Purgatory Chasm: A Mystery (20 page)

“No, but you might be interested in what she does.”

I ran a belt through the jeans, looked in the mirror that tops the dresser. I needed a haircut. Whenever it looks like it could use combing, I get it cut instead. Never have understood why anybody, man or woman, would want long hair. Pain in the ass.

Randall said, “Thanks for asking, dipshit. She owns an insurance agency in Bellingham.”

“Okay.” I wondered what the hell was interesting about insurance. I also wondered if Randall really liked the gal, felt bad about my getting-laid crack.

“The interesting thing about insurance,” he said, “is that you need myriad databases for underwriting purposes.”

“Myriad?”

“A shitload. And if you’re whiling away a cozy Cape Cod weekend with a debonair man of the world, you may find yourself persuaded to surf some of those databases on your laptop while lolling about your handsome room that overlooks Chatham Harbor.”

“Jesus, Randall.”

“You’re not much fun to tell a cool story to.”

“When I tell you about my day so far you’ll understand,” I said. “Databases. Tell it.”

“Myna Roper? Tander Phigg’s former paramour? The one you texted me about?”

I’d been tugging on tube socks. I stopped. “What about her?”

“I found her.”

“What?”

“She lives in Hebron Crossroads, South Carolina,” he said. “Been in the same house since 1962.”

“You sure it’s the same Myna Roper?”

“I called to confirm. We had a short chat.”

“Well I’ll be damned,” I said. “Can you come to Charlene’s?”

“What for?”

“We’ll fill each other in. We’ll have some dinner. You can meet my father.”

“What?”

I clicked off and looked in the mirror again. Caught myself smiling. Not as much as McCord, but smiling.

I wanted to talk with Charlene in private. I texted her:
Meet me lvngrm.
Then put on a T-shirt and my watch, headed downstairs.

She was just zipping through the front hall into the fancy room, which caps the western end of the house. It’s stiff, formal. Crimson drapes, no TV, a pair of chairs that cost more than my truck. I think Charlene entertains serious prospects there, little parties I’m not invited to—the parties where she serves booze. Sometimes I wonder why she doesn’t include me. Is it because of the booze, or because I’d embarrass her in front of the high rollers? Either way, it’s probably a good idea all around.

She spun, folded her arms the way she does, waited.

“I’m sorry about my dad,” I said. “If there’d been anywhere else to—”

“I adore Fred. Sophie does, too, I can tell. He’s welcome here forever.”

Jesus, she’s hard to figure. A year or so ago, she bought Sophie two hamsters—and returned them three days later, saying they were disruptive.

I wondered why Charlene was looking at me that way if she wasn’t pissed about having Fred under her roof. He had to be more disruptive than a pair of hamsters.

She said, “Why didn’t you look for him, Conway?”

I said nothing.

“He says a few years ago, you spotted him at that intersection near the Allston/Brighton tolls.” She softened her voice and stance. “Why didn’t you
look
for him? He’s your
father
.”

There was so much to say.

I said nothing.

Charlene spread wide her arms. I stepped in.

I shook.

*   *   *

An hour and a half later, Chinese takeout wreckage covered the kitchen table. Me, Randall, and Charlene ate fortune cookies and orange slices. Sophie and Fred were sofa-splayed in the great room. The TV was tuned to a highlight show about last weekend’s NASCAR race. Fred would point at the TV, then hold an imaginary steering wheel the way racers do. Then he would use body language to show Sophie how today’s pansy-boy drivers would drive if they had a pair. Sophie sat rapt, loving every word, giggling when Fred dipped into dirty language.

“He’s handing her a giant load of horseshit,” I said. “You do realize that, don’t you?”

Charlene slapped my arm. “Look at her. Look at
them
.”

Randall said, “It’s exactly like looking at Conway in thirty years.”

“But a Conway that
talks,
” Charlene said. They cracked up.

I said, “Assholes.” But I might have smiled while I said it. I faced Randall. “Now you need to hear what I found at Phigg’s shack, and I need to hear about Myna Roper. Who’s first?”

Randall shifted his chair. “You.”

I told it, starting with Montreal at Motorenwerk. Charlene listened in while she cleared the table.

When I got to the part about falling in the Souhegan, I lightened it, tried to make it a
Three Stooges
moment. But Charlene read my tone, read my eyes. She kissed the top of my head as she took the egg foo yong carton. “Thank God you’re okay.”

“You almost drowned three feet from the riverbank,” Randall said. “How embarrassing.”

I slapped the table. “That’s
exactly
what ran through my head, even while it was happening.”

“Very common.” He knuckle-rapped his prosthetic. “I can’t remember this myself, but the guys swear that while I lay there in the street, bleeding out with my foot blown over a wall somewhere, I asked if somebody could help me into the back of the Humvee. I said I’d just wait in the car while they mopped up, that I didn’t want to be any trouble.”

We were quiet awhile.

“This Montreal drug dealer,” Charlene finally said, sponging the counter. “Did he kill Tander?”

“Maybe,” I said.

“I keep coming back to the physical act of hanging a good-size man who was presumably struggling,” Randall said. “Montreal’s muscle-bound pal would certainly come in handy.”

“What about Ollie and Josh?” I said.

Randall wiggled a hand in a
not-so-much
gesture.

“And the son, Trey?” Charlene said. “Randall tells me he’s unlikely, but you can’t be sure.”

“That’s true,” I said.

“And yet he’s your
guest,
” she said, scrubbing a bit of invisible goop. “He’s living under your
roof
.”

I hadn’t known until now how much that bothered her. “Well,” I said, then didn’t know what else to say.

“A classic Conway Sax conundrum,” Randall said. “The Barnburner must be served, hence the Barnburner’s kin must be served. Even if the kin murdered the Barnburner.”

Charlene laughed at that. I was grateful to Randall for taking the pressure off me.

“Hey, Hardy Boys,” Charlene said in a lighter voice, “don’t leave me hanging. Do you think Tander stashed something?”

“Good question,” Randall said, then gestured at me. “I defer to you, Brother Frank.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” I said.

They looked at each other and laughed.

I said, “Bet your ass he stashed something.”

“But what?” Randall said. “He didn’t have a pot to piss in.”

“We’ll find out tomorrow. You, me, and Trey.”

Charlene said,
“The Shabby Shanty Mystery
.
”

Randall said,
“The Secret of the Souhegan Shack
.
”

I stared while they laughed. Idiots.

A noise like the world’s biggest crow strangling came from the great room. Fred rolled off the sofa and balled himself up, hands pressed to his stomach, twitching.

Sophie said, “What should I do what should I do oh my God what should I do?”

We all rushed in. Smelled it: Fred had shit himself.

“Sophie, come with me,” Charlene said. Sophie didn’t move fast enough.
“Come with me right now!”
Charlene got a hand on the small of Sophie’s back, walked her through the dining area and up the stairs.

Fred’s eyes were clenched shut. He was still spasming a little.

Behind me Randall said, “Too soon for Chinese food.”

I nodded.

Fred’s eyes opened and locked on mine. He tried to speak. Couldn’t. Tears rolled.

I said over my shoulder, “Randall, maybe you can put leftovers in the fridge.” I leaned and told Fred it was all right. He kept shaking, put a hand on my forearm and squeezed. “Right in front of everybody,” he said. “Right in front of the
girl.
” He cried.

I put my mouth to his ear, said again it was all right, asked if he could stand. He shook his head.

I got my arms beneath him, wrapped one of his around my neck, braced myself, rose, cradled him like a baby. Part of me wanted to make it look easy. Another part asked why.

I ignored the smell, ignored the shit transferring from the seat of his jeans to the front of mine. I told my father we would go upstairs and get him in the bathtub.

As we moved he kept saying, “Right in front of everybody.” He was whispering, talking to himself.

*   *   *

Half an hour later I stepped into the great room again in sweatpants and a fresh T-shirt. Everything was neat as a pin. I palmed the sofa. It was damp and smelled of cleaning stuff. God bless Randall. He’d left a note on the kitchen table:
Long day. Rest. Call me AM w/plan.

He was right—hell of a long day. I went upstairs, silently opened the door to Jesse’s room, stuck my head in. I heard Fred breathing, fast asleep.

In Charlene’s room, I listened to her breathe, too. I stripped, knelt, prayed, climbed in bed, slept like a dead man.

*   *   *

“Charlene Bollinger stayed home from work?” Randall said. “Now I
know
you’re lying to me.”

I said, “My mouth to God’s ear.”

“She must love your old man.”

“I figure it’s like having me around, but he doesn’t paw after her.”

“As far as you know.”

It was the next morning, Tuesday, and we were northbound in Trey Phigg’s rented Dodge. Trey had volunteered to drive, saying he needed the practice. He kept up with traffic, but you could see he was white-knuckling it.

I rode shotgun, and Randall took the backseat. The trunk was loaded with stuff we’d picked up at Lowe’s and a sporting-goods place.

Fred had woken up at seven, had come downstairs acting like nothing had happened. Charlene, Sophie, and I had gone along with that. Before I left, Charlene had pulled me aside and said she’d stay with Fred today. It was the first time in six years she wasn’t itching to get to the office.

Before climbing in, Randall had made a bogus excuse to speak with me alone. “Why the hell are we bringing Trey?” he’d said. “As far as we know, he killed his dad for whatever we’re looking for.”

“If he did, I’d rather have him up north with us than screwing around in Framingham,” I said. “And if we do find anything, let’s see how he reacts. It could tell us a lot.”

Randall grumbled but went along.

Now, the Dodge had a good vibe as we headed for Rourke. Why not? We had another sunny day and an adventure to boot. We were digging for buried treasure. As a bonus, Trey was enjoying his escape from the Framingham house.

Randall read my mind. “Sure beats taping and mudding that office.”

I nodded. “Myna Roper. We got interrupted last night. How’d you find her?”

“Once my friend showed me how to manipulate these insurance databases, it was easy,” he said. “I doubt it took fifteen minutes. Roper’s a common name down there, but with the first name, the race, and the approximate DOB, she rose to the top pretty soon.”

“Race?”

“For the actuarial tables, yeah.” He leaned forward.

“You called her up?” I said. “Just like that?”

“And she picked up and talked. Nice lady. Born and raised in Hebron Crossroads, went to New York in ’fifty-nine, sowed her wild oats—her very words—came home in ’sixty-two, married, raised a family. Husband died thirty years ago, she’s been on her own since.”

“What line did you use to get her talking?”

“Semitruth. Laid on some dialect, made it clear I was a brother.” He said it
“brotha,”
sneering. His father, Luther, sneers the same way at the street/ghetto bit. They both talk like they went to Yale. “And I may have let slip that I’m a wounded veteran.”

“Laid it on thick, huh?”

“With a trowel,” he said. “I told her Phigg had died, and said we found references to her in his papers.”

I pointed. Trey turned right onto the road that paralleled the Souhegan. We’d be at the shack in five minutes. I said, “How’d she react?”

“She went quiet,” Randall said. “Then she got more polite and more formal, and I knew I was a goner. I would’ve liked to probe deeper, but all I had to go on was the text message you sent me.”