by Colin Conway
“A fat lot of good that did.”
“I can’t help it if your team couldn’t build a better case. I held up my end of the bargain.”
“I did, too.”
Ekleberry had indeed kept his word. When the agency wanted to renege on their deal, Ekleberry made sure everybody stayed true to the agreement. He did his job, but that didn’t mean Brody had to like the man. His eyes narrowed as he tried to intimidate the lawman.
The agent waved him off and said, “C’mon, Beau, gimme a swear word.”
The store owner’s glare faded. “It’s Brody and no. I won’t do that.”
“C’mon.”
“It’s the sign of a weak mind, Ekleberry.”
“Well, I swear,” the agent flatly said.
“I know you do, but you’re not going to do it here. Within these four walls, I make the rules.”
“You can’t stop me from doing it.”
Without warning, Brody punched the federal agent, knocking his hat off. The man immediately brought his hands up to his face to cover his mouth.
“Want to arrest me?” Brody asked.
Ekleberry kept his eyes on the bigger man as he bent over to retrieve his hat. He smacked it against the side of his leg before placing it back on his head. “You ever do that—”
Brody punched him again, although this time, Ekleberry jerked his head at the last second, reducing its impact. The punch still hit the agent, and he stumbled several feet backward until he bumped into the book spinner.
“What the hell?”
“Please arrest me,” Brody said, pushing his hands out in front of himself as if he was ready to be handcuffed. “Of course, you’ll have to explain to Onderdonk why you’re here. Maybe then he’ll move me to another town.”
The agent rubbed his hand over his mouth before saying, “I really was just checking on you.”
Brody moved behind the counter and crossed his arms. The two men stared at each other for several unpleasant moments.
Finally, the big man asked. “Are you going to buy something?”
Ekleberry’s eyes swept across the store. “Nope... I don’t read.”
Brody shook his head. “That’s pitiful.”
The G-Man pointed at him. “Watch it.”
That made him smile.
Ekleberry stepped back and adjusted the waist of his jeans. “Maybe I should stop in and check on that grandmother of yours.”
Brody’s smile faded. “You leave her alone, Ekleberry. You’ve checked on her enough.”
The federal agent chuckled as he walked to the door. “See you around, Brody.”
When he stepped outside, Ekleberry looked back through the store’s window. He then began yelling a series of expletives. Brody rolled his eyes. He wasn’t going to invest any further energy into the agent.
A group of people strolled by and watched as Ekleberry turned red-faced while loudly cursing at the store.
Finally, the FBI man ran out of steam, glanced around, and walked off.
Chapter 5
It was shortly after 2 p.m., and Brody hoped no one else would come in for the day.
After Ekleberry’s vulgarity-laced tantrum, Brody wanted to be alone and not be interrupted. He’d already had three visitors today, and two of them he could have done without.
He picked up The Deep Blue Good-by and struggled to get through the first couple of chapters.
He wasn’t lying when he told the older woman he hadn’t read a book since high school, almost twenty years ago. Brody knew most of the words, of course, but keeping his attention focused on a story was hard. He ached to get up and do something else.
Brody stayed with the book for one reason—he wanted something to talk with Daphne Winterbourne about the next time he saw her. She seemed excited about Travis McGee, so he persisted until his stomach told him he needed to find nourishment.
No one came into The Red Herring while he read the book, so he figured it didn’t matter if he closed the store or not. Besides, the U.S. Marshals would ensure the business stayed operational. Selling books was optional since it was only a cover. He only had to pretend to sell them.
Brody locked the store and walked down Main Street as the summer sun pulsated down upon the city.
He crossed the street and saw Pleasant Valley Sundae, the town’s ice cream parlor, full of families. Even outside, he could hear the joyful ruckus caused by a building swarming with children. Brody wasn’t in the mood for sweets, and he didn’t want to be around kids. He enjoyed them about as much as he liked catching a social disease.
Several older women beamed at him as they passed. At first, he didn’t know how to react. Strangers hadn’t smiled at him since he was a little boy. By the time he was in high school, he’d gotten in trouble with the law and had a rough look that went along with that. Strangers would no longer smile when he passed by. Instead, they tended to frown and disapprovingly shake their heads.
Maybe it was the shoulder-length hair he’d grown or the black, heavy-metal t-shirts he wore with band names like Megadeth or Hellhammer. As he grew older, he developed a look that befit his reputation as a wild man—scruffy beard, long hair, and muscles from lifting weights.
When he joined the motorcycle club, he exchanged the heavy-metal t-shirts for a Satan’s Dawgs’ leather vest. By then, strangers completely averted their eyes or crossed the street when he neared them. He liked the reverence that fear of the Satan’s Dawgs had brought.
But not in Pleasant Valley, Maine. Here, everyone smiled at him.
He was surprised by how that simple act from others made him feel.
“Good afternoon,” a silver-haired man said as he walked along, holding his wife’s hand.
“Afternoon,” Brody said hesitantly.
He stopped and watched the couple walk happily by. It felt weird to engage with everyday folks, citizens as the MC called them. It seemed so normal, something that he believed only existed on television. A small grin crept on his face as he touched his short hair before rubbing his bare chin. Maybe looking like a bookstore owner wasn’t so bad after all.
Brody continued down Main Street passing a salon (Pleasantly Pampered), a barbershop (The Valley Cut), and a dog groomer (Your Pleasant Pooch). He walked to the end of the street which served as cul-de-sac parking lot for the lighthouse. The tall white structure stoically stood guard over the harbor. He breathed in the ocean air for a moment and enjoyed watching the waves rush onto the beach and then slowly recede out.
No one looked his way and, if they happened to glance at him, they didn’t stay focused on him for long. Not because they feared him, but out of respect for his privacy. They were merely polite.
Maybe the computer had been right in selecting this little town for him to start a new life. It might have been small and boring, but he didn’t feel watched, didn’t feel hunted, and didn’t feel the need to be hyperalert at every moment. An unseen weight began lifting from his shoulders, and he felt suddenly alive.
The humidity seemed thicker along the ocean, and the big man pulled the plaid shirt away from his skin. It was already sticking to him with sweat, and he’d only walked a handful of blocks.
His stomach rumbled again, and he turned back up Main Street, crossing to the other sidewalk. He knew there was an Italian restaurant in town (he saw it on his first drive through Pleasant Valley) and wanted to give it a try. It was two blocks up and to the right on Second Avenue.
Il Cuoco Irato was in a small brick building with a green, white, and red awning resembling the Italian flag. Brody pulled the door open and stepped inside. The first thing he noticed was the smell. It was a wonderful mixture of cooking meat, spices, and other scents he couldn’t place.
A Frank Sinatra tune played softly in the background. It only took a moment for him to realize it was “The Best is Yet to Come.” His grandmother loved the music from the early sixties and listened to it frequently on her record player.
Red leather booths lined one wall, an
d small tables with red-cushioned chairs sat in the middle of the restaurant.
Except for those occupying the only semi-circular booth in the far back corner, there were no other customers.
A heavyset man in his late fifties sat in the middle of the corner booth. He wore a red jogging suit with a white t-shirt. On either side of him sat a twenty-something blonde, each wearing a tight white top and a little captain hat as if they’d just come in off a boat. The man was cooing in the ear of one of the girls as he made eye contact with Brody.
He sat at a small table near the windows. He pulled a folding menu from the condiment holder, which rested in the middle of the table and began the process of selecting his lunch.
From the kitchen, an older man appeared. He wore a white shirt and black slacks. His bald head gleamed as if it was recently shined with a rag.
“Can I get you?” he asked, his English clipped.
“Meatball sandwich to-go,” Brody said, “and a side of Caprese salad.”
The man scribbled onto his notepad and disappeared into the kitchen.
From the corner, one of the girls giggled, which caused Brody to glance in that direction. The heavyset man growled, “Mind your own business, bub.”
Usually, he would have taken insult with the man’s blunt statement, but he needed to blend in with the sleepy town. He quickly decided to let it go.
Brody lifted a hand in apology, his eyes searching for something to entertain him. On a nearby table, he noticed a recent edition of the Union Leader. Brody grabbed the newspaper, returned to his seat, and slowly read through it. Since he found most of the national news boring, he skipped over it. It was the same thing, year after year, regardless of who was in control of the White House.
In the local section, he read about the body of an unidentified woman found in Massabesic Lake. She had been shot in the back of the head and dumped somewhere upstream. The police described her as being in her early seventies but gave no further information. They were unable to get fingerprints as her fingers had been removed, so they were waiting for dental records.
Brody hung on the last fact. The woman’s fingers were missing, but her teeth remained. Whoever killed her was either in a hurry, or they didn’t know what they were doing. Removing only the fingers would simply slow the identification of the woman. It wasn’t going to stop the cops. They were too sophisticated. To truly make someone disappear would require far more work than snipping fingers and dumping a body into a lake.
The cops were asking the public to contact them if they had any information on the missing woman. Brody wondered how often citizens actually did that.
He continued to flip through the paper until he got to the Sports section. There was an unusual amount of coverage about the Boston Red Sox. He also noticed reporting on the New Hampshire Fisher Cats.
What the heck is a Fisher Cat? he wondered.
Then he stopped and reread where the ballclub was from—New Hampshire.
He flipped back to the front of the newspaper and discovered that the Union Leader was based out of Manchester, New Hampshire.
What is a New Hampshire paper doing here in Pleasant Valley, Maine? Brody thought.
They were on the border of New Hampshire, so perhaps this was the newspaper of choice for the locals.
The waiter returned with the order in a Styrofoam container. He handed it to Brody along with a handwritten receipt. Brody eyed it for a moment, reached into his pocket, and pulled out a small roll of one-hundred-dollar bills. He peeled off one and handed it to the waiter.
The older man stared at the bill. “Smaller?”
“That’s all I’ve got,” Brody said.
The waiter clicked his tongue in disapproval then walked to the man sitting in the corner. He spoke to him in Italian and laid the hundred-dollar bill on the table. The heavyset man leaned to look around the waiter and made eye contact with Brody, who apologetically shrugged in return.
The man reached into his pocket and pulled out a large wad of money. Both girls stared excitedly at the cash. The man licked his thumb once before he began counting out several bills. He tossed them onto the table for the waiter who picked them up and hurried to the cash register. The heavyset man wrapped the hundred-dollar bill around his wad of cash and stuffed it back into his pocket. He then returned to cooing in one of the girl’s ears.
When the waiter gave Brody his change, he left a tip and grabbed his lunch. He didn’t bother looking back.
He knew what kind of establishment this was.
Chapter 6
“You must be da new ownah I heard so much about,” the police officer said. The man’s accent was thick and nasally.
He stood with his feet shoulder-width apart and his thumbs tucked into his leather duty belt.
Brody had heard the bell tinkle and stepped out from one of the book aisles where he was cleaning up another of the cat’s messes.
When he initially saw the police officer, he paused for a moment because that was his natural reaction when contacting an officer of the law. He then moved slowly toward the man, trying to make sense of him because he was unlike any cop he’d ever seen.
He wore blue tennis shoes, dark blue cargo shorts, and a white short-sleeve shirt. Over his left breast was pinned a silver badge. Above the right pocket was stitched a nametag that read Farnsworth.
The officer also wore a bicycle helmet that was strapped tightly under his chin. Even with a gun on his right hip and a radio attached to his left, he didn’t present an authoritative figure. Instead, he seemed more security guard than law enforcement officer.
“Excuse me?” Brody said.
Farnsworth waggled his finger in a circle. “The bookstore. You the new ownah?”
“Oh, sure.”
The officer stuck out his right hand. “Constable Emery Fahnsworth.” His accent was so strong that it seemed like he was mispronouncing his name.
Brody held out his hand, palm up, so the officer wouldn’t see the tattoo on the back of it. “Brody Steele,” he said.
They quickly shook hands. When they broke their clasp, Brody shoved his hands into the pockets of his khakis.
“Constable, is it?” Brody asked.
“Actually, I’m an officah of the law, duly commissioned by the great state of Maine, but I really like how constable rolls off the tongue.” Farnsworth smiled. “It sounds nicah, don’t you think?”
“Don’t constables have less authority than an officer?”
“What?” Farnsworth’s face scrunched in disbelief. “No.”
“Okay.”
“Do they?” the officer asked.
The big man shrugged. “I don’t know. Just making conversation.”
“I’ll have to look into that.”
Brody watched the officer. He had obviously stopped into the store for something more than a welcome-to-the-neighborhood discussion.
“You bought the store from Alice Walkah?”
“Word travels fast.”
Farnsworth stepped further into the shop, his eyes scanning the bookshelves. “Daphne told me.”
“You know Daphne?”
The officer moved toward the back aisles, checking for something. “Ayuh. She’s my girlfriend.”
Brody repeatedly blinked, taking in what the officer had just said.
“Magnum?” Farnsworth said as he hunched over as if searching for something. “Where you at, buddy?”
“Daphne’s your girlfriend?” Brody carefully asked.
The officer straightened. “Well... she was,” he said, his voice now filled with disappointment. “Where’s the cat? Daphne said Alice left him with you.”
“Was?”
“Huh?”
“Daphne was your girlfriend?”
“Ayuh, ayuh,” he said as if he sucked in words instead of speaking them. “She broke up with me a few months back.”
“I see.”
Farnsworth spun around. “You do?” he asked, hurrying toward Brody. “What do y
ou see?”
Brody’s eyes widened. In his old life as the Dawg’s bookkeeper, he would have told the silly-looking cop to step back from him and pound sand. Here in Pleasant Valley, though, he was trying to learn a new set of rules and to abide by Onderdonk’s guidance to not call attention to himself.
“I don’t see anything.”
“But you said you saw something.” Farnsworth studied Brody’s eyes. “In fact, you said, ‘I see.’ That’s what you said, right? ‘I see.’”
“That’s what I said, but I was only being polite.”
“Polite?”
Brody nodded.
The officer frowned. “That’s too bad. I’m still trying to figure out why she broke up with me.”
Maybe it’s your little boy's clothes, Brody thought. And your plastic hat.
Farnsworth stepped back, and his eyes again swept over the store. “Did Alice tell you where she moved to?”
“Why would she do that?”
“She was well-liked around here, and folks are curious as to why she would leave Pleasant Valley so unexpectedly.”
“She didn’t tell me anything. I never actually talked with her, though. I bought the business online.”
It was the story that Onderdonk had given him for a plausible change in ownership. The marshals had taken care of all the paperwork making Brody Steele the new owner. If anyone bothered to check, they would see the sale documents were fully in order.
“About a month and a half ago,” Farnsworth said, “she started closing her bookstore in the middle of the day, which wasn’t like her. I stopped in one morning to ask if everything was okay. She said it was, but she didn’t look that way. She looked sort of flushed and harried. Know what I mean?”
“Not really.”
“She also seemed distracted. Like she was bothered that I was there. That also wasn’t like her. She and I used to have some good talks.”
“Maybe she didn’t want people poking into her business.”
