Dead In Red Page 2

  “Tell me about the murdered man,” Richard said.

  I repeated what Tom had told me the night before.

  “You get any impressions yet?”

  “Depends on your definition of impressions. So far, not here. But I did flash onto something weird that relates to the dead guy last night at the bar. Probably because he spent so much time there. I don’t know what it means.” And I wasn’t ready to talk about it.

  Richard did not look pleased, but he didn’t push. He understood what I’d said—that I was already caught up in the guy’s death, and that something beyond my usual senses was going to feed me information about it until . . . well, corny as it sounds . . . until justice was done. One way or another.

  Goat-footed, I tramped down the rocky slope, over flattened grass and weeds to where the crime tape flapped. As Tom said, there was nothing much to see. No blood marred the spot. The ground hadn’t been dug up for evidence. Had Walt been killed elsewhere and just dumped here?

  I closed my eyes and the flash of what I’d seen the night before came back to me. A sparkling—sequins?—woman’s stiletto-heeled shoe. I tried to tap into that memory once again, opening myself up, but it was someone else’s experience that assaulted me. Walt’s face, chalk white—his body drained of blood. Milky eyes open, staring up at the sky.

  Nausea erupted within me, doubling me over. I grabbed onto a sapling to keep from falling down the hill, retching, choking, until the inevitable. Then Richard was beside me, his hand on my shoulder until my stomach had finished expelling my breakfast.

  “What the hell happened?” he demanded.

  I coughed, gasping, trying to catch my breath. “Not me. I got caught in someone’s reaction to seeing Walt. I dunno. Maybe some rookie cop’s first time seeing a body.”

  “Good Lord,” Richard muttered.

  I wiped my mouth on the back of my hand. Poor Walt had been dumped here like so much garbage.

  “Excuse me, but what are you doing here?”

  We both turned. A tall, buxom blonde stood between the sacks of grain stacked on the porch. The morning sun highlighted the fine lines around her eyes, but the overall effect was not detrimental. Dressed in a denim skirt and peasant blouse, she was the epitome of Southwest fashion from her silver-and-turquoise squash-blossom necklace to her tooled leather boots.

  “Just looking around,” I said lamely, and staggered back up the hillock, with Richard following me.

  “This is not public property. I’m the owner, and unless you’re a mill customer, I’ll have to ask you to leave.”

  “Cyn Taggert—is that you?” Richard asked.

  The blonde squinted at him. “I’m sorry. Do I know you?”

  “Richard Alpert. We were friends when you were at Nardin and I was at Canisus High.”

  The anger dissolved from her features and a mix of astonishment and delight lit her face. “Richard?” She lurched forward, capturing him in an awkward embrace.

  I got another flash—so fast it almost didn’t register: Hands. Blood.

  She pulled back, the movement startling me, and examined Richard’s face. “How many years has it been?”

  He laughed. “Too many.”

  The two of them stood there, staring at one another, oblivious of what I’d just experienced. Then the woman gave a nervous laugh. “I’m Cynthia Lennox now. I was married for twenty years to Dennis. He passed away last fall.”

  “I’m so sorry,” Richard murmured.

  Her smile was wistful. “So am I.”

  I looked away, realizing my fingers were clenched so tight they’d gone white. Flexing them, I noticed half-moon indentations in my palm. That latest burst of insight had affected me more than the sparkling red shoe or the vision of Walt Kaplan’s body.

  The woman took Richard’s hand. “What happened to you? Last I heard you were in medical school.”

  “A lot of years ago,” Richard admitted, smiling. “I got my MD and moved to California for eighteen years. I’m back now.”

  I waited for him to say something like, “about to get married to the most marvelous woman in the universe,” but he kept looking at this stranger with a vacant, sappy grin. Ex-girlfriend, I mused? So what. Why not tell her about Brenda?

  I cleared my throat.

  Richard seemed to surface from the past. “Cyn, this is my brother, Jeff Resnick.”

  “Brother?” she asked, puzzled.

  Richard hadn’t even known about me when he was in high school. “It’s kind of a long story.”

  She didn’t look interested in learning it. I was too far away to shake hands—not that I wanted to—so I nodded at her. She did likewise. No love lost there.

  “Well, come on in,” Cyn told Richard, gesturing toward the mill. “We’ve got the best coffee in Williamsville, and a wonderful apple strudel.” She looked at him with eyes half focused on the past. I wondered if I should just slink back to the car and disappear. Then again, it had been someone from the mill who’d found Walt Kaplan, and I wanted to know about it. Uninvited, I trotted along behind them.

  We followed Cyn up the stairs and into the mill’s side entrance, stepping into the dim interior of what looked to be a storage barn. Crates and more pallets of grain and flour were stacked so that there was only a narrow path between this and a larger room with bright lights to the left: the bakery and storefront.

  Cyn stopped dead ahead of us and like two of the Three Stooges, Richard and I bumped into one another. Richard’s at least six inches taller than me, so it was difficult to see around him.

  “Tigger,” Cyn chided. A fat tabby leaped onto the stack of crates, giving a lusty yowl and looking self-satisfied. “Stay there,” Cyn told us. “I’ll take care of it.”

  Richard stared down at his shoes—no, just beyond them, at a gray, furry lump. Either a very large mouse or a small rat.

  Cyn returned with a worn and stained gardener’s glove on her right hand. She picked up the limp creature and inspected it. “Good work, Tigger.” Cyn started off again, paused to take aim at a trash barrel with a black plastic bag folded over its rim, and tossed the body in. Two points!

  Richard followed, his gaze straight ahead as he passed the barrel. I had a quick look inside and grimaced.

  Cyn ditched the glove.

  We entered the café, taking in the mingled aromas of fresh-ground coffees, vanilla, and baking that filled the upscale bakery’s storefront. Only one of the white-painted bistro tables stood empty. At the rest, customers sat lingering over conversations with cappuccinos, lattes, and decadent pastries. Not a bad mid-morning weekday crowd. Had business been this good before the dead man had been found on the property?

  Cyn sailed across the room to a door marked “Private,” ushering us in. “Gene, bring us some coffee and strudel, will you?” she called over her shoulder.

  “Sure thing, Cyn,” said a thin, balding, enthusiastic young man behind the café’s main counter.

  “That’s not necessary,” Richard said.

  “Nonsense. It’s the least I can do for an old friend.” Cyn closed the door behind her.

  Like the storefront, the brightly lit office was immaculate. No stray papers marred the desktop or hung out of the four-drawer file cabinet in the corner. Unlike the country charm outside this small room, Southwest accents of hanging ristras and a stenciled border of coyotes were cheerful against pale turquoise walls. Behind the desk was a large-framed photograph of a younger, happier Cyn arm-in-arm with a sandy-haired man—the now deceased Dennis?—in front of a low adobe building with the legend “Santa Fe Café au lait.”

  “Sit,” Cyn urged and took her own seat.

  We complied, taking the two upholstered office chairs before her antique wooden table of a desk.

  Cyn folded her hands and leaned forward. “It’s wonderful seeing you again, Richard, but what on Earth were you doing behind my café?”

  “Curiosity,” he said with a touch of embarrassment. “Murder isn’t an everyday occurrence in Will
iamsville.”

  “Who found the dead man?” I asked.

  Cyn turned hard eyes on me, her mouth tightening. “Our miller, Ted Hanson.”

  “Is he in today? Can I talk to him?”

  “No.” Her rebuke was adamant.

  “Excuse me?” I pushed.

  “No, Ted isn’t here today. In fact, he’s out of town on a buying trip.”

  “When will he be back?”

  “In a few days. Why are you so interested?”

  “Morbid curiosity,” I said, echoing Richard’s words. “Last night I was hired to take Walt Kaplan’s job at a bar down the street.”

  She gaped at me, unprepared for honesty; sudden fear shadowed her eyes.

  A sharp knock preceded the door opening. Gene held a loaded tray in one hand and bustled inside. He set cardboard cups before Richard and me, placing frosted rectangles of strudel on baker’s tissue next to them. His smile was genuine. “Enjoy.” He eased the door closed behind him.

  The awkward silence lengthened.

  Richard cleared his throat. “Ever see any of the old crowd, Cyn?”

  Cyn seemed grateful for a change of subject. “Since I came back to the area nine months ago, I’ve only caught up with Cathy Makarchuk. She married Barry Garner. They have five children—can you believe it?”

  Nothing on Earth is more boring than listening to old school chums reminisce. I reached for my coffee, eager to rid my mouth of the lingering sour taste of vomit, and my hand brushed the edge of the desk. The image of a smiling man burst upon my mind. Heart pounding, I snatched up my cup with a shaking hand and took a sloppy gulp.

  At some time before his death, Walt Kaplan had sat on the edge of that desk.

  # # #

  CHAPTER 2

  “Fill the beer cooler, and later we’ll talk,” Tom said, and slapped me on the back, nearly knocking me off my feet.

  “Sure thing,” I said and faked a smile.

  He left me standing by the bar’s back door, where a Molson truck had just made its weekly delivery. Thirty cases of beer sat stacked against the wall. I found a dolly behind the door, so at least I wouldn’t have to kill myself dragging the beer into the cooler. Then again, I wondered how much stress my recently broken arm could take. I’d only been out of the brace about seven weeks.

  The first five cases proved easy to lift. By the time I’d hauled the rest of them in I’d worked up a sweat and had rethought my ambition to work as a bartender. I much preferred cutting up fruit garnishes and washing glasses to actual physical labor.

  Four construction workers sat at the bar nursing beers, picking at bowls of pretzels while they watched ESPN on the TV bolted to the wall. Since Tom didn't serve food, I wondered if liquid bread—aka beer—constituted their midday meal. Tom had already given me the cut-off lecture. Nobody left drunk from his establishment unless they had a designated driver. In the twenty years he’d owned the tavern, he’d never been sued and wanted to keep it that way.

  I hadn’t worked behind a bar in at least twelve years, but it all came back within minutes as I waited on my first few customers, rang up the sales, and collected my first paltry tips. No doubt about it, I wasn’t going to get rich working here. Still, it felt good to be among the employed once again. For as long as it would last. Tom hadn’t mentioned this being a permanent arrangement.

  Luckily I wasn’t picking up too many disquieting vibes, either. One of the guys was behind in his truck payments, sweating the repo man. Another hadn’t been laid in three weeks and wondered if his old lady was boffing someone else. Just the usual errant signals I picked up on shopping carts, door handles and money. Inconvenient at times, but I’d learned to ignore most of it. I knew when to pay attention, too.

  The lunchtime crowd had emptied out when Richard ambled through the side entrance. He’d never been to The Whole Nine Yards before, and I guess he wanted to see for himself what I’d gotten myself into.

  He paused at the end of the bar, taking in the dark bead board that went halfway up the walls, the chair rail, and stucco above it decorated with sports posters and memorabilia. He took the first stool, rested his forearms on the bar. Dressed in a golf shirt and freshly ironed Dockers, he looked out of place in this working-class establishment.

  I strolled down and halted before him. “What can I get you, sir?”

  He looked up at me with no show of recognition. “Got any Canadian on tap?”

  “Labatts.”

  He nodded.

  I drew him a beer and set a fresh bowl of pretzels down in front of him. “What about those Bisons,” he said, setting a ten spot on the bar.

  I didn’t follow minor-league baseball, but I guessed I’d have to while working in a sports bar. Bummer. “Uh, yeah. What about ’em?”

  Richard’s mustache quirked as he reached for his glass.

  I rang up the sale and gave him his change. Tom was stooped over the other end of the bar, watching TV. I wandered over to him. “I’ve got some questions I wanted to ask about Walt.”

  Tom tore his gaze away from the tube. “Sure thing.”

  “You said he was a loner. No best friends?”

  Tom shook his head, then looked thoughtful. “Well, maybe me. But we didn’t talk all that much. I gave him the job because he’d been hurt working construction and couldn’t go back to it. He got some kind of disability payments, which is why he only had to work here part-time.”

  “What kind of disability?”

  “Bad hip. Had a limp. Sometimes he used a cane.”

  “What did he do with his free time?”

  Tom shrugged. “He never really spoke about it.”

  I glanced over my shoulder. Richard was looking down the bar beyond us, gazing intently at the TV. He’d never shown a burning desire to watch waterskiing before and was no doubt eavesdropping.

  I turned back to Tom. “Did Walt ever mention women or describe his ideal girl?”

  “Not that I recall.”

  “He wasn’t gay, was he?”

  Tom straightened, his eyes widening. “No!”

  “Just asking.” Where did the red stiletto heel fit in? “He go to strip joints?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  “Did he buy his sex?”

  Tom squirmed. “I don’t know. I don’t think so. Walt was private. He didn’t talk about stuff like that. But he listened when the other guys would talk. Why’d you ask such a personal question?”

  “I didn’t know Walt. Maybe nobody—even his family—really did.”

  Tom’s brow wrinkled. Maybe he hadn’t wanted to know.

  “It would help if I could see where Walt lived. See how he lived.”

  “I got his keys from the cops. I’ll give them to you later.” Tom cleared his throat and glanced over his shoulder at the back room. “I’ve got some paperwork to take care of. Will you be okay out here alone for a while?”

  I gazed at our only customer, Richard, and nodded.

  Tom took off and I grabbed the damp rag by the sink. The bar didn’t need wiping down, but I did it anyway, ending up back in front of Richard.

  “How’s the job going?” he asked.

  “So far so good.”

  He nodded, but seemed to expect more of an answer. I didn’t have one.

  “I’m gonna check out Walt’s apartment later. Wanna come?”

  Richard drained the last of his beer. “Why not?” The words sounded bland, but the crinkle in his eyes and the set of his mouth betrayed his interest. Brenda was right. He’d been bored silly during his convalescence, but looking into Walt’s murder wasn’t a lark. Odds were we wouldn’t be in danger this early in the game. I had no desire to put myself or anyone else in harm’s way. But the last time I’d gotten caught up in the web of emotion surrounding a murder, it was Richard who’d nearly paid the ultimate price. Truth was, I wanted him to accompany me, and yet anxiety gnawed at my nerves. For all the insight I’d experienced while pursuing a murderer three months earlier, I’d never had a
clue that Richard might be in danger. That he’d be so grievously injured.

  I didn’t like to revisit that guilt.

  Pawing through Walt’s possessions was another matter. We might not find anything that would give me answers. And if I did, well, I didn’t have to share it with Richard.

  “Want another?” I asked Richard, indicating his glass.

  He stood. “I’m all set. Give me a call later and I’ll meet you.”

  “Sure.”

  He headed for the door. Under his empty glass was a five-dollar tip.

  * * *

  The south side of Main Street near Eggert Road was already in shadow as Richard and I stood on the sidewalk looking up at the apartment windows over a dress boutique. The drapes were drawn. Good. I wasn’t interested in attracting the attention of the neighbors. Not that it mattered. I had permission to be there. Still, poking around a dead man’s possessions cranked up the creepiness factor a notch.

  Steep, narrow stairs led up to the second floor.

  “Did I hear your boss say the guy was disabled? Why didn’t he find first-floor digs?”

  I shrugged and pulled out the keys Tom had given me. Richard stooped to pick up newspapers that had accumulated. The shelf under a two-receptacle apartment mailbox overflowed with Walt’s junk mail. He grabbed that, too, and we trooped up the stairs.

  I picked out the key Tom said would open the door. It did. I stepped into the apartment’s dark interior, groping for the light switch just inside the door. I flicked it and wan yellow light illuminated the entryway. Walt had been dead only five days, but already the place smelled of disuse. Still, the air felt heavy with Walt’s presence. Not that I could take in the essence of his soul, but I could feel some residual part of what and who he was, and also the first tendrils of migraine stirring behind my eyes.

  Richard thrust the mail at me and shoved his hands into his pants pockets, gazing around the cramped place. The cops hadn’t made too big a mess, leading me to believe Walt kept his home meticulously clean. I sorted through the circulars, dumping them into the empty kitchen waste basket, then backtracked to open the entry’s closet door and found winter coats and boots. Nothing very interesting.