Bad to the Last Drop (18 page)

Watching him hurry through the cold, Peter stamped the snow off his feet and headed toward a hot cup and a warm bagel at the Black Cat.
I'm going to sure miss this quaint little place,
he thought, pulling the collar of his black coat closer, and momentarily reveling in memories of the people he had met in Ashland.

The coffeehouse was crowded with holiday shoppers and college students taking a break from final exams. Steam rose from scarves and mittens placed on radiators, and the scent inside was a combination of great coffee, homemade soup, and steamy wool. All the tables were filled, but Peter recognized two men sitting in the corner. Taking his cup and bagel, he went over to introduce himself.

"Hello, my name is Peter Thomas. Do you mind if I join you? There aren't any empty tables left."

"Everyone's got cabin fever," the stockier man replied smiling. "Sure, join us. I'm Mitchell Kerry. This is Marc Linberg. But I'm sure you know who we are." Waggling his eyebrows, he whispered dramatically, "Our wives have informed us that you are Big Brother, watching us all." Laughing, the men shook hands.

"Your wives will be relieved to know I won't be spying much longer," Peter said, taking a sip of his coffee. "My partner and I are leaving town today."

"Did the girls frighten you into leaving?" Marc joked.

"No, our involvement is no longer needed. But they are two determined ladies."

The two husbands glanced at each other in amusement.

"Let's just say that when the two of them make up their minds about doing something, we've learned just to get out of the way," Marc said.

"Better for our health," Mitchell inserted.

Peter smiled, but his tone became serious. "There is a killer out there somewhere, and if I were you, I'd watch your wives a bit. Well, enough said. I am officially off the case."

"Don't worry, they might not realize the danger, but we do."

Peter nodded his acknowledgment. "So ... where are they today?" he asked conversationally.

"As a matter of fact, they just decided to go look at some artist friend's work," Marc said. "I hope I'm not going to get some god-awful oil for my office this Christmas!"

The two women made their way up the street with Bill, toward the crumbling two-story brownstone that housed the Video to Go store and the Stylin' Up North beauty shop. The doorway to the stairway was located between the two businesses. As they started up the dark stairs, they could hear the muffled strains of "Grandma Got Run over by a Reindeer." The pungent scent of permanent hair rinses from the beauty shop lingered in Deb's nostrils, and she heard Pat's quiet sigh and deep breathing on the stairs behind her. "We'd better get in shape, sister," Deb said, with a look of encouragement on her face. "We're going to be biking in the summer."

They passed along a dark, checkerboard-tiled hallway with a series of numbered doorways on each side until they reached number 204. Bill held the door for them as they entered a small, cluttered, dimly lit foyer. The apartment was sparsely furnished but neat, in shabby Goodwill style, and had the stale odor of maple syrup and cigarettes. There was a wooden coat tree by the door, on which they tossed their coats. Several new canvasses leaned against the foyer wall, along with open canvas bags with protruding paints tubes, and jars of turpentine with brushes still in them. A new easel stood in the middle of the small living room.

On the walls were several small, neatly framed oil paintings of war scenes. Based on the clothing worn by the soldiers, she guessed the paintings depicted the Vietnam War. One, in particular, caught her eye—it showed a group of six handsome, smiling young men in green camouflage with their arms around each other.

Bill seemed to follow Deb's gaze. "That's my platoon from 'Nam. After I got back, I had to paint them."

Deb took a closer look, attracted by the sight of what appeared to be an orange feather tucked into the pocket of one of the men. What did that feather remind her of? Of course! The feather! It looked just like the one in Joe's safe deposit at the bank!

Deb looked closely at the face of the soldier and recognized the eyes of a youthful Joe. Suppressing any visible reaction and willing her body not to tense up, she whispered to Pat, "The guy with the feather in his pocket is Joe! They were in 'Nam together!" Pat returned Deb's anxious look with a puzzled one of her own. Before she could respond, they both heard the sound of the lock turning in the door behind them and saw Bill put the key in his trouser pocket.

He smiled thinly. "This is the only way to keep the door closed. I've been meaning to get a locksmith in, but I just haven't got to it. Otherwise, it sometimes blows open, and in this weather, it takes an hour to get it warm in here again."

They women blithely accepted his explanation, unaware that Bill had just locked the only exit from his apartment.

Deb noticed a group of several matted portraits stacked neatly against the wall on the right. The paintings were crudely done and appeared bizarre at first glance, almost Picasso-like in their grotesqueness. "Are these for sale?" she asked as she began sorting through them, hoping to buy one for Marc.

"Of course," Bill answered. "Anything in particular you like? How about those caricatures?" He pointed to work that hung randomly on the far wall. There were several full-body portrayals, some funny and some almost cruel drawings of people in town. There was one that Deb recognized as the mayor, adorned with an elaborate jeweled crown and surrounded by people bowing down. He carried a scepter in his right hand and a small child in his left arm.

"Now that's funny!" Deb said, laughing.

Father Luke was also among the caricatures, portrayed with his head in the clouds but with his feet made of clay.
Now, I wonder why he did that.
When she came to the last one, she burst out laughing as recognized that the two people portrayed were her and Pat, made to look as if they were conjoined twins, touching each other's face. Without saying a word, Deb pointed to their faces so that Pat could see.

"Doesn't do us justice," Pat sniped.

Off to the side there was an elaborate painting of Joe, black patch over his left eye, dressed as a pirate, with a chest behind him filled with money.

"What do you think of my drawings?" Bill asked, walking up behind them.

"You're very talented," Pat allowed. "Some seem a bit mean, but some of these are right on."

"Would you like some coffee while you look?" Bill asked. "I may not be able to offer a brew as good as the Black Cat, but I think you'll like it. I have a new blend that's to die for."

Smiling, Pat said, "How thoughtful. We'd love some. Do you have any treats to go with it?"

Whistling, Bill left the room.

"Deb," Pat hissed as soon as Bill was in the kitchen. "Look at these drawings. Would you have ever thought they came out of laughing Bill?"

"I know," Deb said, turning to Pat. "They're ... creepy. I thought I might be able to pick something up for Marc's clinic. But it's as if some person other than Bill drew these. I wonder what Freud would say about these." She turned to look again. "And you know what's even creepier? I think he took down that pile over there in the corner and hung these just for us. Why would he do that?"

Pat shrugged. "He certainly knows the people in this town. Money and eye patch with Joe, and the priest with clay feet? But mostly, they're just plain mean. It's the kind of drawings where you laugh but then it leaves a bad taste in your mouth. Who would have thought?"

Nodding her head, Deb looked at the conjoined twins drawing. "Maybe you just think they're mean because of this one."

Pat put her arm around Deb's shoulder briefly. "I can't think of anyone I would rather be joined to." But as she looked at the portrait, Pat, too, felt it was—as Deb had said—creepy. They were not just conjoined at the hips and waist; they also were touching each other's face. And the look in their eyes.

"We really aren't that tethered to each other, are we?" Deb asked.

"Well, here we are, fresh from the pot," Bill announced before Pat could respond to Deb's question. "It has a bit of a strong flavor, sort of smoked chicory, but I guarantee if you drink a cup, you may not drink any other kind again." He handed them each a cup and saucer as he noticed the caricature that had held their attention. "Not angry at me for that one, are you?" he pouted.

"No, no," Deb answered, studying it again. "Actually it's rather insightful. But you do know, we have our own lives. I mean, we're
friends,"
she emphasized. "Best friends, but not ..." Her face reddened as her words hung in the air.

"Of course," Bill said. And with a slight cough he continued. "And friends are so much closer than lovers, don't you think?"

The hairs on Pat's neck stood up as he gave them his angelic smile once more.

Pat put her cup to her lips but the heat of it and the odd smell made her set it back on the saucer. "Too hot just yet. Don't you just hate it when you burn your mouth on the first swallow?" Setting it on the table, she moved to the drawing of Joe. "It seems you were closer to Joe than I realized. I didn't know you were in the service together."

"Oh, yes. We were in 'Nam together. Speaking of Joe, have you two sleuths found any more earth-shattering clues? I would just love to hear the latest."

Pat narrowed her eyes as she studied Bill.
This is one of Joe's oldest buddies. If we share all we know, maybe he can shed some light on this whole mess. He must want to find the killer as much as we do.
"Well." Pat started.

"We were interested, it's true," Deb interrupted breezily as she looked at Joe's caricature. "But the sheriff's office is following things up. And now, with the CIA and the army involved, we would just get in the way."

Pat's eyes opened wide.
What is she saying?

Not looking at Pat, Deb continued, "We've actually given it up. So I'm afraid we have no new clues for you." She seemed to just notice the cookies Bill had placed on the table. "Did you make these cookies? They look wonderful."

Bill's smile became tight and the corner of one eye seemed to have a slight twitch. "CIA? The army, you say? You've seen them?

Here? In Ashland? Have you actually talked to them?"

Pulling out a chair at the table, Deb sat down and reached for a cookie, then lifted her cup to her lips and took a long drink.

Bill took a gulp of his own and asked, "So what else do you know?"

Pat joined them at the table. "Really, it was a bust," she insisted. "We found some match books, insignificant stuff, nothing with any meaning that we could tell. But really, we just wanted to help the sisters, you know? And I think we did manage that. Deb did, really, not me. It's useful to have a lawyer as a friend. But tell us ..." Pat continued, sitting down and leaning forward in her best attentive pastor pose. "Tell us about your time in 'Nam with Joe."

"Oh, yes," Bill said as he sat back, relaxing again. "We really were pirates back then. Young, alive, eager. If you can believe it, I even tried to talk Joe into a black-market deal. Oh, it was small potatoes. Food here, cigarettes there. It would have been so easy. But Joe was too busy doing his secret stuff for the army. This was really such a shame, because we both moved around a lot, and we could have made a killing." He chuckled. "No pun intended." Taking a sip of his coffee, he hiccupped.

"Really," Pat said, lifting her cup once more. "I know that Joe did some code breaking. Is that what you did, too?"

"Oh, your detective skills are waning," Bill said, waggling a finger at her. "I would have thought you would have guessed. I was a medic. It was actually great for me. I didn't stay in one place too long, and there were periods of time when I wasn't needed and I could work on my art—even though some of my comrades in arms didn't always appreciate my work."

Pat looked down at the cup she was holding.
What if ...
she thought,
what if he's the one? He knows about drugs from being a medic ... he borrowed money ...
Pat put down her cup, grabbed Deb's arm, and pulled her once again towards the drawings. "But where is your self-portrait?" Pat asked, trying to sound calm. "Doesn't every great artist have to do one?"

An annoyed frown crossed his face. "I don't have it up."

"Oh, please, won't you bring it out?" Pat pleaded.
Lord, I sound like some giddy school girl.
"I just so love self-portraits."

Reluctantly, Bill got up and started for the bedroom. "All right."

As he left the room, the two women turned to each other and whispered at the same time: "Don't drink the coffee!"

Still holding on to Deb's sleeve, Pat pushed her face close to her friend's. "I've finally figured it out! It's
him!
It has to be! He had motive, he knew Joe for over thirty years, and he's crazy! How are we going to get out of here?"

"What ... .what are you talking about?" Deb asked. "This is crazy.
You're
crazy! We know this guy; this can't be happening! Our husbands are so going to kill us for getting into such a fix. That is, if Bill doesn't get us first." Deb giggled nervously at what she had said.

"Just keep him busy," Pat whispered. "Distract him somehow. I have an idea."

Deb turned toward the sound of footsteps coming into the room.
I can't believe this!
Deb thought frantically, but she smiled at Bill as he brought the canvas in. Her neck felt tense, like it was in a vise. She took a deep breath and began her self-talk, willing calmness into her muscles.
Okay, Deb, stay cool. What was it that Swami Ji said when I asked him what he would do if he was confronted with a terrorist? Radiate love!
Suddenly, Deb had an idea, and glanced first at Bill and then nodded at Pat with a wide-eyed look. Deb smiled at Bill and in her calmest voice said, "Bill, you are very talented, and I think you have really captured the essence of your subjects. And this self-portrait ... well, it's just ... great."

Bill appeared to accept the flattery as sincere. "You have no idea how much I struggle with my art. There are so many blocks that I face as an artist that I just can't explain."