Lye in Wait (7 page)

Fury swept up Meghan's face, and her jaw clenched as she tried
to contain it. That morning she'd mentioned to me that she had
told Erin that Walter had drunk poison by accident, but not the
particulars about the lye.

Erin grew still. She looked up at me, her duffle bag half zipped.
I tried to meet her gaze with sympathy and regret, but some of my
anger at her father must have seeped through. I didn't know what
she saw in my eyes before she looked away. She finished zipping
her bag and stood up.

"Will you be bringing her back on Saturday or Sunday?"
Meghan asked her ex-husband.

"Sunday, of course. I want my sweetie with me as long as I can,"
he said.

She opened her mouth, then clamped it shut. As often as not,
Richard brought Erin back home on Saturday so he could go to
the casinos on Saturday night. But Meghan had made it a personal
rule never to put her daughter in the middle of a fight with Richard, and she never bad-mouthed him in front of Erin. I marveled
at her self-control.

"Um, we were thinking of taking Erin to a movie in Monroe
tonight," Richard said.

"That sounds like a good idea," Meghan said. "Which one?"

"The new Disney movie. What's it called?" he asked Erin. She
told us.

"You've wanted to see that, haven't you?" Meghan asked her
daughter.

She shrugged. Meghan shot me a concerned look. This was the
time for a serious discussion, not for Insensitive Dick to haul her
away to a movie.

"Well, uh, those assholes at work haven't been paying me my
commissions on time, so I'm a little short on money. I do so much
work for them, and they shaft me any time they get a chance. I'm
looking to move to a better job where they don't jerk their good
salesmen around."

Erin was looking away from her parents, and I saw her roll her
eyes.

"Really," Meghan said.

Donnette picked at a hangnail and looked bored.

"So you think you could manage a little cash for Erin's movie?"

"Just Erin's?"

Richard looked like a petulant two-year-old. "No, Meghan, not
just Erin's. Unless you think we should sit outside in the car while
she watches the movie."

That was exactly what I thought he should do, but I kept my
mouth shut. I seemed to spend most of my time around Richard
keeping my mouth shut.

Meghan sighed and went into the hall to get her purse. She
came back and handed some bills to Erin. "Here, Bug. Why don't
you take your Dad and, urn, Donnette, out to a movie and maybe
have some pizza afterward."

Richard didn't look happy as he watched Erin stuff the cash
into the pocket of her jeans.

She smiled. "Thanks, Mom"

"You're welcome. Have a great time tonight."

The little girl hugged Meghan, mumbling something into her
shoulder.

"I love you, too, Bug," she said, squeezing her daughter tight.

When Richard's car had pulled away from the curb, Meghan
returned to the kitchen and sat down at the table. She rubbed her
face with both hands as if trying to clean away the encounter with
her ex.

"I put the kettle on for tea," I said.

"I hate it when she goes with him. I just hate it. I don't trust
him."

I sat down. "Don't trust him how? You don't mean..."

"No, no, nothing like that. I guess it's that I don't trust him to
be a good dad. To think about what he says or how she'll take it. And he drinks a little too much for my comfort. I don't trust him
to take good care of her."

"You think he might neglect her?"

"I'm being stupid, aren't I? I'm sure he feeds her all sorts of
junk food-which she probably loves-and doesn't make her go
to bed or brush her teeth. He gets to be the good guy, and I have to
be the disciplinarian. I don't like that he tries to be her pal instead
of her dad. Damn it, she needs a dad." She added, "And he's not
even that good at being a pal."
"

I know. But you have to remember that Erin is part of the
equation, too. She's one of the smartest kids I know. No, she's the
smartest. She's not taken in by her father's constant excuses. She
loves him, but she understands what's going on, and she's dealing
with it just like you are."

Meghan groaned. "God, that doesn't make me feel any better!"

The kettle began to whistle on the stove. "What kind of tea do
you want?" I asked.

"I don't want tea," she said.

"Coffee? Wine? Scotch?"

"I want a beer."

"Well, that we don't have."

Meghan grinned. "Well, let's go get one, then."

"And dinner."

"Yeah. And dinner. Greek food"

"Mmm. That sounds great. I'm starving."

Pushing her chair back, Meghan stood. "Go get changed. We're
leaving in ten."

I HURRIED UPSTAIRS. GOT out of my scrubby work clothes and
into a freshly washed pair of jeans and a forest-green, long-sleeved
knit shirt. I zipped on a pair of black ankle boots, applied a little
eyeliner and lip gloss, and smoothed my hair back from my forehead, patting the thick braid down my back to make sure it hadn't
come loose.

Downstairs, Meghan waited for me in the living room. She
wore the same clothes-khakis with a button-down white shirtand had run a comb through her curls.

Cadyville isn't exactly a rocking town. It shuts down early except for a few restaurants and taverns, and the latter don't serve
any hard liquor, only wine and beer. We headed to the Greek and
Italian place on First Street, where I indulged in souvlaki and
Meghan had the spanikopita. We almost always ate at home, both
to save money and because of Erin's schedule, but we both loved
Greek food. Well, truth be told, I love most any kind of food.

While we ate, she updated me on what she'd learned from
the funeral home. Then I told her about my visit with Tootie
Hanover.

"So he told her he'd made an investment that turned out well?"
Meghan asked.

I nodded. "And he gave it all away. You'd think he would have
spent some of it on himself. Forget a new truck, I never saw so
much as a new shirt."

"How do you know he gave it all away?"

"I guess I don't. Do you think there's more?"

"Could be. The investment could still be paying off," Meghan
said.

"But he didn't tell anyone about it," I said.

"No, Sophie Mae. He didn't tell you about it."

After we had shared a piece of decadent pumpkin cheesecake for
dessert, I sat back and took a sip of fragrant after-dinner coffee.

"So, do you still want to go have a beer?" I asked.

"Yeah. You?"

"I'm up for it. How'bout we go into the Gold Leaf?"

Meghan wrinkled her nose. "I was thinking more along the
lines of Eldon's."

"But Walter didn't used to hang out at Eldon's."

"Ah. But he did used to hang out at the Gold Leaf?"

"Before he stopped drinking. I hadn't realized Walter was an
alcoholic until Erin said that the other night."

We shrugged into our coats and went outside. The pavement
was wet, but for the moment it had stopped raining.

As we walked down the block to the tavern, Meghan said, "Walter moved into that cottage soon after we bought the house. He seemed pretty functional, but his daily window of sobriety steadily
decreased the first year or so that I knew him. Then all of a sudden
he stopped drinking. He came and talked to Richard and me once,
apologized for I don't even know what, and I figured he was working his way through a twelve-step program. He did the same with
everyone else he had worked for in the neighborhood. As I recall,
Richard was kind of an ass to him."

"Talk about someone who should be in a twelve-step program,"
I said.

Meghan grimaced. "If only."

The door to the Gold Leaf was open, spilling rock `n' roll onto
the quiet street. Inside the doorway, a large tattooed man perched
on a stool far too small for his behind. He checked our LD.s more
from habit than necessity and waved us inside.

Layers of blue-gray smoke drifted on the air, gathered into
clouds on the ceiling. On our left, three pool tables marched down
the length of the room. The muted clacking of the balls underscored the music and the voices, most of them male, which rose
and fell in conversation. Ahead, a wide aisle divided the pool tables
from the bar running parallel on our right. Here and there, small
round tables held pitchers of beer and half-full glasses for the pool
players. The whole place smelled of cigarettes and microwaved
hotdogs. A shout of laughter erupted from the end of the bar, and
as two men moved away, Meghan and I slid onto the stools they
had vacated. On Friday night the place was hopping.

"Getchoo?"

"What?" I shouted.

"What. Can. I. Get. You?" the bartender repeated. He was nice
looking, with long hair pulled into a ponytail and friendly green
eyes. He smiled when he spoke.

Meghan ordered a Red Hook Hefeweizen, and I asked for the
bitterest thing he had, which turned out to be the Red Hook India
Pale Ale.

When he brought our pint glasses, I asked him, "Does Walter
Hanover still come in here?"

He reached under the counter, and a moment later the volume
of the music lowered an iota. A guy at the other end of the bar
protested, but the bartender ignored him. No one else seemed to
notice.

"Walter Hanover? What's he look like?" the bartender asked.

"In his sixties, gray hair in a ponytail, always wore yellow
suspenders."

"No...wait a minute. Walt! Never knew his last name, but,
yeah, he shows up every once in a while, has a cup of coffee. Used
to come in a lot, but then he quit the booze. Good thing, too. You
lookin' for him?"

"You've worked here that long?" I asked the bartender.

"I own the place. What're you looking for Walt for?"

"Well, I'm not, exactly. I'm looking for anyone who might have
known him, and I was told he used to hang out here."

"The way you're talkin'-something happen to of Walt?"

I nodded. "He died yesterday."

"That's a damn shame. Walt was a nice old guy. Heard he'd
come into some money."

I leaned in. "We heard that, too. Any idea where it came from?"

"No idea."

"Well, thanks anyway."

"Hey, if you're looking for people who knew him, check
out the coffee shop two doors down. I saw him in there a lot of
afternoons."

"Thanks," I said again. "So you own this place, huh?"

He started to answer, but there was a shout from the end of the
bar, where a man stood holding an empty pitcher in the air. "Listen, I gotta go see to business. I'm real sorry to hear about Walt."
And then he was taking the pitcher from the guy, saying something
that made the scowl on his face change to laughter. As I watched,
he took three other drink orders and had a glass of wine poured
before the new pitcher had filled. He started another one while he
took money and made change. His hands were a blur, but I was
pretty sure there wasn't a ring on the left one.

"... go to Beans R Us. Am I right? Sophie Mae?" Meghan's voice
penetrated.

I turned to her. "What?"

Her eyes flicked from me to the owner of the bar, now laughing
with an older couple, and back to me. "I said, I suppose you want
to stop by the coffee shop on the way home."

"We can finish these and head over there," I said.

A voice behind me said, "No way. You can't go yet. Come shoot
some pool with us."

I turned to find two men in their twenties wearing jeans and
long-sleeved waffle-weave underwear shirts with T-shirts over
them. One had a Mariner's baseball cap jammed over his blonde
hair, but the other's crop of dark curls was uncovered. The blonde
one grinned and gestured to one of the pool tables. I glanced at
Meghan, who raised one eyebrow in question. I nodded.

"Girls versus guys?" I asked them.

The blonde smirked and said, "If that's the way you want it."

We followed the guys to the table, and I heard the other one
say, "Man, you're so dumb. We're gonna get our asses whipped."

Blondie won the break, but all the balls stayed on the table.
Meghan walked around the table once before calling the three ball
in the corner pocket. It bumped in, smooth as butter, as did three
other solids before she miscalculated the angle on the five. She
joined me where I leaned against the wall working away on my
IPA.

"I'm a little off tonight," she said.

"We haven't played for a while," I told her.

"True," she said.

Looking grim, the curlyhaired one approached the table, chalking his cue until blue dust began drifting to the floor. He indicated
the ten in the side pocket and grinned at the satisfactory thock as it
dropped in. That left him with several impossibilities and a tricky
bank shot, which he managed with aplomb. I smiled and gave him
a thumbs-up when he looked over, and Meghan told me to stop
being condescending. But he missed the next, much easier, shot by
a hair. A little condescension can go a long way.