I wasn’t sure whether the knock I heard was in my head or at the
door. It took me a second to figure out where I was, a small cabin
with a fireplace and a kitchenette, a table and an armchair and not
much else. I was sweating and shivering; when I sat up I coughed
until my chest hurt. I dragged myself out of bed and wrapped myself
in the fleece blanket folded in the chair. How long had I been here,
and where was here? There were no cabins like this in Perrine.
The knocking
continued. I took a brief survey of the room. No bottles, no needles,
no empty bags or tin foil. So I wasn’t hungover or cranked or going
through withdrawal. There was an itch of a memory kicking around
inside my skull. I ignored it while I answered the door.
The woman knocking
on the door was a little older than me, in a fleece vest and hiking
boots, short blonde hair turning the last corner to full-on grey.
“Wanted to check in on you,” she said. “I haven’t seen any
movement in since you got here. You okay?”
I turned away and
coughed into my elbow. I was in critical need of a shower. “I guess
not,” I said.
“Do you need me
to call a doctor?”
I shook my head,
too afraid of coughing again if I spoke. She peered past me into the
cabin. “Look, I don’t mean to sound suspicious, but if you’re
up here trying to shake some habit….”
“Just a cold,”
I insisted. “Worked myself to exhaustion, that’s all.”
That softened her
some. “I got some meds in the house, if you want,” she offered.
“It’s just the drugstore brand, but it might help.”
I coughed so hard I
couldn’t answer. I coughed so hard I got woozy, leaning against the
doorframe for support. I nodded with the last of my strength.
“I’ll leave
them on the porch,” she said. “You rest up and call if you need
anything. The house number’s in the binder on the table.”
I gave her a
hoarse thank you and closed the door. The brief glimpse of the
orange and red peaks that I got out my window told me I was either in
the Catskills or the Adirondacks, possibly the Berkshires. Somewhere
quiet and mountainous, somewhere a man could hide out and pay cash. I
couldn’t even check to see if I had service; my phone was dead. I
had a charger in my car, but that would require me to go outside. I
wasn’t ready to face that yet.
I found a can of
coffee in the kitchenette and started the five-cup coffeemaker. I
took a long hot shower and inhaled slow hits of steam, trying to
clear my lungs. I hated putting back on the clothes I fell asleep in,
but did so long enough to go to my car and get my go-bag. I felt
better when I had on a clean shirt and fresh socks. I smelled better
too.
Over coffee I
leafed through a binder of brochures for white water rafting and cave
tours. I was in Fair Forrest, nearly three hours north of Perrine.
Another hour or so and I would have been in Canada. I had only a
vague memory of stopping for gas, of drinking coffee that curdled in
my stomach. But I had driven here deliberately. I was on the run. Not
from the cops – although I’m sure they wanted to talk to me too.
I was on the run
from myself.
It was a simple
tail, that’s all. A woman who wanted to know why her husband
suddenly started staying late at work. We all knew the answer, but
she needed that confirmation, needed the details to take to her
lawyer. I got the pictures and took them back to her, Valerie took
the check to the bank and closed out the file. No different than any
other case we’d handled. Hell, it was almost easier. Sometimes you
have to wait a couple of days for the khaki-wearing Romeos to make
their amorous moves.
But four days later
the wife called me screaming, saying he’d left with his gun and she
was worried he was going to do something drastic. And he did. Three
hours later Valerie and I were standing with Captain Hollander and
his pack of blues at a two-body crime scene in the same bedroom I had
dirty pictures of. The husband shot the girlfriend and then he shot
himself, blood and misery everywhere. And everyone at the scene knew
that I was the strip on the back of the matchbook. The only thing
that kept me from grabbing the bottle of vodka on the nightstand and
swallowing it all right there was that there wasn’t enough left to
get a teenager drunk for the first time.
So I got in my car
and I drove, drove to outrun my anger, drove to outrun my cravings,
drove until dawn when I found the Pleasant Pines cabins, paid for
three days with all the cash I had in my wallet and collapsed into
bed. I came here because I wouldn’t know how to score when I wanted
to more than anything, it was too early when I arrived to find an
open liquor store or some barstool to park myself on and drink until
I blacked out why I’d come here in the first place. That much, I
realized, I had spared myself.
My phone began to
buzz back to life. I only had a few bars, not enough to make a call
but enough to get my text messages and alerts for the four voicemails
I had. Three were from Valerie. One was from Hollander. I’d listen
to those later. I sent Valerie a text telling her I was safe and that
I’d call her soon. If she never forgave me for the time she spent
worrying whether I was dead somewhere, I’d accept that. But she
didn’t need to worry one second more than she already had. I’d
get another day or so of rest, shake this cold and head back to
Perrine to face what I had fled. It was the only real option left on
the table.
*
Every town, no
matter how small, has a diner. The Lucky was at the end of the main
drag, a six-booth with a Formica counter and one teenage waitress
doing homework on the last stool. There was only one other pair of
diners in the place, an old man reading a local paper and a young
woman on her phone. I sat in the last booth so as not to disturb
them. They had the air of regulars.
I ordered runny
eggs and burnt toast and orange juice for my cold. My coffee came in
a mug from a local auto repair shop. My waitress had a thick blonde
braid and a nametag that read Jess and when she asked where I was
from she didn’t seem to recognize the city. She asked where I was
staying and I told her. “Sorry there’s not more to do here,”
she said. “Once Labor Day comes, this town quiets right down.”
“I’m in the
mood for peace and quiet,” I replied.
“Then you’ve
come to the right place,” she said. “Stick around long enough,
you’ll get sick of it.”
She brought me my
plate and refilled my coffee. I stuck my nose back in the paperback
I’d grabbed off the cabin bookshelf to keep my mind from wandering
while I ate. I heard the bell above the door ring as the old man and
his companion left.
“Hey!”
Jess cried after them, bolting out the door before it even had a
chance to close behind them. “Hey, you forgot to pay!”
I
could hear her yelling on the sidewalk. I got up and glanced out the
window. Now the man’s companion was yelling too, gripping him like
he would crumple to the ground if she didn’t. After a few more
heated words and the glimpse of a police badge, she grabbed a wallet
out of his pocket, took out a single bill, crumpled it in one fist
and threw it in Jess’s face.
“You
okay?” I asked when she came back inside.
“Not
the first time it’s happened,” she said. “Guy’s the old
police chief – he’s got dementia, I think he remembers when cops
used to eat for free here. It wouldn’t be such a big deal if his
niece wasn’t such a raging bitch. She’s a cop too. If you can
call part-time traffic enforcement a cop. Daphne walks around here
like a four-star general.”
So some things
weren’t just city problems. “Did they cover their bill, at
least?” I said.
“Barely,” she
said. “Nice tip. A whole buck. More than she usually gives me.”
She went back to
her history textbook. I finished my breakfast and left a $20 on a $9
check. It was the least I could do.
*
I wasn’t ready
to go back to the cabin, so I took a stroll through the downtown. At
least that’s what I told myself I was doing. I wondered if I would
see Guy and Daphne harassing other shop owners. I wondered if I was
just avoiding calling Valerie.
I
stopped at a tiny department store and bought a shirt and a pair of
pajama pants and some extra socks. My go-bag had one change of
clothes, but the nights were colder than I expected. I got another
cup of coffee at the shop on the corner and drank it in the park,
watching a handful of other late-season tourists in fleece vests and
hiking boots stroll by. When I was done with my coffee I went back to
my car and explored the other streets, found the grocery store and
the laundromat and a bar called Taylor’s that I drove by like I was
stalking an ex. I could convince myself of a lot of things, but being
able to handle a drink was not one of them. I kept driving.
I
pulled over in the parking lot of the school. My phone was charged
and I had decent service. Valerie answered on the second ring. “Jesus
Christ, Martin, where the hell have you been?” she spat. “I’ve
been freaking out here.”
“I
know, I know, I’m sorry,” I said. Even pissed at me, it was good
to hear her voice. She’d only been my assistant for three months,
but I’d come to rely on her in a way I hadn’t relied on anyone
since the French Letters broke up. I was surprised she was actually
worried, that she gave a damn whether or not I came home and in what
shape. I’d been on my own for so long that wasn’t used to that.
“Where
are you?”
“Fair
Forrest,” I said. “Somewhere in the Adirondacks.”
“Tell
me next time you’re going to take a vacation,” she said. “I was
about to file a missing persons report. You seemed pretty rattled
when you left. You okay?”
“I’m better
than I was,” I said. “How are things there?”
“Mr. LaGuarde is
still dead,” she said. “But the papers seem to have moved on.
Hollander wants to interview you, but he said no rush. No one to take
to trial, after all.”
It was of little
comfort. There was always the chance the widow could sue me, but
seeing as how she’s the one who hired me, it’d be little more
than an inconvenience to everyone involved. “Do me a favor and set
up the interview,” I said. “If Friday works for him. And get
Vinny on the books too; I don’t want to talk to anyone without my
lawyer.”
“Can do,” she
said. “Does this mean you’re headed back?”
“Not yet,” I
said. “But soon.”
*
When I got back to
my cabin, my bed had been made and my dishes had been washed and
there was a small bag on the table; cold tablets and tissues and tea
and a note that said there was soup in the fridge, two bags of frozen
chicken noodle and a pot set up on the hot plate when I was ready. I
made the tea and took my book out to the porch to sit in the
sunshine. For the first time in three days, I felt all right.
Susan came by with
a cord of firewood. I thanked her for the gift bag. “I hope I
didn’t offend you this morning,” she said. “Every so often some
city kid comes up here to try and dry out and it never goes well.
Fresh air is great and all, but it can’t cure the DTs. I know from
experience.”
“So do I.”
She smiled at me. I
nodded towards the other chair and she set down the firewood and sat.
“22 years,” she said. “You?”
“Just crossed
18.”
“I go to a
meeting in town,” she said. “If you feel like you want to join
me.”
“I might,” I
said. I’m never quite as touched as when someone invites me to
their meeting. It’s a reminder that people do care, that they are
kind if given a chance. In my line of work, it’s easy to forget
that. But my temptation was starting to wane, I had confidence again
in my sobriety. Hearing Valerie’s voice helped more than she would
ever know.
“So what do you
do?” she asked.
“I’m a private
investigator,” I replied.
She lowered her
voice. “Are you on a case right now?” she asked. “Something
going on with one of the other guests?”
I laughed. Even if
I was working someone over, it would be against the PI’s code to
tell her. “No,” I replied. “Just needed a place to relax for a
few days. It’s a stressful job.”
“I’ll bet,”
she said. She stood up and pointed to the white house up the
driveway. “If you need anything, even just someone to talk to, I’m
up there,” she said. “Day or night, you just ring the bell. I’ll
answer no matter what.”
“Do you always
take such good care of your guests?”
She smiled and
picked up the wood. “Sometimes,” she said. “Enjoy the rest of
your stay.”
*
I woke up to
someone banging on a door somewhere in the distance. It took me
another minute to realize where I was, that it wasn’t my door. I
got up and peered out the window to see a shadowy figure on the porch
of the empty cabin next to mine. I put on my shoes and my jacket and
went outside to see what was happening.
In the dim light
from the road I could see Guy, feeble and frail, pounding on the door
with all the strength he had left. If he was trying to yell, his
voice was little more than a crude whisper, a barely-audible rasp.
“Guy,” I said, approaching cautiously. “Is everything all
right?”
“Claire’s in
there,” he grumbled. “I need to see Claire.”
“There’s no one
in there,” I said. The only other people I’d seen were a young
couple with a dog and an SUV, another few cabins down the line.
He ignored me. I
wondered who I should call, Susan or the cops or just let him dotter
away when lucidity kicked in. I was on vacation. I didn’t need
this. I was just about to turn back when I saw Susan advancing in her
robe and a pair of hastily-tied hiking boots. “Not again, Guy,”
she said, reaching for his arm. “Claire’s not here tonight.
C’mon, let me call Daphne, she’s probably worried about you.”
He muttered
something both of us pretended not to hear. “I can stay with him,”
I offered. “If you want to go call someone.”
Before she could
take me up on it, a second car roared up the driveway, lighting us up
like fugitives. Daphne stormed towards us. “I was just about to
call you,” Susan said. “You need to hide his keys better.”
Daphne seized him
roughly. “Again with this?” she snapped. “There’s no Claire
here.”
“Easy,” I
cautioned. “Don’t want to make things worse with a fall.”
“I don’t need
advice from another one of Susan’s joyriders,” she sneered. “So
mind your own goddamn business.”
“Get out,”
Susan barked. “Both of you. Now. Next time I see him here, I’m
calling the cops. The real ones.”
Denise yanked her
uncle back towards the car. There was a brown Buick parked crookedly
in the lot. “Get that junker off my property by daybreak,” she
continued. “Or you’ll find it in the tow yard.”
Daphne cursed us
both out until she got in her car, scattering gravel as she sped off
into the night. “I’m sorry about that,” Susan said. “He’s
old, he has dementia.”
“So I’ve
heard,” I said. “They pulled a similar scene at the Lucky
earlier.”
“He really needs
to be in a home,” she said. “Or have a full-time nurse. But
Daphne won’t allow it. Probably because she’s been dipping into
Uncle Pennybags’ account.”
She started to walk
away. Before I could stop myself, I heard the words slip out of my
mouth. “Who’s Claire?” I asked.
She turned back.
“No one,” she said. “No one of any importance.”
*
Cold-wise, I felt
better the next morning. I took half a dose of cold medicine and
called Valerie, gave her the name of the motel, of Claire, of Guy and
Daphne and Susan. Maybe she’d find nothing at all. Maybe she’d
find an old girlfriend. But more curious than an old love affair, was
that Daphne had called me a “joyrider.” There had to be a reason
for that.
Susan came by with
firewood around 11. “Sorry about last night,” she said.
“Does that happen
often?” I asked. “Him showing up like that?”
“First time it’s
happened here,” she said. “But like you saw at the diner, he’ll
show up places and make a scene. Only been in the last six months or
so. Should have guessed he’d find his way here eventually.”
“What did she
mean when she called me a joyrider?”
She hesitated. “I’m
a PI,” I reminded her. “I can ask around, but I’d like to hear
it from you.”
She set down the
wood carrier. I offered her a seat on the porch, but she didn’t
take it. “I thought I was doing the right thing,” she started.
“We had really bad drug problems up here, same as everywhere. But
they closed all the clinics, hospitals can’t take them to dry out
and the closest in-patient is three hours from here. So I offered my
place in the off-season for people who might not have anyplace else
to go. A lot of these guys have burned through their family, and the
only friends they have are still using.”
I was lucky. My
sister Sandy took me in after I completed rehab. Hell, I had rehab to
complete; a bed, a gym, counselors, green space to stroll and food to
eat. I couldn’t have done it otherwise. My cravings, even 18 years
later, told me that much.
“A lot of people
got clean,” she said. “I’d take them to meetings, talk with
them, all the stuff my sponsor did for me. Some of them helped around
the camp, splitting firewood, raking leaves, simple stuff. Some of
them still send me Christmas cards. But I had a rule – you only got
one chance. You screwed up, you got kicked out. There were too many
people who needed a place to stay and I didn’t have time to screw
around. But I got a reputation. Someone started saying I was feeding
them junk so I could keep cashing county checks. The cops would roll
by and give me a fake name, just to let us all know they were
watching.”
Sounds like cops
all right. I wondered if one of them was Denise.
She continued. “I
got this one kid, Kyle. Sweet kid, very nervous, really struggling.
I’d make him dinner, bring him books, try and talk with him. But
one night, while I was at my meeting…”
I knew where this
story was going. It was a story that had been told a thousand times,
in every city and town across the country, always with the same sad
ending. “He broke into the other cabins,” she said. “He stole
their tapers. He went into town and shoplifted some allergy meds and
a six-pack. I don’t know if he had a seizure or an OD or if he
choked on his own vomit, but he was dead the next morning. I told
them to stop sending me people after that. His parents tried to sue
me, but the judge threw it out. There were less than 10 of us at his
funeral. His parents weren’t among us.”
I had one last
question. “What cabin was he staying in?”
She looked at me
like she’d just realized her mistake too late. “This one,” she
said.
*
I didn’t need
Susan to move me. I didn’t believe in ghosts, but something had me
unsettled enough to want to get out for awhile. I went into town for
lunch. “Saw Guy again last night,” I told Jess. “Banging on the
door of Cabin 8 at the Peaceful Pines.”
She snorted.
“Sounds about right,” she said. “My grandma said that place was
a whorehouse back in the day.”
A waitress, like a
bartender, is an invaluable source of information. They’ll never
give a name or the full story, but they hear and retain stories like
a tape recorder. Ask the right questions and they’ll playback
anything you want to know – within reason. They had codes like
priests when it came to the identifying details. She clapped her hand
over her mouth as soon as the words were out. “I’ve heard worse,”
I assured her. “Tell me more.”
She was blushing.
“She said the girls would come into town once a week or so to
shop,” she continued. “And they’d come to her beauty parlor to
get their hair set, all at the same time. She would block off
Wednesday from two to close just to do those girls’ hair. She said
they tipped better than any of the ladies in church.”
“Susan was
telling me it was a crash pad for people in outpatient rehab,” I
said “But you were probably too young to remember that.”
“I heard
stories,” she said.
“Any of them
about a girl named Claire?”
She shook her head.
But before she could say anything, my phone rang with Valerie’s
number. I muttered an excuse me and took the call outside.
“What did you find?” I asked.
“There was a
woman named Claire Londner who was found strangled in a roadside
cabin in 1977,” she said. “They never arrested anyone in her
death.”
If what Jess had
told me was true about the locals, I doubted they looked too hard for
her killer. Probably considered it an occupational hazard. “Who was
the cop assigned to the case?”
I could hear her
flipping pages. I imagined her at her desk in my office, the scent of
coffee and ink. “The paper quotes a Detective Guy McDuff,” she
said. “What’s this about?”
“Not sure yet,”
I said. “But I’ll let you know when I find out.”
*
The library was the
only place I could get a reliable internet connection. I found the
same scans of old newspapers that Valerie must have; Claire Londner,
28, was found strangled in her cabin on Oct. 28, 1977. Back then the
cabins were called The Alpine, their logo showed a cheerful girl in a
short dirndl and high-heeled clogs. How very Gil Elvgren.
“Excuse me,” I
asked the librarian. “Is there a local historian? A museum, maybe?”
She brightened.
“You want to talk to Dana Hale,” she said. “He knows
everything.”
*
The librarian gave
me Hale’s number and he agreed to meet me at the museum on the edge
of town. I told him I was working on a book about the area. He
believed me.
Hale was short and
bald like a high school science teacher nearing retirement. “I’m
looking for anything you had on the girl who got murdered at the
Alpine in the 70s,” I said. “Claire Londner.”
“Pretty grim
subject for a book,” he grumbled. “What brought you to that?”
“Research,” I
said. “Do you have anything from that? A phone book, a property
listing?” I didn’t know yet what I was looking for, but someone
in this town had to know something that would connect me to why the
former police chief was looking for a murdered girl by her first name
in the middle of the night.
“It’s a chapter
this town would rather forget,” he said. “And most of them don’t
want to admit that the johns spent a lot of money in this town.”
“Until one of
them murdered one of the girls,” I said. “What’s the prevailing
theory in her death?”
He didn’t say
anything. He disappeared into the back room and was gone so long I
thought he might have escaped out the back. When he did return he had
a grey box in his hands. “I came across these while cataloging some
property for an exhibit we had a few years back,” he said. “But I
never knew who to tell, so I didn’t say anything. I think you’ll
understand why.”
Inside was a
priest’s collar, a small gold cross with a broken chain, some
photos and a leather-bound Bible. I picked up the Bible and a
flattened matchbook fell out onto the table.
The Alpine Motel.
*
The Bible belonged
to Father Curtis Franklin, a priest at St. Mary’s from 1965 until
the early 80s. “This guy was practically the Pope,” Valerie said.
“When he retired in 1991, the newspaper dedicated their entire
front section to him. He oversaw the opening of the food pantry,
personally made the corned beef for the annual St. Patrick’s Day
dinner, all that sort of small-town shit.”
I had managed to
find Chinese takeout and a spot in my cabin that got halfway decent
cell phone reception. I put Valerie on speaker and kicked my feet up
on the table, like we would have if we were chewing over a case in
the office. I just wished I had enough bandwidth to put her on video.
I was starting to miss seeing her face. I imagined there was a lot of
eye-rolling I was missing out on. “Any police record?” I asked.
She snorted. “Of
course not,” she said. “And none of the records of getting
bounced around the way pervs do. He was here for 20 years and beloved
in every single one of those.”
“All the better
reason to cover up a crime,” I muttered.
“You think he
murdered Claire?” she said. “My money was on the police chief.”
“I think Guy
helped bury it,” I said. “And I think in his confusion, he’s
going back to the scene of the crime. The director of the history
center gave me the name of the madam’s daughter, Jeannine Dorne,
thought she might have something.”
“What are you
going to do if you solve it?” she asked. “Franklin’s been dead
for 20 years and no judge will find McDuff fit for trial.”
I hadn’t thought
that far ahead. Hell, I don’t even know how I got involved except
for my own goddamn curiosity. All that got me last time was two dead
bodies with my photos at the crime scene.
I let Valerie go
with a promise to be home soon and finished my takeout. I wished I
had some music; I was 200 miles away from my piano and my signal
wasn’t strong enough to stream anything. For the first time in
three days, my cabin felt very lonely. I tried whistling The Mighty
Lemon Drops, “Inside Out.” The only problem was that I wasn’t
very good at whistling.
*
Jeannie lived on
the road that wound along the lake, on property that would sell for
triple what she likely paid for it when the time came to move. “I
thought about giving this to the police years ago,” she said,
handing me a large brown ledger. “But I knew they’d just destroy
it. Half their names are probably in it, but I’d never know.
They’re all coded and Mama never told me what the patron code was.
She had it memorized.”
“No surprise
there,” I said. “Was there ever anyone your mom was really scared
of? Worried about?”
“Not locally,”
she said. “Occasionally she’d get some bad vibes from an
out-of-town client, but she would have never put him in with Claire.
She saved those guys for Ramona, she knew kung-fu or some shit. No
one messed with Ramona. Claire was more the girl-next-door type,
played that pretty and shy routine, like she was a virgin 10 times a
night.”
“You remember
her?”
“Sure I do,”
she said. “She used to give me a little spritz of her perfume if I
came by. She said it was from France, she kept it in one of those
fancy atomizers with the feather and the pump. Years later I found
out it came from Sears, but still, it was sweet of her to do.”
She got out a photo
album. “Mama had a code for each girl too,” she said. “Claire
was #24,” she said.
“24?”
“V for virgin,”
she said. “24th letter of the alphabet. #4 would be
dominatrix, that sort of thing.”
When
The French Letters were in Amsterdam on tour, my guitar player Ron
and our bass player Vic tried to get me to go with them to a brothel,
but I wasn’t interested. Instead I smoked a couple Gladstone
cigarettes in the bathtub and ran up an international phone bill that
infuriated our management. I never wanted any woman but Cecelia, back
home in LA. Her voice was all the pleasure I needed right then.
Jeannie pulled
Claire’s photo out and passed it to me. She was pretty, a redhead
in a lace-trimmed nightgown, with those too-trusting eyes. She wore a
small gold cross around her neck. I wondered if it was for real or a
prop for her good-girl routine.
Or her murder
weapon.
*
My family was
Methodist, but growing up, my best friend Rudy was Catholic, so on
weekends I spent over at his house, I’d go to mass with his family.
I liked the ritual of it even if I had to stay seated while they took
communion. Later on, I liked that I got to sit next to his sister
Lucy, who wore Love’s Baby Soft and was tall enough that her skirts
were a little shorter than they had been a year ago. At 13, I would
have nailed myself to the cross just to touch her hand. Years later,
when I was back in Duluth for my mom’s funeral, she showed up with
her two sons, as beautiful as ever, kissed my cheek and told me how
good I looked, that Rudy had moved to North Carolina to become a
basketball coach and he was sorry he couldn’t get away. She smelled
like cucumber melon when she hugged me and she had a much better
husband than an ex-junkie rock star could have ever hoped to be.
But I wasn’t here
to confess the lustful heart I’d had for Lucy Archer 40 years ago.
I wasn’t even here for prayerful reflection. I was here because
Guy’s car was in the parking lot, because he was alone in the third
pew, clutching a rosary he wasn’t counting. I sat behind him and
leaned forward so I was practically whispering in his ear. “I heard
nice things about Claire,” I said.
He looked back at
me. He smiled. “She used to sit right here,” he said, pointing to
the pew across from him. “She never missed a Sunday mass.”
“I bet Father
Franklin liked that,” I said. “Good looking girl in the pews.”
“He saw her
soul,” he said. “Her devotion to the Lord. He wanted to save
her.”
“None of us are
without sin,” I said. “Not even a priest.”
He didn’t
respond, so I kept talking. “He killed her,” I said. “And you
helped cover it up. You had to. Because he knew all your secrets. He
knew who drank too much, who hit their wife, who sent their daughter
to stay with relatives when she started to show. All the little sins
you unburdened yourself with, week after week. If he was revealed,
you all would be. And none of you could take that chance.”
I expected him to
get up and leave, to respond with fight, to speak in tongues, to drop
dead of a heart attack. I expected him to do anything but smile and
sigh. “Yes,” he said. “He went to her. More than once. He
called me from her phone, said she needed help. He was gone when we
arrived. All of us did. They never caught her killer. But we all
knew.”
“How come the
Madam never said anything?”
“Because we
threatened her,” he said. “She saw what happened to Claire. She
closed up shop pretty quickly after that.”
Maybe it wasn’t
fair, confronting a confused old man with his crimes. Guy might be
gone in another six months. Father Franklin was dead. But so was
Claire. Maybe that only meant something to Jeannie, the only woman
who remembered her, who lit a candle for her wandering spirit. I knew
a few things about the ghosts that linger, about leaving lights on so
someone can find their way home to rest. I’d light a candle for
Cecelia on the way out, the same way Rudy had taught me. Hell, I’d
light one for Valerie and Susan too, a prayer in the darkness for the
people who might need it.
Guy seemed lighter,
somehow. Confession cleared your head, saying your sins out loud held
you accountable. I never understood what that meant until I got to
rehab, until I had to spell out my own weaknesses week after week,
until they disappeared like vapor. I remembered that weight being
lifted, the relief I felt when it was all given up to some higher
power.
I squeezed his
shoulder as I stood up. He lifted his eyes to meet mine. “Thank
you,” he said. “The peace of God be with you.”
“And also,” I
said. “With you.”
*
I let Hale make the
call to the village police. They interviewed me at the museum; we
showed them the cross and the matchbook, all circumstantial. They
interviewed Jeannie too, and picked up Guy for questioning the next
day. Daphne screamed at the cops who came to get her uncle. I watched
from my car across the street as she followed them out. I wondered if
she believed his innocence, if she kept up the family business of
secrets or if she was pissed because her meal ticket was gone. There
might be elder abuse charges waiting for her, or she could empty his
accounts and take off, have the pension checks forwarded to some
other small town with a police force she could bully her way into.
Guy would never see the inside of a court room other than the day of
his arraignment, but none of it was my problem anymore. None of it
was my problem to begin with
I was drinking
coffee on my front porch when a cab pulled up and Valerie got out.
She didn’t have any luggage. “I thought you could use some
company on the ride back,” she said as she approached.
“Maybe
I’ve decided to stay,” I joked. “Set up shop here. I’ve
already solved one case.”
“All your music
is back in Perrine,” she said. “Your French press and your piano
and all your suits.”
She had me there.
“Let me finish my coffee,” I said. “My bag is all packed
anyways.”
We sat on the porch
without saying a word. There’d be plenty to talk about on the ride
home. When we’d finished I rinsed out the cups and the coffee pot,
put my bag in the car and went up to the white house to pay the
remainder of my bill. Susan gave me a hug and said thanks and that
everyone was talking about what happened. That was my cue to ride off
into the sunset.
LIBBY
CUDMORE is the author of THE BIG REWIND (William Morrow 2016), and
previous Martin Wade stories have appeared in ELLERY QUEEN MYSTERY
MAGAZINE and the Anthony Award nominated anthology LAWYERS, GUNS &
MONEY: CRIME FICTION INSPIRED BY THE MUSIC OF WARREN ZEVON (co-edited
with Art Taylor). Her short stories have been published in
MONKEYBICYCLE, SMOKELONG QUARTERLY, HAD, THE NORMAL SCHOOL, THE
COACHELLA REVIEW, BLEED ERROR and others, and she is the co-host of
the OST PARTY, MISBEHAVIN' and SHATTERED SHIELD podcasts. This is her
second contribution to TOUGH; her story "The Covenant" was
published in October 2019.