Dead In Red (7 page)

“Hey, man, you okay?” The big biker leaned
me against the bar, found a cloth and was gently mopping at my
face. “Did you get glass in your eyes?”

I shook my head—a definite mistake. “I’m
okay.”

“What the hell?” Suddenly Tom stood behind
the biker. “What happened?”

“I tripped.”

“Good grief! It sounded like the end of the
world. You okay?”

“Yeah, yeah.” The biker pressed the cloth
into my hand, and I mopped at my dripping arms and neck. “Sorry,
Tom, I—”

“Don’t worry about it. I’ll take care of the
customers. Go in back and grab a T-shirt, then get the mop and
broom out, willya?”

“Sure thing.” I gave the biker a grateful
smile. “Thanks.”

“No problem,” he said and picked his way
through the beer and glass to head back to his seat.

Avoiding the gazes of the other patrons, I
slunk off in back and peeled off my shirt to hose myself off in the
slop sink. I returned a few minutes later in one of the bar’s
give-away shirts, mop and broom in hand. My hands were shaking as I
cleaned up the mess. Tom had the bikers laughing once again. He,
too, was in a celebratory mood that even the mess behind the bar
hadn’t doused.

Sheepishly, I took my place by the taps,
feeling the eyes of several customers upon me. My smile was
forced—probably a grimace. Tom was still engaged in conversation
with the bikers, who had resumed their rowdy revelry. I turned my
back to the customers and closed my eyes as waves and waves of
emotions engulfed me. Joy from the bikers; misery—a gambling
debt?—and worry; someone’s wife was dangerously ill.

The pounding in my head intensified, leaving
me nauseous and shaky. Someone nudged my elbow. I turned. Tom.

“Good news, Jeff. Your services are no
longer required.”

The pounding paused for half a second, then
shifted into overdrive. Shit. I’d smashed some glassware and now he
was firing me. My shock and disappointment must’ve registered: Tom
laughed.

“I mean looking into Walt’s death. The cops
arrested someone last night. But you’re welcome to stay on at the
bar, if you want.”

I swallowed with relief. Then the red shoe
image slammed my mind’s eye with the force of a jackhammer. “Tell
me more about the arrest.”

“Some homeless geek. Been hanging around
Williamsville for the past couple of months. The dumb shit still
had the murder weapon on him.”

“A stiletto?”

Tom nodded, smug.

It didn’t feel right. Not only was I still
getting flashes of insight, they’d led me to the mailbox in
Ellicottville and possibly property owned by Cyn Lennox. While I
couldn’t be sure without more information, my gut told me they had
the wrong person. I pondered that thought for a second. Not man,
not woman. Person. Yeah. I definitely needed more information.

Tom frowned. “You don’t look so good.”

I swallowed down the bile threatening to
erupt. “Sorry, Tom. I want to keep the job here, but I don’t think
I can put in my hours today.”

The eyes that met mine were not judgmental.
“I knew when I hired you that you had health problems. I won’t be a
prick and make you stay when obviously you’re not up to it. Can you
get home by yourself? Want me to call your family?”

I shook my head and winced. “I can make it
home.”

“Don’t be stupid.” Tom placed a hand on my
elbow, steered me to the back room and plunked me into a chair. It
was all I could do not to throw up on his carpet. I heard his
voice, couldn’t understand the words, then he was gone.

I covered my eyes and bent over,
concentrated on breathing. In out, in out. I was not going to puke.
An eternity later, a tap on my shoulder alerted me to buff-colored
Dockers at my side. Richard. “Let’s go home.”

Too sick to be angry or even
embarrassed—that would come later—I let him lead me out the bar’s
back door. All too soon I felt the sensation of acceleration. I was
in the passenger seat of my car with Richard at the wheel, and no
memory of how I got there.

“How’d—?”

“Brenda’s driving my car back. What happened
to your face?”

I rolled down the window, hot air blasting
my eyes. “Long story.” But I didn’t offer it, too busy trying to
quell the urge to purge my stomach. I leaned back against the
upholstery, concentrated on breathing only. A million years later,
Richard braked and I saw the shimmering outline of his house out
the driver’s side window beyond me. Richard got out, slammed the
door with a deafening bang and seconds later hauled me out and was
leading me up the steps and through the door. Half a minute later I
was on my bed, head hanging over the edge. Richard grabbed my left
hand, placed the wastebasket in it.

“Just in case,” he said.

I closed my eyes and his footsteps faded
away. Time stopped for a couple of decades. I wasn’t truly asleep,
but I wasn’t awake, either. Caught in a limbo that threatened but
refused to deliver blessed oblivion, my mind kept recycling
thoughts and images of the sparkling red shoe, glistening,
scarlet-drenched hands, and a blood-drained Walt, his vacant eyes
forever focused on an empty eternity.

* * *

The sun
had
been up at least three hours when I cracked my eyes open the next
morning. I wasn’t sure how bad I felt—but I knew it was better than
I’d been the day before. Before the thought of food or even coffee
entered my mind, I needed to find out about the arrest Tom had told
me about the day before.

I sat on the edge of my bed, phone in hand,
and punched in a number I’d memorized months before.

“Newsroom. Sam Nielsen.”

“The cops made an arrest?”

“Jeff? I was going to call you. You need a
cell phone.”

I closed my eyes against the onslaught of
light leaking around the back window. “You can always reach me
here. Besides, cell phones take money and I’ve only had a job for
four days.”

“Your brother’s sitting on millions. He
can’t buy you one?”

Sam and I weren’t close enough for me to get
into that situation. “Just tell me what you know.”

“Schizophrenic homeless guy. Name’s Craig
Buchanan. He had the murder weapon on him.”

“A stiletto.”

“You got it. But he didn’t do it,
right?”

“I don’t think so.”

“You got a line on who did?”

“Not yet. What else can you tell me?”

“Just the guy’s next of kin. A sister in
Cheektowaga—not far from you.” Paper rustled, as he must’ve
consulted his notes. “Cara Scott. I’ll save you some time.” He gave
me her address. “The story’s in today’s edition. You can check it
online now.”

“I’ll do that.” He was being too helpful.
What would he want in return?

I pushed some more. “The cops gave Kaplan’s
cousin his house keys. Did they say anything about his wallet or
the missing ring?”

“Nothing on the wallet. The ring hasn’t been
hocked—at least not yet. I guess the keys were on the body, along
with pocket change. You know, Jeff, we should work together on
this.”

The memory of Richard’s blood-soaked trench
coat was still too fresh for me to want to take up anyone’s offer
of help. As it was, had I put Maggie in danger by allowing her to
come with me to Holiday Valley?

“I thought you said this wasn’t your
story.”

“It wasn’t. The guy who had it went on a
cruise. The Caribbean in June, can you believe it? So what’ve you
got?”

“Nothing I can talk about yet. Just some
impressions that don’t add up.”

“Yet.”

“Yeah. Yet.”

“The two of us would make a helluva team,”
he tried again. “I don’t have to name my sources, you know.”

“I know. But I don’t have anything concrete
to give you yet.”

“Yeah, well keep me in mind. I’ll be talking
to you, Jeff.” The receiver clicked in my ear.

* * *

I wasn’t
ready
to talk to Craig Buchanan’s next of kin. Instead, I called Tom to
apologize, but he blew me off and told me not to bother to come in
that day as he’d already asked Dave the other bartender to step in,
but I’d better show up the next day. Fair enough. I was just
grateful I still had a job.

After showering, I inspected the small cuts
on my face—no worse than razor nicks. But the patches of redness
were not attractive. So what. It’s not like I’d be going on a date
with Maggie—or anyone else—any time soon.

The thought of food didn’t turn my stomach,
so I downed my medication with a chaser of Cheerios and two cups of
coffee, then appropriated Richard’s computer to read Sam’s article.
It didn’t tell me much more than I already knew. Next up I tried to
find a Web site with information on the Cattaraugus County tax base
to track down the owner of the house at 4537 Alpine Road. If it was
there, I couldn’t find it.

Sophie was convinced Walt had a foot fetish
and Google gave me an assortment of URLs to try. Each was set up
like any standard porn site. Lots of shots of hot lesbians licking
toes, naked bi chicks sucking toes, contorted women sucking their
own toes. Walt didn’t have a computer. Did he buy the magazines
with skinny, scantily clad or naked chicks on the cover, tongues
hanging out seductively and masturbate to his heart’s delight? And
if he did, where did he hide them?

Footsteps approached from the hall and
Richard wandered into his study. “You must be feeling better this
morning.” I turned to see him do a classic double take as he
focused in on the image on his nineteen-inch monitor. “What are you
doing with my computer?”

I leaned back in his big leather chair and
swung around to face him, struggling not to grin. “Checking out
foot fetish Web sites. Wanna look?”

“No, thank you. Is there a reason for this
sudden interest in feet?”

“Walt Kaplan. Seems like it might’ve been
his Achilles heel, if you’ll pardon the pun.”

Richard shoved his hands into the pockets of
his slacks. “Oh-kay. I suppose you know they’ve made an
arrest.”

“Yeah, but they’ve got the wrong guy.”

Richard scowled. “And you’re going to keep
pursuing this.”

“They’ve got the wrong guy,” I repeated,
enunciating clearly.

“That really isn’t your concern. Did your
boss ask you to keep looking into it?”

I let out a sigh and got up from his chair.
“He wants to believe the cops have solved the crime. I haven’t told
him everything I’ve found out yet. When I do—”

“He may still tell you to give it up. Will
you?”

I didn’t answer.

“Jeff.”

“I don’t know.”

Richard frowned. “What do you get out of it?
You’ve already got the man’s job. Does it give you a vicarious
thrill to play investigator?”

I exhaled a breath and chose my words
carefully. “It used to be my job.”

“And it isn’t anymore. Maybe it’s time you
accepted the fact you have limitations. If nothing else, yesterday
should’ve proved that to you.”

Anger and shame burned through me as I
pushed past him. “Thanks for the use of the computer.”

“You’re welcome.”

I tramped through the house with a single
thought: escape. Next thing I knew, I was in my car and driving
north toward Main Street with no clue as to where I was going. I
pulled over and switched off the ignition. Since the mugging, I was
prone to anger outbursts. The quack back in New York had warned me
about it. But had it really been necessary for Richard to rub my
nose in the fact that I wasn’t yet capable of holding a full-time
job?

Memories of decades-old hurts surfaced. Our
first Christmas together, when Richard canceled plans we’d made to
spend the day together just so he could suck up to a surgeon he
never ended up working with. The times his family’s chauffeur
showed up at school to cheer me on when he was too busy working to
make it himself.

I thought I’d let it all go, but there it
was rubbing my ego raw once again.

Playing investigator, huh?

Well screw him! If nothing else, I’d find
Walt Kaplan’s murderer and bring the bastard to justice just to
shove it up Richard’s ass once and for all. And I had a place to
start, too. Sam’s story had mentioned a witness. I started the car
and headed for Main Street.

* * *

The Sweet
Tooth Chocolate Shoppe was devoid of customers, but the
silver-haired, well-rounded proprietress greeted me with enthusiasm
even before the bell over the door had stopped jangling.

“Welcome! I’m Sue. Let me know if I can be
of any help,” she offered from behind the glass counter.

The rich, fudgy scent of chocolate was heavy
in the air. The day before it would’ve sent me to the curb to purge
my gut. I could handle it now. I’m not a candy freak, but the aroma
took me back to something good from my childhood, though the exact
memory had been lost thanks to a baseball bat slamming into my
skull three months earlier.

I gazed into the multi-shelf display case at
the mountains of bonbons and truffles, milk, dark and white
chocolate, creams and caramels—the presentation alone was worth the
exorbitant price per pound. I took a deep breath, exhaling loudly.
“It smells so good in here, I’m not sure what I should get.”

“Are you looking for a gift?”

“For a special lady.” Brenda wasn’t likely
to turn down chocolate. It would cost me at least a pound’s worth
to get the information I wanted—but in the long run, a cheap price
to pay. “I’ll take a pound—your choice.”

“You can’t go wrong with our ultimate
selection.”

“Let’s go for it.”

I watched as she brought out a flattened box
with embossed gold script proclaiming the shop’s name. She twisted
it into shape and slipped in a piece of baker’s tissue before
selecting a number of chocolate covered morsels from the mounded
glass plates until she’d filled the box.