The Other Side: A Novel in the Alastair Stone Chronicles

by R. L. King

  “The man in the middle is Jacob Brunder. He was a wealthy merchant from Seattle who came to the area in the early days of the Gold Rush, trying to make a killing selling various gear to the miners.”

  “I’ve heard about him,” Stone said. “Presumably he did, judging by his home.”

  “Oh, yeah. He made bank by overcharging the miners for everything from cookware to food to mining implements, and pretty much ran anybody else out of town who tried to compete with him. History doesn’t paint him as a very nice guy.”

  He pointed at the woman. “That’s his daughter, Sarah. She didn’t want to be here. Her mother, Jacob’s wife, had died a few years ago, and she’d been spending time with her mother’s family in New Orleans as a teenager, but her father called her back home and dragged her down here.”

  Stone nodded, studying the photo. Between the primitive photographic techniques of the day and some water damage around the edges, it was difficult to make out details. “I’ve heard the curse might be related to Mr. Brunder. Do you think his daughter was involved somehow?”

  “That I don’t know. What little history I have on them suggests that Sarah was actually very popular around the town, and a much less horrible person than her father, though. She apparently cared about the welfare of the miners, and tried to help them when she could. The most credible story about the curse—if anything about a curse can be credible—is that it was cast by one or more of the miners, to get back at Brunder for being such a bastard to everyone in the town.”

  “I suppose that makes sense. I’ve heard a rumor that Brunder himself was responsible, but why would he curse a town providing such lucrative business opportunities for him?”

  “Yeah—from everything I’ve heard about Brunder, he was about as uptight and straight-arrow as they come. I can’t imagine him being associated with anything like a curse.” Yates turned and began walking slowly back toward the exit. “We should get going, though—I need to get home and see if Mary’s feeling up to going to the cocktail party.”

  “Of course,” Stone said, falling into step next to him. “One more question, if I may.”

  “Go for it.”

  “Another rumor I’ve heard is that, as a result of the curse, nearly everyone in the town died over a fairly short period of time. This supposedly happened not only once, but twice—the second time near the end of the Depression, shortly before World War II. Do you know anything about this?”

  Yates stopped. “You know, Dr. Stone—I never really thought about it before since my research is more focused in other areas, but there’s a surprisingly small amount of historical data available about how Brunderville died. I think I remember seeing something about a catastrophic fire at the local dance hall—that might have been what you’re thinking of. Usually you’ll find records: newspapers, journals, diaries, that kind of thing, especially about historical events. But there’s almost nothing like that for Brunderville, especially during the Gold Rush period.”

  “That is odd,” Stone agreed. He wondered how exhaustive Stefan Kolinsky had been in his own research—had he gone so far as to send someone to the town itself, or had he relied solely on his network of informants and documents? “Tell me—is there anyone else in town who might know more? Perhaps the people who own the winery?”

  “I doubt it.” They exited the cavern and Yates closed the door behind them. “They’ve been in the area for almost three years, but before that they had no ties to California. They’re from back East, and just came out here because Fred retired young and decided he wanted to start a winery. And before them, nobody lived here. You might find somebody down in Delsey, but with the weather like it is, it’ll take you a long time to drive back and forth. You’ll be busy with the show, right?”

  “Unfortunately, most likely I will,” Stone said. Perhaps after the shoot was over he might be able to convince Mortenson to stop in Delsey on their way out and see if they could turn anything up—she’d probably be as fascinated by the prospect as he was, which was a plus. “At any rate, thank you for the tour and the information.”

  “No problem.” As they reached the door back into the winery itself, he stopped again. “Oh, wait, hang on a sec—I almost forgot. I might have something you’d be interested in after all.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yeah. We just got it recently—a box of old papers and stuff. Several of the folks down in town know I’m working on the book, and a couple weeks ago one guy’s grandmother, who was in a rest home for years, died. He found the box when he was going through her stuff. It’s mostly about the logging era, though—she was a little girl back then. I asked Duncan if he wanted to look at any of it for historical background, but he said they already pretty much had what they need and wouldn’t have time to look at it. And anyway, I think he’s more focused on the Gold Rush period than the Depression era. You want to take a look? It’s probably nothing, but—”

  A little tingle ran up Stone’s neck. Yates was probably right—they were probably old drawings from grandchildren and yellowing society pages from local newspapers, but you never knew. They’d definitely be worth checking out. “I’d very much like to take a look. Thank you. When can I pick them up?”

  “I’ll drop the box by here tomorrow and ask Denise to put it in your room. I’ll need the stuff back before you go, though—I should at least flip through them to make sure there’s nothing I can use. That work?”

  “Absolutely. That’s brilliant. Thank you very much. Please give my best to Mary—I hope she’s feeling better.”

  As Yates headed off, Stone’s thoughts returned to the faint glow he’d seen with magical sight inside the hidden cave, and Yates’s words about the network of mine tunnels around Brunderville. He hoped he’d find something in the box of papers tomorrow, but tonight he was already making plans to see if he could do some investigation of his own.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Verity thought it might be possible to find a more depressing place than a strip club in a bad neighborhood in Las Vegas at four o’clock in the afternoon, but you’d have to put some serious effort into it.

  She followed Jason as he pushed open the door and walked in, then stopped next to him to look the place over.

  There wasn’t much to look over. The Pussycat Club was the size of small nightclub, with a stage off to the right, a bunch of tables scattered around the middle, and a bar on the back wall. Dance music pounded at a loud but not deafening volume, accompanying a blonde stripper as she gyrated her way around a pole to the entertainment of two drunk-looking guys sitting at tables on opposite sides of the stage. Another table near the back was occupied by two women who looked like they might work at the club, and the only other people Verity spotted were a burly, bored bouncer leaning against a wall in the shadows to the right of the stage, and an equally bored bartender who appeared to be paying more attention to the soccer game on the overhead TV than the stripper. The bouncer, the bartender, and the two women glanced toward the door as Jason and Verity came in; the customers and the stripper on stage ignored them. The place smelled of beer and cheap perfume.

  “C’mon—let’s talk to the bartender,” Jason said.

  “You do that. I’m gonna go see if the ladies over there have anything to say.”

  “You sure?”

  She shook her head with a snort. “You don’t have to protect me from the evil strippers, Jase—besides, the one on the left is kinda hot.”

  He glared at her, but clearly didn’t have a defense. He headed off for the bar.

  Verity waited a moment, then drifted toward the women’s table. As she approached, she could see that both of them were older than they looked from a distance—she pegged the dark-skinned woman in exotic makeup who’d first caught her eye as at least thirty, and the small, pale woman with a red dye job at closer to forty. Both wore short skirts and reveal
ing tops; Verity suspected they probably did more than just dance, if offered the proper incentive. “Hey,” she said. “Mind if I sit down?”

  “Plenty of tables, honey,” the black woman said. “If you’re lookin’ for a job, though, keep movin’. We’re all full up.” She eyed Verity, her gaze moving up and down her body as if assessing a prize horse.

  “Nah, not looking for a job. I don’t have the body for it anyway.”

  “You got that right.”

  “So—can I sit with you?”

  “Free country,” the redhead said, looking bored. She plucked a cigarette from an ashtray on the table and took a long puff.

  Verity pulled up a chair from one of the other tables and sat down between the pair. “So…I heard they found a dead guy in the dumpster behind this place.”

  Immediately, suspicion filled both women’s eyes. “Yeah, so?” the black woman asked.

  “So—see the guy over there?” She gestured toward the bar, where Jason had obtained a beer and was chatting with the bartender. “He’s my brother. He’s investigating the guy’s death, for his wife. She wants to find out what happened to him.”

  Both women flicked their gazes in that direction. “Girl, he is fine,” the black woman said appreciatively. “Hell, I’d give him a discount on a lap dance anytime.”

  “Uh—maybe later,” Verity said. “Anyway—so, do you know anything about what happened? Was the guy ever in here? Did anybody maybe see somebody in the alley the night he was dumped?”

  “You say your brother’s a PI?” the redhead asked. Unlike her friend, she didn’t seem too impressed by Jason. “You one too?”

  “Nope, I’m just helping him out.”

  “How do we know he ain’t a cop?”

  Verity shrugged. “You don’t, I guess. I can ask him to show you his ID if you want. But what’s it matter anyway? You guys aren’t doing anything illegal, are you? And even if you were, would the cops around here give a damn about it?”

  “Chick’s got a point,” the black woman conceded. “But around here, best to stay as far from the cops as possible, y’know? Better for the health.”

  “Yeah, I hear that,” Verity said. “I’ve heard some stories, for sure.”

  The music began to wind down, and it looked like the blonde stripper was bringing her routine in for a landing. “I gotta go,” the redhead said. “I’m up next. Later, bitches.” She stubbed out her cigarette and stalked off, teetering on six-inch heels.

  The black woman lounged back in a feline stretch. “Anyway, honey, I heard about ol’ Ned finding that guy. Hard to miss it, with cops all over the place, lights flashin’—didn’t get a single customer that night, just the boys in blue leerin’ at us all night and not tippin’ a damn cent while they were in here askin’ questions. But I didn’t see nothin’. Never saw the guy in the pic they showed around before.”

  “What about this Ned? Who’s he?”

  “Homeless dude that hangs around the area sometimes. We get a lot of ’em, pokin’ around the dumpsters lookin’ for food or recyclables, y’know? Sometimes they come in here but Paco kicks ’em out when they do, ’less they got money.”

  “You seen him around here since he found the guy?”

  “Nah, but that don’t surprise me. He prob’ly got spooked and found another part o’ town to dumpster-dive in. I would, if I was him.”

  Verity nodded. It made sense—the homeless were pretty much the bottom of the totem pole in Vegas, which meant drawing attention was something they stayed well away from. “Did they show you another guy’s picture too? I heard they found somebody else’s ID with the body. Skinny, dark-haired guy with a mustache? Name’s David Ames?”

  “Maybe,” she said. “I don’t really remember.” Her gaze shifted away.

  Verity was watching her aura, and when she said that, it darkened. She leaned in a little closer. “Look,” she said. “If you’re waiting me to give you money to tell me what you know, that’s not gonna happen. I’m pretty much broke, and so is my brother. But I can see you’re not telling me everything.”

  The woman looked startled. “You some kinda psychic or somethin’?”

  “Just good at reading faces. That’s a useful skill in this town, isn’t it? Maybe I should play poker—you know, if I had any money. Why don’t you just tell me?”

  She hesitated again, and once more her aura clouded. She glanced over toward where Jason and the bartender seemed to be wrapping up their conversation.

  All at once, Verity realized the stripper wasn’t evading the question because she was looking for a bribe. She was nervous about something.

  “Hey,” she said, trying to sound reassuring. “You can tell me. We’re not cops, and we’re not doing anything officially. We’re just trying to find out what happened to this guy so his wife can have a little peace of mind, you know?”

  The stripper glanced at the bar again, then sighed. “Look,” she said. “I don’t know how much you know about this town, but the number-one rule here is that you keep your mouth shut and your head down. You do your job, you don’t get noticed by the wrong people, and you sure as hell don’t get a rep for havin’ a big mouth. You hear what I’m sayin’?”

  Verity narrowed her eyes. “You do know something. And you’re scared to say anything because somebody might find out?”

  She took a long swallow from her drink. “I don’t know nothin’. Nothin’ specific, anyway. I got no idea if your guy—either of ’em—ever came in here. It might look empty right now, but after nine or ten the place is packed, so unless they availed themselves of my—special services—I ain’t gonna remember shit about ’em. But I’ll tell you this—there’s a lot of weird business goin’ down in this area. Weird, dangerous business. You have any sense, you and your hot brother, you’d pack up and go back wherever you came from and let this one go. I’d hate to see anybody get hurt.”

  “What kind of business?” Verity glanced at Jason again; he’d turned away from the bar and caught her eye, and she shook her head. She was on the verge of getting something from this woman, and didn’t think Jason’s presence would help things. “Listen—this guy, Gary, he’s got two little daughters. Seven and nine years old. He coached their soccer team. He was a nice suburban dad, and whatever happened to him, his family deserves to know, don’t you think?” She leaned in. “He wasn’t just killed. Did you hear that? He was tortured.”

  The stripper sighed. “I got me a little girl. She’s four. And I want her to stay safe too, y’know?” She finished her drink, gripping the empty glass. “This is all I’m gonna tell you, and after that I don’t want to see you again, okay? I don’t know nothin’ about your guy, like I said. But if he was tortured and dumped in a dumpster, whoever did it was sendin’ a message.”

  “To who?” Verity asked. “To the club here?”

  “Maybe. Or more likely to somebody in the area. Mostly when people piss off the folks pullin’ the strings, they just disappear. Never found again. If your guy was that visible, that means somebody’s tellin’ somebody somethin’.”

  “And you don’t know who, or what?”

  She shrugged. “No idea. Don’t wanna know. Like I said, I keep my head down and I do my thing. I would too, if I were you.” She stood. “I gotta get back to work. You listen to what I’m tellin’ you, honey. Guy’s dead—he ain’t worth gettin’ yourself killed over.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  By the time Stone showed up twenty minutes late for the get-together in the bar, it was already in full swing. Quite a few more people were here than had been at the dinner; he surmised they must be townspeople on hand to hang out with the TV production crew and perhaps get a chance to meet Bryce Riley and his co-stars.

  It wasn’t hard to tell the TV group from the townspeople, even though not many of either group were dressed fo
r a party—most of the men present wore trendy jeans and either polo shirts or button-downs; some of the women wore jeans too, while others sported cocktail dresses and heels. Despite their similar outfits, though, the Hollywood people seemed mostly at ease, holding drinks and talking in small groups. Stone spotted Larry Duncan chatting up a young woman he didn’t recognize, along with Kelly Petrucci, Cody Huff (who’d changed out of his cargo shorts and T-shirt for jeans and a blue Izod), and Celina Wanderley. Celina was still talking with Mortenson, which made Stone wonder if his colleague had even been back to her room after dinner until he noticed she’d swapped her slacks and tunic for her more typical style of patterned peasant skirt and white blouse, and let her long gray hair hang loose down her back.

  The townspeople were more subdued, keeping largely to themselves. They didn’t seem in awe of the fact that a television show was about to start shooting in their tiny town, but more as if they didn’t quite know what to make of this sudden influx of demonstrative strangers. Clearly, the ice hadn’t been broken yet. Randy Yates stood next to a slim, nervous-looking woman, conversing with Denise, the chirpy young hostess from the winery. Bill Mott, the bearded man Stone had met on his tramp around the town earlier that afternoon was over by the bar, exchanging his empty glass for another drink while eyeing Denise with a hopeful smile that clearly indicated he was trying to work up the courage to talk to her.

  All in all, both groups numbered about thirty-five between them. Conspicuous by his absence was Bryce Riley.