your life. He wanted me to make sure of that. But you won’t own anything.”

  Bilbo’s eyes narrowed. “And what do you get out of this?”

  Larry looked over at Mort before answering. “I’m a professor, Bilbo. I teach and I research and I write about things Carlton was interested in.”

  “You mean like world religions and shit? What’s that mean to me?”

  “Carlton wanted me to review his collection of things he’d picked up in his travels and studies. He wanted me to be able to take what I might find helpful in my own work.”

  “What about the money? What part of that do you get?”

  Larry smiled and shook his head. “I have no interest in the money. You’ll be taken care of for the rest of your days. When you die, any money left over will go to the university where I teach.”

  Bilbo jerked back against the sofa. “So the sooner I kick the bigger your payday. I got that right?”

  “Ease up, buddy,” Mort said, getting to his feet. “Larry’s just laying out Carlton’s plan.”

  Bilbo took a few seconds, then he relaxed his pose. “Shit, if all you want is his hocus-pocus stuff, have at it. I mean, long as I have a roof over my head, time on my hands, and munchies in my kitchen, I’m good to go. Am I right?” He pointed toward the entryway. “You remember where his office is? Knock yourself out. Take what you need.” Bilbo turned toward Mort. “I mean, for the good of science and all.”

  Larry stood and asked Mort if he wanted to come with him to Carlton’s office.

  “You go ahead, buddy. I’ll join you in a minute. Bilbo and I are going to get to know each other a bit better.”

  Larry hesitated. “It’s the last door on the left.” He looked down at Bilbo Runyan. “Thank you for understanding. I’ll take a quick inventory of what Carlton has and then we’ll leave. How’s that?”

  “Hey, mi casa es su casa. Isn’t that what you just told me?”

  Larry thanked him again and left the room. After a moment, Mort resumed his seat on the sofa opposite Bilbo.

  “I’m sorry about your friend. I didn’t know Carlton, but Larry liked him, and that’s good enough for me. It must be a hell of a loss for you.”

  “Carlton and I were tight, man. Since we were kids.” Bilbo pointed a finger at Mort and grinned. “People wonder what you and old Larry there have in common, am I right? What with you two coming from different ends of the skin tone chart and all.”

  Mort said nothing. He knew a biracial friendship as deep and long lasting as his and Larry�
��s wasn’t common in a city like Seattle.

  “It was like that with me and Carlton, man. In the way way back, even my own mother used to ask me what I had in common with that black boy. My own freakin’ mother.” Bilbo shoved the same hank of hair back to where it came from. “But we were like blood, man.” He chuckled. “Pranking the teachers. Scamming the women. Getting ourselves into and out of all kinds of shit. Know what I mean? Blood.”

  “Any idea who might have wanted him dead?”

  The smile disappeared from Bilbo’s face. He pushed himself up against the back cushions of the sofa. “You read the papers, man? Lunatic stuff. That’s what got Carlton. He was up in that sweat lodge. I used to tell him he was too caught up in the heebie-jeebie shit. Way too caught up. Folks get deep into that, there’s no telling what they’re likely to do. That’s why I keep it mellow. Know what I mean?” He moved his hands like a fish swimming slow. “Not too much to the right. Not too much to the left. Not too high. Not too low. Keep it steady, man. That’s what I say. Keep it steady.”

  “But Carlton didn’t agree?” When it came to murder investigations, Mort liked a guy who liked to talk.

  “He used to.” Bilbo took a swipe in the air. “Ah, who am I kidding? That’s bullshit, too. Even before he changed he didn’t keep it steady. Guy was wild, man. Always looking for the next high. Now that I think of it, I guess this change I thought he went through wasn’t really a change at all. Old Carlton just took that balls-out go-for-broke attitude of his and shifted his focus, is all. Went from girls to gods. How about that?”

  “How about that?” Mort asked. “Tell me about this change you saw.”

  Bilbo was quiet for a few seconds. “You know Helen? Carlton’s little sister-niece?”

  “She died a couple of years before I met Larry. I never had the privilege.”

  “Well, you would have loved her. Everybody did.” He chuckled again. “Me included. Man, she was a looker. You seen pictures, right?”

  Mort said he had.

  “Then you know,” Bilbo prattled. “That chick was gorgeous. Built, too. Back when she was in high school…Carlton and I were college dropouts by then…having ourselves a time, though. Back in the day I used to say to Carlton I was gonna marry that girl. Black-white shit be damned. Soon as she got legal I was gonna woo her.” He laughed. “But Carlton put the woo-woo on the woo-woo. Close as we were, and, like I said, we were blood, man. He told me to knock that shit off. Don’t even think about it. Carlton was just like Helen’s old man that way. You ever meet Brother Abraham?”

  “Met him for the first time this morning, as a matter of fact.”

  “Then you get it, man. You got a good idea of how far up his ass that stick of his is, huh? Well, as hard as Abraham is in general, that’s nothing…nothing compared to how he could get when he thought some guy was swinging his dick in Helen’s direction. Carlton was the same way. Nobody in the world was good enough for Helen. Leastwise, not in their eyes.” He huffed like a man who’d just made a discovery. “That may be the one thing those two brothers had in common. They each loved that Helen. To distraction, as my mother used to say.”

  “You were telling me about the change you saw in Carlton.” Mort wanted the guy talking, but he wanted him talking in the right direction.

  “Yeah. That’s right.” Bilbo shook his head clear, like a dog just out of the lake. “Like I said, Carlton and I been running together since the sandbox. Tough to believe now, but he was crazier than me. Name a drug, he’d take it. Some girl crook their finger at him and he’s off to the races. No matter how big her boyfriend or husband might be. Then there was his gambling period. Football, basketball, hockey. Hell, he’d lay a bet on what the special of the day was down at the diner. Wild man. But he always kept it together for Helen. Carlton could be stoned out of his mind, but if Helen called, boom! He’d sober up in a heartbeat. It wouldn’t matter if he hadn’t slept in days. Helen calls and says she needs something? Man would walk barefoot five days through a blizzard to get to her.” He looked off into space, as though seeing the memories play out before him. “Those two loved each other. Like a love I wish I had, you know? Anyway, when Helen died, that was it for Carlton’s party days. He went crazy. I mean like call-the-doctor crazy. I didn’t see him for like maybe a month. More for all I know. When he resurfaces he’s all religious and shit. Walking that straight and narrow. Swallowing that Kool-Aid. Never dated again, far as I saw. Never placed another bet. Never had that second glass of wine.”

  “So how’d he end up dead?”

  The other man’s face hardened. “Like I said. He went barking up the wrong tree. Got himself caught up with some religious fanatic. That’s the best I can make of it.”

  “So you’re thinking it’s random?”

  Bilbo shrugged. “Your number’s up when it’s up, man. Not much anybody can do about that.”

  Mort decided to take a risk. “We’re thinking Carlton’s death wasn’t so arbitrary. All evidence points to him being targeted.”

  “We?” Bilbo asked sharply. “What? You working this case, man? That why you’re here?”

  Mort nodded toward the entryway. “Like he said. Larry’s here to look through a few of Carlton’s things and I’m here to help him.”

  “But you pull me aside and start asking questions about who might have offed my friend. What’s that? Just a bonus for you? A twofer combo? Burger with fries?”

  “You knew Carlton better than anybody. Carlton was targeted. Just curious as to your thoughts.”

  Bilbo got quiet. Mort watched the man’s breath quicken. He rode out the silence until Bilbo spoke again.

  “Religious bullshit. That’s what killed my main man. People looking for some kind of righteousness when any sane person knows there’s no such thing in this world.” Bilbo’s gaze bored into Mort. “You’re never gonna find who did this. People like that are untouchable. You know the old saying, right? You can’t fight crazy? Well, Johnny Law, there’s always something that can make us crazy. Know what I mean?”

  Before Mort could respond, Larry strode into the room, visibly shaken. He was holding a red velvet pouch tied with a golden rope.

  “Bilbo, I thank you for your hospitality,” Larry said before looking at Mort. “I’d like to go now.” He turned back to Bilbo. “I’ll be back later. For now, this is all I’m taking.”

  “What is it, man?” Bilbo stood and walked toward him. Larry shrugged and tucked the velvet pouch under his arm.

  “Just some papers.” Mort knew his friend was lying. “Old historical stuff, that’s all.” He turned toward the door. “I’ll meet you at the car, Mort. Bilbo, lovely seeing you again. I look forward to seeing you again very soon.”

  He was out the door before Mort could give Bilbo his card, urging him to call should he think of something that could help with the investigation. Mort hurried to the car. Larry was seated and buckled in by the time Mort opened the driver’s side door.

  “You late for some faculty tea party?” he asked.

  Larry’s eyes were moist with tears. “Take me home, Mort.”

  “What is it? What’s in that sack?”

  “Letters.” Larry pulled on the cord to open the sack. “Dozens and dozens of letters.”

  “Who from?” Mort turned the key in the ignition and pulled away from Carlton’s tidy bungalow.

  L. Jackson Clark, international scholar, spoke with the excitement of a child on his first visit to Disneyland. “Helen. These are letters from my Helen!”

  Chapter 13

  Rita Willers spent her drive back down to Enumclaw the Wednesday morning she and Mort met with Abraham Smydon sifting through case facts as she knew them. While she understood it was the twisted intersections of happenstance that led to any crime’s commission, she found she could get to those tangles more efficiently by first sorting all the data into discrete categories in her mind. Whether it was a liquor store window smashed by some vandal after a football game or a mass murder in a sweat l
odge, it was still the same. Smooth out the strings of context, relationships, and events, watch how they spiral around one another, and look for the right one to tug. An hour after leaving Seattle she drove down her city’s main street and maneuvered her patrol car around the mobile satellite trucks of six different media outlets. She pulled into her stall behind the Enumclaw Police Department building aware of one thing: While the columns of facts were filling up, she still didn’t have a clue how they might start twisting.

  But she was confident they would.

  She entered the station, ignoring the shouted questions from a half-dozen well-dressed folks with perfect hair holding microphones while standing in front of another half-dozen people with more casual grooming and shoulder-mounted cameras. She bypassed the metal detector and shared a few comments about the weather with the security officer staffing the main entry. She nodded toward the small crowd outside the station.

  “When did they get here?” she asked.

  “I got here at six thirty this morning. That redhead and her camera guy were here already. The rest of ’em showed up about a half hour later.” John Selby had been an officer on the Enumclaw force for twenty-four years. His retirement lasted all of nine months. He came in one morning two years ago with coffee and doughnuts complaining to Rita he’d finished everything on his dream list, was bored seven days out of the week, and he was looking for work. Rita couldn’t put him back on the force, but she found a spot for him staffing front door security.

  Rita looked over her shoulder. The photographers had lowered their equipment and leaned against the building, chatting with one another. The reporters had laid down their microphones as well. Four of them—two of them men—had small compacts open and powdered their noses while they peered into tiny mirrors. The other two were checking their cellphones.