Dead In Red (6 page)

“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 someone? 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.

“It’s been years since I visited
Ellicottville,” she said. “As I recall, it’s quite charming. Lots
of cute little boutiques, restaurants, and bed and breakfasts.”

“I’ve never been there.”

“Then we’re both in for a treat.” Her lips
turned up—a very pretty smile, and for the first time in three
months, I felt the chill she’d been directing toward me warm. I
smiled, too.

The rest of the journey passed with Maggie
humming along with the songs on the radio. She seemed glad for a
day out of harness. My internal pressure intensified as I
considered my mission. I’d be looking for a mailbox among the
thousands lining the roads of this winter vacationland. Of course,
without snow they’d be a lot more visible. But I wasn’t sure I’d
recognize the right one even if I saw it.

I slowed the car as we entered the village.
Maggie’s eyes widened in delight as she took in the quaint little
shops. I kept up with the rest of the traffic—a crawl. “Ooooh.
Pretty,” Maggie cooed, craning her neck. “Did you see that gorgeous
landscape in that little gallery’s window?”

I braked. “No, I’m driving.”

“We keep passing parking spots. Aren’t we
going to stop?”

“I hadn’t planned on it. At least not right
away.” I glanced at her.

Maggie’s brows had narrowed. “Why not?”

“I came here to find something.”

“What?”

“A mailbox.”

“What’s the big deal? Just go to the
address.”

“I don’t know the address.”

She turned her head to stare straight ahead.
The big chill was back.

“Don’t worry. I’ll find it.”

No reaction from Maggie. I was going to look
like a real jerk if I didn’t find the damn thing.

The charming storefronts diminished and I
accelerated as we left the village behind us.

For the next hour we drove slowly up and
down the hillsides, trying to peer through the trees and foliage to
see the expensive homes. Mostly we saw mailboxes and long narrow
drives posted with “No Trespassing” signs. But that was okay; I was
looking for a specific address. I just didn’t know what street it
would be on.

Maggie kept sighing restlessly, but I was
too preoccupied to give her much notice. Probably not the way to
win her heart.

We drove up yet another steep road. The
sequence of numbers on the mailboxes fell into line: 4517, 4527,
4537. “That’s it!”

I jammed on the brakes. Maggie’s seatbelt
locked as she lurched forward. “Hey!”

Slamming the car into park, I yanked off my
seatbelt and jumped out.

Another car slowed, its driver staring at me
as I ran my fingers over the freshly painted numbers on the rather
battered old mailbox. Less visible were the faded letters of a
name, probably painted decades before: T-GG-RT.

Cynthia Lennox’s maiden name was
Taggert.

* * *

Being a
Saturday, of course the town hall was closed. I wondered if
Ellicottville listed their tax information online. If not, then I’d
have to return to the area. Still, the return trip would be worth
it if it gave me the answers I wanted.

Maggie’s stomach gurgled, and not for the
first time.

“How about lunch?” I asked.

“Finally,” she muttered.

One slice of Quiche Lorraine and a side
salad later and Maggie was a charming human being once again. I
made a note to self: Never let the woman go hungry and I might just
stay in her good graces.

We were the last of the quaint little
bistro’s midday crowd. Maggie sipped her tea, studying me over the
cup’s rim. “How did you know?”

I gave her a blank stare. “Know what?”

“Finding that mailbox made you very happy.
But it means more to you than just some silly treasure hunt. Why?
What’s its significance?”

I shrugged, folding my napkin over the half
liverwurst sandwich I hadn’t been able to finish. “I’m not sure.
Yet. I have some suspicions, but I don’t have enough information to
put it all together. I—”

The heat from her gaze was enough to scorch.
Apart from my initial reaction upon finding the mailbox, I thought
I’d done a pretty good job at hiding what finding it meant to me.
“How did you know finding it made me happy?”

Maggie leaned back in her chair, her
expression guarded.

The air between us seemed to shimmer.

My mouth went dry.

She knew.

She’d sensed what I’d felt.

“Have you ever had a psychic experience
before?” I asked her.

Maggie looked even more uncomfortable.
“No.
I
have not. But when I’m
near you . . . I don’t know how to explain it. You do
something weird to me. It’s awful and nice at the same time. I
don’t think I like you very much, but . . . maybe I’m
attracted to you because of it.”

“Thanks. I think.”

Her cheeks colored. “I’m sorry. That didn’t
come out right. I’m afraid of you, and yet . . . oh, I
don’t know.”

“Why did you agree to come out with me
today? To test it?”

Her gaze wouldn’t meet mine. “Maybe.”

I reached over, took her hand. Her head
jerked up and she gasped, her mouth dropping open. Her fingers felt
fever hot against mine. She was afraid and yet fascinated. “What do
you feel, Maggie?”

Her breaths were more like pants. “You.”

I let go of her hand, remembering how my
first experiences with this . . . whatever it was, had
freaked me out. We’d briefly shared something similar once
before—but I hadn’t given it much thought. Obviously she had. I
wasn’t sure I liked it any better than she did. Then again, it was
kind of a kick to know I connected with someone on more than just a
physical level.

“What do we do about . . . this?”
she asked, her voice sounding small.

“I don’t know. What do you want to do?”

“I don’t think I can answer that. At least
not today.” She gathered her purse and sweater. “Can we go home
now?”

“Yeah.” I signaled the waitress, who brought
the check. I paid the bill and followed Maggie to the door.

Maggie didn’t look at me during the long,
quiet ride back to Buffalo. When I pulled up Richard’s driveway,
she mumbled a “thanks for the lunch” and got out of my car. I
watched as her car pulled away.

She never looked back.

# # #

CHAPTER 6

My weekend didn’t improve on Sunday. I awoke
with the grumbling inside my head that always foretold a migraine.
I took my medication and stayed in my darkened, quiet room until I
absolutely had to get up to go to the bar for my shift.

Tom was on the phone when I got there—ten
minutes late—and waved me to take over out front. Several customers
were already perched on stools, watching the golf pre-match
commentary on the bar’s big-screen TV. I leaned against the
backbar, massaging my temples, wondering if I could get away with
wearing sunglasses in the darkened bar, and praying it would be a
slow day.

No such luck. Six leather- and denim-clad
bikers barreled through the side entrance, grabbing a table near
the big front window. Boisterous and full of energy, their voices
clawed at my already ragged nerves. I had to force myself to
approach the screaming white glare of the window. “What can I get
you guys?”

“A couple of pitchers of Coors,” said the
one closest to me, a grizzled, bearded guy with a faded blue
bandana tied around his head. Even seated he looked twice my size.
His tattoos and leathers were Harley Davidson all the way and he
was celebrating, pure joy bombarding my senses like a tsunami.
Birth of a grandson? I wasn’t sure. But even pleasant emotions can
overwhelm when they’re directed with battering force. I turned
abruptly to get away from the mental assault.

Filling the pitchers took an eternity, the
smell of hops seemed overly strong for such a mainstream lager. I
balanced them and six glasses on a tray and started for the table
when my sneaker toe caught on the rubber mat behind the bar. Time
shifted into slow motion and I watched, horror-struck, as the tray
flew from my hands, the beer rising out of the pitchers like
geysers. The glasses tumbled end over end and seemed to take a lot
longer than me to hit the floor. The spectacular, shattering crash
threatened to split my already aching skull. Thank God I shut my
eyes as beer drenched me and glass shards peppered my face.

Except for the drone of the TV commentators,
the bar had gone silent. I lay on the floor, dripping with blood or
beer—I wasn’t sure which—for what seemed like eons. Then the
strongest arms in the world pulled me to my feet.