Dead In Red Page 4

  “It’s obvious. It’s in Holiday Valley.”

  She picked up a macaroon and inspected it. “Oh sure. If you know what street it’s on.”

  I thought back to the image she’d shared with me. The fact that it had been a negative made it harder to discern details. A mailbox, glowing numbers. Maples and pines in the background, but nothing else to help me identify the location. And she had a point. “Can you tell me anything about this place?”

  “More about the paper the numbers were written on.”

  I was all ears.

  “The man who wrote it is dead.” She shuddered. “Died violently.”

  I nodded.

  Sophie concentrated. “He wasn’t well.”

  I nodded again.

  Her gaze strayed to the other box, then to me. “This one frightens you.”

  “I wouldn’t say ‘frightened.’ More—” Okay, she was right. But it wasn’t the box; just the damn little pillow inside it.

  “Yes?” she prompted.

  “Concerned.”

  “Mmm.” She lifted the lid, peered inside and frowned. “Oh. Yeah. Not nice.”

  We could fence around it all night. “How so?”

  Her chin rose defiantly. “You tell me.”

  “That would taint your perception. Come on—give.”

  Her brow again furrowed with concentration. When she spoke, her voice was pensive—subdued. “Blood. Like a slaughterhouse.”

  Damn, I hadn’t wanted to hear that. “Yeah. Walt Kaplan bled to death.”

  She shook her head. “What we see is not his blood.”

  My heart sank. She’d used the present tense. “I got that, too.”

  “What will you do about it?”

  “What can I do?”

  “Try to stop it from happening.”

  “Can I?”

  She shrugged. “All you can do is try.”

  “What about fate? If it’s supposed to happen—”

  “If I had my life to live over, I would always try harder to do what was right. Always. It’s too easy to turn away, to give up. I would be very disappointed in you if you took the easy way out.”

  Sophie had a knack for inducing guilt. I found I couldn’t meet her gaze.

  She tapped the other shoebox. I looked up to see her frown, her brow furrowing. “What about this fancy shoe?”

  “I saw it, too,” I said, grateful for the change of subject. “But I don’t know what it means.”

  Sophie nibbled on her cookie, her expression thoughtful. “Feet.”

  “Huh?”

  “The man who died had one of those feet things.”

  “Feet things?”

  “You know—he was fascinated by toes.”

  Understanding dawned. “A foot fetish?”

  “Yes!” She popped the rest of the cookie in her mouth, chewed, and swallowed, quite pleased with herself; then her expression soured. “Why would anyone want to suck on another person’s smelly toes?”

  “Ya got me.”

  Sophie shrugged, selected another macaroon and winked. “These are better.”

  # # #

  CHAPTER 4

  He was dead. Chest, clothes saturated with blood. A lifeless body stretched out on the cold, stone floor. No hope of revival. No hope at all.

  Dead.

  Forever gone.

  Like everyone else I’d ever loved.

  My father. I don’t even really remember him. Not his face. Nothing.

  My mother. The haggard-faced Madonna with a whiskey glass clutched in one hand, pleading for release from this life.

  My wife—Shelley, her eyes glazed and vacant, lips smiling after a line of blow.

  And now . . .

  The image of the dead dissolved, replaced by a pair of masculine hands covered in blood. Palms away from me, rivulets of blood dripping down the wrists, snagged by a forest of dark forearm hairs—someone’s life blood gone, as though in a slaughterhouse. Just like—

  I jerked awake, sweating, muscles quivering—my heart pounding like the rhythm of a rap tune.

  I rolled over onto my stomach, hugged my pillow. The scarlet numerals on my bedside clock read 4:09. I closed my eyes and tried to get my ragged breathing under control.

  I didn’t need a shrink to tell me the significance of the nightmare. It came to me a couple of times a week, only now it had a new ending. But the dream lied. Unlike my parents and ex-wife, Richard hadn’t died.

  Another reality was that Richard could’ve died because of me. He’d been willing to sacrifice himself to save me, and I wasn’t sure if I was worthy of that. Worse, if I’d find the courage to do the same for him.

  Those circuitous thoughts were unproductive. I had a new problem: the vision of the bloodied hands. What did it mean and how was I going to prevent seeing them in reality?

  * * *

  Warm, incandescent light washed over the kitchen table where I’d scattered the envelopes of financial information Richard had appropriated at Walt’s apartment. The contents—heavy on receipts—indicated Walt had fallen into the trap of credit card debt. He’d maxed out four major cards, with finance charges far exceeding the monthly minimum, which he dutifully paid. Top creditors were Erie Professional Laundry, Sunoco Gas, a smattering of family restaurants, and Macy’s. He also had a car loan with Bison Bank. His disability payments were direct-deposited to a checking account regularly drained by ATM withdrawals, and had an ending balance of forty-seven cents for the previous month.

  I sipped my second cup of coffee. Disability payments would’ve saved me from my current deadbeat existence. Richard had consulted an attorney about my filing a Social Security claim, but taking a job at the bar had probably killed my chances at ever seeing a check.

  I pushed the thought aside as I shuffled through Walt’s monthly credit card statements. Pay-per-view was a favorite with Walt, and I could guess the content of the movies he chose—not that they were listed. Was that the total extent of his sex life? Had his disability prevented him from performing with women, or was he shy about a scar or other infirmity? Revealing a colostomy bag or stoma would not be the highlight of a sexual encounter.

  No shoe company was listed amongst his creditors. Walt didn’t have a computer, so did he buy the footwear over the phone or via mail order? I glanced over the miniature checks printed at the bottom of his statement, but most of them were either for his regular bills or the local grocery chain.

  Richard hadn’t snagged a savings account statement or anything from a brokerage firm. How long had it been since Walt’s settlement? If he’d been a union man it could’ve been hefty—minus the attorney’s fee, of course. Even so, where had the money gone?

  It was almost seven-thirty and I was about to pour my third cup when I heard footsteps in the hallway. Seconds later Brenda entered the kitchen, heading straight for the fridge. “Someone’s got a date,” she teased in a singsong cadence. She took out a pound of bacon and the egg carton, setting them on the counter.

  “News travels fast.” I doctored my cup and sat back down at the table, collected the papers and returned them to their Kraft envelopes.

  Brenda retrieved a skillet from a cupboard, set it on the stove and lay the bacon strips across its bottom. She always made too much food, expecting me to tuck in when I just didn’t have the appetite. When I moved across the driveway, it was possible cold cereal or coffee alone would fill the bill of fare twenty-four/seven.

  I pulled out the coffeemaker’s basket, dumping the grounds in the wastebasket before starting a new batch. “You and Maggie tracking each other’s hourly movements these days?”

  “She is my best friend here in Buffalo. Naturally she keeps me informed on what’s going on in her life.”

  A little too well informed.

  Richard entered the kitchen from the hallway. “So, you’re taking a trip to Holiday Valley tomorrow.”

  Once upon a time nobody knew or cared when I came and went or what I did. Next I expected a headline in
the Buffalo News.

  Richard sat down at the table, his expression wistful. “I had some good times skiing there, back in the day.”

  I remembered those days, too. Not for skiing. I’d been stuck here in the house with the elder Alperts, one of who despised me, while Richard would escape on his all-too-rare days off from the hospital.

  Brenda turned the bacon. “Get the bread and the toaster out, will you, Jeffy.”

  “So, you’re taking Maggie Brennan,” Richard said.

  I busied myself at the counter. “Uh, yeah.” I glanced back at Richard, whose eyes had widened, though his face remained immobile.

  “What’s on tap for today? You working at the bar or on your case?’

  Brenda cringed. “Don’t call it a case.”

  I took out plates from the cupboard. “She’s right. But maybe a little of both.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “What are you guys doing? Making more wedding plans?”

  “It’s two weeks away, and as far as I know all I have to do is show up at City Hall in a suit.”

  “You’d better be prepared for more than just that,” Brenda said.

  Richard ignored her. It wasn’t like they were planning a splashy affair. Just the two of them with me and Maggie as witnesses, then lunch at a swank restaurant before they caught a plane for Paris.

  “Got enough money for your date?” Richard asked me.

  My stomach tightened. “It’s not a date. And yeah, I’ve got money.” Of course I did. He’d peeled off a couple of twenties for me a few days before. I’d be taking the day trip with his gas in the car he bought me. I didn’t feel good about any of that, but being practically destitute engenders humility. I intended to pay him back for everything now that I was working, but as the days passed, and the debt I owed him increased, I found it harder and harder to look him in the eye.

  “I’m sure Richard would love to hang out with you today, Jeffy, but we’ve already planned our day.” Hands on hips, Brenda aimed her pointed stare at Richard. “Or are you trying to get out of marrying me?”

  Richard leaned back in his chair and frowned. “Did I miss something?”

  “We’re going to get the license.”

  “We have plenty of time.”

  Brenda stood rigid, her steely gaze arctic cold.

  “It’s good for sixty days,” Richard continued, then cleared his throat and looked away. “Isn’t anybody going to offer me a cup of coffee?”

  Brenda shook her head in disgust and turned her attention back to the skillet. I took two more mugs from the cupboard, pouring coffee for both of them.

  Truth was, I wished the four of us were going to Holiday Valley. Safety in numbers and all that crap. I had a feeling I was going to learn something that Richard either wouldn’t want to know or wasn’t likely to believe.

  * * *

  I had an hour to kill before reporting to the bar and figured I may as well work on the apartment. It didn’t look or feel like home and the only way that was going to change was to unpack some of my stuff; the furniture would come later. None of the boxes had been labeled by the moving company Richard had employed to move my possessions from Manhattan to Buffalo, but I didn’t need an itemized list. There are some perks to having acquired a sixth sense.

  The kitchen seemed the best place to start, and I found the boxes of silverware and dishes with no problem. They’d sat in the garage for months, and who knew how clean the hands were that had packed them, so into the dishwasher they went.

  As I sorted the knives, forks and spoons, putting them into separate sections of the silverware rack, I considered all I knew about Walt Kaplan and the circumstances of his death. Not much. There were shortcuts I could take to obtain more information, and the easiest was to contact my ex-schoolmate Sam Nielsen, a reporter for the Buffalo News. The problem was, he’d want to deal and I didn’t yet have anything to offer him.

  What the hell, I figured, and dumped in the dishwashing powder, shutting the door with my foot. I hit the start button then picked up the phone. It was answered on the first ring.

  “Newsroom. Sam Nielsen.”

  “Hey, Sam, it’s Jeff Resnick.”

  A long pause, then, cautiously, “Long time no hear from. Got any hot tips for me?”

  “Don’t play the slots at Batavia Downs.”

  His tone changed. “Okay, what do you need?”

  “Have I ever called you for a favor?”

  “No, but there’s always a first time and this is it, right?”

  The silence between us lengthened. I could hear other phones ringing in the newsroom, the chatter of a busy office.

  “Is there a story for me in this?” Sam asked finally.

  “Maybe. Eventually. Tell me what you know about Walt Kaplan’s death. He was the bartender in Williamsville who—”

  “I know, I know.” Sam exhaled a long breath. “Look, I didn’t write the piece.”

  “I know that. What’s the office scuttlebutt? The articles only said stabbed multiple times and other wounds. How many is multiple?”

  “Forty-six.”

  “Jeez. He must’ve really pissed somebody off. Any defense wounds on the hands or arms?”

  “No.”

  “A stiletto, wasn’t it?”

  “Yeah. That wasn’t reported in the media. The fact you know means you’re looking into this, huh?” Sam knew about my . . . gift. So far he hadn’t tried to exploit it—or me—much.

  “Kind of. I took his job.”

  “And what does your intuition tell you about his death?”

  “I’m not ready to talk about it yet.”

  “But you will some time in the future.”

  “Possibly. What about those other wounds mentioned in the articles.”

  “Burns.”

  “What kind?”

  “Hey, I told you this wasn’t my story. But I’ll tell you what, I’ll keep my eyes open. If anything develops, I’ll let you know. By the same token—if you find out anything, I’d better be the one you call.”

  “Guaranteed.”

  * * *

  Like at most other bars, the Friday crowd at the Whole Nine Yards was larger and more exuberant than the regular weekday group. And they wanted to talk—about Walt.

  I could tell Tom was uncomfortable recounting what he knew about the murder—several times during the day—but who could blame the customers for their curiosity. None of them had ever known a murder victim. I didn’t contribute to the conversation, listening carefully in case Tom mentioned something I hadn’t yet heard, but it seemed I knew more about Walt’s death than even he did.

  “To a great guy,” said one T-shirted man in jeans and geeky-looking safety glasses. He raised his glass and a host of others raised theirs as well.

  “I didn’t know Walt,” I said. “Tell me about him.”

  “Natty dresser. Always had a crease in his slacks.”

  “Great listener,” another one of the guys piped up.

  “Yeah, but he was also a walking encyclopedia of golf. Knew all the players for the last fifty years—and their stats. Could even tell you who won all the major tourneys and their scores.”

  “Did he play?” I asked Tom.

  “Not that I know of.”

  I could see the appeal of the game to a man like Walt. Quiet, and for the most part, solitary. A player’s greatest competition was himself.

  I thought about the shoeboxes. I’d already determined I wasn’t going to mention the red shoe to Tom, but the other one was fair game. “Did Walt ever have a girlfriend named Veronica?”

  Discomfort flashed across Tom’s features. He shook his head. “I don’t think so.” He looked around at the crowd. “Anybody need a refill?”

  Okay, so he wasn’t being straight with me. Eventually he’d have to. For the moment, I decided to let it slide.

  The testimonials continued throughout the afternoon. Walt was a helluva guy. He didn’t deserve what he got. Why hadn’t the cops arrested s
omeone? But in all the talk there was something missing: the essence of who Walt really was. He’d been part of the scenery around the bar. Didn’t talk much, didn’t make waves, and yet someone had been angry enough to stab him over and over again. Why hadn’t he fought back, why hadn’t he tried to protect himself?

  And all he’d left behind for me to try to find his killer was the image of the damned red shoe.

  # # #

  CHAPTER 5

  Maggie’s little blue Hyundai pulled into Richard’s driveway at precisely eight fifty-nine the next morning. “Right on time,” she said as she got out of the car. She looked terrific in a sleeveless white blouse over light blue slacks with her red-polished toes poking out of a pair of white sandals. The outfit looked a bit cool for the mountains—or should I say tall hills—of Holiday Valley, but she grabbed a white sweater along with her purse before slamming the car door.

  I opened the passenger door of my car and ushered her in, wondering if my next gig should be valet parking. Within moments, we were on our way.

  The Thruway traffic was heavy, and I forced myself to concentrate on driving, not easy when Maggie, an emotional powder keg, sat a mere foot from me. The tension continued to build with each passing mile.

  “Why Holiday Valley?” she blurted at last, looking at me askance.

  I kept my eyes on the road, grateful the traffic had begun to thin. I kept my voice calm. “Just a hunch.”

  “I asked Brenda about this.” She paused. I risked a look to see her lip had curled. “This psychic thing you think you have. She believes it.”

  “What about you?”

  “I want to see it in action.”

  “Well don’t count on it.” I hoped she caught the annoyance in my voice. “It shows up when it wants to and comes with some pretty dreadful aftereffects.” I glanced back at her. Her expression was still skeptical. That I could accept. If it hadn’t happened to me, I’d’ve been skeptical, too.