Parting Shot

by Linwood Barclay

  Norma’s right cheek twitched. “You can call me Norma.”

  “But your last name is Lastman? That’s what you told me the first time I was here. That’s what Eleanor—Mrs. Beecham—said your name was, too.”

  “Yup, that’s right,” she said, stepping out of the house and onto the lawn.

  “She was telling me,” Duckworth said, “that after you’d been working here a while, you discovered that the two of you are actually related to each other. That she’s your aunt.”

  Norma nodded slowly. “She said that?”

  “Yes, she did.”

  “Well, yeah, we did find out there was a connection.” She smiled nervously.

  “She said your father was her brother. What was his name?”

  Norma didn’t answer immediately. Duckworth could almost see the wheels turning. “It was Sean,” she said. “Sean Lastman. But I never really knew him.”

  “That’s quite something,” Duckworth mused. “Must have brought you closer together. I mean, you weren’t just employee and employer any more. You were niece and aunt.”

  “You could say that,” Norma agreed.

  Duckworth asked, “You ever been married, Norma?”

  “Sorry?”

  “I said, have you ever been married?”

  “No. Me and Harvey, we’re probably going to get married.”

  Harvey, coming out of the house carrying a couch with the other man’s help, smiled in their direction.

  “Soon!” he said.

  “Harvey doesn’t like to rush into anything,” Norma said, laughing and shaking her head.

  “Yeah, some men are like that,” Duckworth said. He tipped his head toward the van parked in the driveway. “That’s yours, right?”

  “Hmm?”

  “Not the big rental, the regular van. Harvey said yesterday that it’s yours.”

  She nodded. “Yeah, it’s mine.”

  “What’s funny,” Duckworth said, “is that I ran the plate to see who it was registered to, and you know what name came up?”

  Norma said nothing.

  “Norma Howton. So what I’m wondering is, if you were born Norma Lastman, and you’ve never been married, why’s your van registered in the name Norma Howton?”

  Norma struggled with a response. “Um, maybe you called it in wrong. There could be a mistake.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  Harvey emerged from the big cube van. “What was that?”

  “Just asking your girlfriend if her last name is Lastman or Howton,” Duckworth said.

  Harvey and Norma exchanged a nervous look.

  “Tell you what,” Duckworth said. “Why don’t you see if you can come up with an answer while I go across the street and talk to those folks? When I come back, we’ll see what you’ve thought up. And then we can also talk about what appears to be going on here.”

  “What would that be?” Harvey asked.

  “Charming an old lady out of her money and possessions,” Duckworth said. “Maybe you can work on that story, too.” He smiled. “Be back in a bit.”

  He headed back across the street. As he started up the driveway to the Gaffney house, Constance Gaffney emerged, grim-faced, from a side door of the garage behind the house.

  “Hello, Detective,” she said, trying to break into a welcoming smile.

  He tipped his head. “Mrs. Gaffney.”

  “Brian’s not here,” she said quickly. “My husband’s not here, either. Sorry. Do you want to come back later?”

  “Where’s Brian?” he asked.

  “He’s back in the hospital,” she said.

  “Back?” Duckworth asked. “You mean he was discharged, but he was readmitted?”

  She blinked. “Um, he left yesterday. Like, on his own. He just walked out. He shouldn’t have, but he did. And then he got hurt, so—”

  “Brian got hurt?”

  Constance Gaffney opened her mouth as if to say something, but nothing came out.

  “Mrs. Gaffney? You said Brian got hurt.”

  “It was nothing. I just meant, his back hurts. You know, from all the needles or whatever went into it.”

  “It sounded like you were going to say he got hurt when he left the hospital.”

  “No,” she said, shaking her head furiously. “No, no. I meant he was hurting himself by leaving the hospital.”

  Duckworth nodded slowly. He was thinking he didn’t need to have been a cop for as long as he had to spot when someone was lying. A patrolman his first day on the job could see that Constance Gaffney wasn’t telling the truth.

  “I guess I’ll drop by the hospital, then,” he said.

  “Okay,” she said.

  “Though I might as well ask you what I was going to ask him,” he added.

  “I’m sure I won’t know,” Constance said.

  “You might want to wait until I’ve asked the question.”

  “Well, yes, okay. What is it?”

  “You ever heard the name Cory Calder?”

  “Cory who?”

  “Calder.”

  “Who’s that?”

  “Do you recognize the name?”

  She shook her head slowly. “No, I don’t. Should I?”

  “Not necessarily,” he said.

  “Who is he?”

  “I’d really like to ask your husband if he’s heard of him.”

  “Well, if I haven’t heard of him, I’m sure my husband hasn’t.”

  That prompted a grin from Duckworth. “You’re sort of mentally connected, are you?”

  She laughed nervously. “No, but I’m pretty sure he wouldn’t know who he is.”

  “Mrs. Gaffney, are you okay?”

  “Am I okay?”

  Duckworth nodded.

  “Of course I’m not okay,” she said, suddenly indignant. “How could I be okay when Brian is in the hospital, when someone has done something so horrible to him? How could anyone be okay at a time like this? And how are we going to get that mess off his back? I’ve heard they can remove those things, but it must be awfully painful. They use lasers or something. I was looking it up on the Internet. It’s horrible, just horrible.”

  She stopped abruptly, as though something had just occurred to her.

  “What was the name again?”

  “Cory Calder.”

  “Do you—are you thinking he’s the man who did it?”

  “We want to talk to him,” Duckworth said.

  “What does that mean? Does that mean you suspect him? Is that what that means?”

  “He’s what we would call a person of interest.”

  Constance’s hands were shaking. She linked them together to make them stop. “Are you sure there wasn’t another name? Another person of interest?”

  “That’s the only name I have at the moment. Why? Were you expecting me to mention someone else?”

  “No!” she said. “Why would I? It’s just, this person of interest, as you call him, he might not have acted alone. He might have had help.”

  “That’s possible. As I said, I’d like to bounce that name off your husband, too,” Duckworth said.

  “I told you, he’s not here.”

  “Does he carry a phone?”

  “Why don’t I ask him about this Cal Colby when he gets home, and if he recognizes the name, I’ll have him call you.”

  “Cory Calder,” Duckworth said. “Not Cal Colby.”

  A nervous titter escaped her lips. “Right.” She was looking over Duckworth’s shoulder at the house opposite. “I guess Mrs. Beecham’s moving out,” she said. “Maybe she’s going into a nursing home.”

  “I wonder,” Duckworth said. He was about to turn and look across the street when something else caught his eye.

  “Mrs. Gaffney, are you sure your husband isn’t home?”

  “Hmm?”

  “I thought I saw someone in that window.” He pointed to one of the small, square windows set into the garage door.

  “I don’t think so,” she
said. “I was just in there. I took out the trash.” She forced a laugh. “I think if he’d been in there I would have seen him. Soon as I go into the house, I’ll call him, find out where he is, and have him call you. Would that be okay?”

  Duckworth said slowly, “I guess that would be fine, Mrs. Gaffney. I appreciate your—”

  That was when they both heard the shrieking. Not from the garage, but from across the street. Eleanor Beecham, struggling to support herself in the doorway of her home, was crying, “No! No! What are you doing? Stop it! Stop it!”

  Harvey Spratt and the other man emerged from the back of the van, heading back to the house. Mrs. Beecham had both hands on one side of the doorframe, but it wasn’t enough to keep her from sliding down. Norma appeared behind her.

  Duckworth said, “Shit.” He glanced both ways before running across the street, reaching into his jacket for his phone along the way.

  When Harvey saw the detective, he went slack-jawed. He said something to the other man that Duckworth couldn’t hear. Norma was struggling to get the woman to her feet, saying, “For God’s sake, Mrs. Beecham, didn’t I tell you to stay downstairs?”

  Duckworth, panting, said into his phone, “It’s Detective Duckworth, Promise Falls Police. I need an ambulance.” He barked out the address, resisted any further questions, and was slipping the phone back into his pocket as he reached the front door.

  “Mrs. Beecham,” he said.

  “She’s fine!” Norma said, pulling the elderly woman to her feet, holding her under the arms. “There’s nothing going on here!”

  “Who’s that?” the old woman asked, pointing a leathery finger at the man who’d been helping Harvey load furniture.

  The man said, “Hey, I’m just buyin’ some stuff.”

  Duckworth said to Mrs. Beecham, “Did you give these people permission to sell your things?”

  “No! I heard all this racket and I climbed up the stairs and everything’s gone!”

  “She doesn’t understand,” Norma said.

  “Why don’t you explain it to me?” Duckworth asked her.

  “We’re helping her,” the woman insisted. “We’re getting her ready.”

  “Ready for what?”

  Norma ran her tongue over her lip. “To go to the facility.”

  “What facility?” the old woman asked.

  “Yeah, what facility?” Duckworth echoed.

  “It’s in Albany,” Norma said. “Pine Acres.”

  “Show me the paperwork.”

  “Paperwork?”

  “Give me a name,” Duckworth said. “Whoever does the admissions.” When Norma hesitated, he said, “Okay, I see what’s going on here.”

  “Can I load this stuff or what?” the man asked.

  Duckworth said to him, “What’d you pay for all these things you’re taking?”

  “Two grand,” he said.

  Duckworth said to Harvey, “Give him his money back.”

  “No way,” Harvey said. “You got no business interfering in a private transaction.”

  “Show me something,” Duckworth said. “Emails, paperwork, anything that proves that Mrs. Beecham is moving to a seniors’ residence, and that someone here has been given legal permission to act on her behalf. Do you have a power of attorney for her?”

  Norma and Harvey exchanged looks. Norma said, “I’m sure we have that somewhere. Tell the man, Mrs. Beecham. Tell them we’re helping you. But first, let’s get you off your feet.”

  She helped the old woman back into the house, but once inside, there was no place to sit. The living room had been cleared of furniture, marks on the faded carpet indicating where the couch and chairs and coffee table had once been. Norma led Mrs. Beecham to the stairs that climbed to the upper level and got her settled on the second step.

  In the distance, a siren wailed.

  “I don’t understand,” Mrs. Beecham said. From her perch on the stairs, she looked into the living room. “Where’s the sofa?”

  “We can get those documents you want,” Harvey said to Duckworth. “It just might take a day or two. Give me a card and we’ll be in touch.”

  Duckworth said, “Mrs. Beecham, I have some people coming to check you out. That’s the first thing we want to do, is make sure you’re okay. Then we want to sort out what’s going on here.”

  “Did you hear what I said?” Harvey asked. He was standing right next to Duckworth now, crowding him as he spoke with Eleanor Beecham.

  “Stand over there, sir,” Duckworth said.

  “I’m asking, did you hear me?”

  “And I said, stand over there.”

  “You give us a couple days to get the paperwork you want.”

  Duckworth viewed him with undisguised annoyance. “Why don’t we just phone Pine Acres right now and confirm what you’re saying? How about that?”

  Norma and Harvey exchanged looks once again, but this time there was a higher level of concern.

  “I don’t know if there’s anyone there today,” Norma said.

  “Why? It’s not a weekend.”

  The siren grew louder.

  When Duckworth returned his attention to the old woman, Harvey reached out and grabbed him by the elbow. Duckworth turned suddenly, shook off Harvey’s hand, and pointed a finger in the man’s face.

  “Sir! Do not touch me. I’m warning you, if you touch me again, I’ll place you under arrest.”

  “This is bullshit,” said Norma, who was behind Duckworth. Without warning, she extended her arms, placed her palms on the detective, and gave him a forceful shove. He stumbled forward into Harvey, who shoved him back in the other direction. Duckworth feared he was going to fall right onto Eleanor Beecham and injure her—he might have lost some weight, but he was still a pretty heavy guy—so he tried to pivot in mid-fall. He landed hard on the step next to her.

  Harvey’s face flushed red. He brought back a leg to kick the detective, but Duckworth shifted quickly and Harvey’s shoe connected with the stairs.

  “Stop it!” Mrs. Beecham screamed.

  Harvey decided another kick was not the way to go. He formed a fist and swung at Duckworth, connecting with his chest as the detective attempted to get back up. He was thrown back onto the stairs again.

  Duckworth pulled back his jacket and reached for the gun holstered at his side. The last thing he wanted to do was discharge his weapon in the close quarters of this house. Harvey was causing him a lot of grief, but he was not armed. But Duckworth believed he needed the persuasion that his gun would provide to get things under control.

  As he was about to draw his weapon, however, the odds got a little more even.

  Albert Gaffney, dressed casually in a pair of sweatpants and a T-shirt, had run into the house. He charged Harvey from behind and threw him into a wall, hard enough that the man’s head dented the drywall.

  Harvey went down like a rag doll.

  He put a hand to his head. “Son of a bitch!”

  Albert looked at a somewhat stunned Duckworth and extended a hand to help him to his feet.

  “Constance said you had something you wanted to ask me,” he said.

  FIFTY

  CAL

  IF I’d known we were going to end up at the movies, I’d have gone back into the beach house for my cell. It was a long time to be without a phone.

  After heading into Sandwich for some ice cream, Jeremy continued to complain about the cable not working at Madeline’s place. I grabbed a discarded newspaper on a nearby table and found an ad for a Cape Cod movie complex. The seven o’clock shows were already under way, but we could hit one that started after nine. I handed the paper to Jeremy—he was working on a banana split with enough whipped cream to bury a Volkswagen—and asked him if any of the shows interested him.

  He pointed. “That one.”

  It was some superhero thing. When I was a kid, the only costumed crime-fighters on my radar were Batman, Superman and Spider-Man. I knew there were more, but they were the only ones I cared a
bout. These days, though, there were so many, it was a wonder there was enough evil in the world to keep them all occupied.

  “Yeah, sure,” I said.

  “What if someone recognizes me?” he asked. “Like at the hotel?”

  When we got back to the car, I gave him the Blue Jays baseball cap he’d worn in the grocery store and told him to keep it pulled down hard until we found our seats and they killed the lights. That seemed to do the trick. No one gave us a second look.

  On the way to the theater, Jeremy said, “I could probably come up with a list.”

  “Huh?”

  “Of people at the party. People you could talk to.”

  “Okay,” I said.

  “But I don’t know what the point is.”

  “Let me worry about that.”

  “I mean, it’s not really your job, anyway.”

  “I’m an investigator. I investigate.”

  “It’s not what you were hired to do. Don’t expect my mom or Bob or anyone to pay you for doing something extra. Especially Bob. He’s all business. Everything done by the book. They’ll say you’re trying to pad the bill.”

  “I’m not charging them anything extra,” I said.

  “I’m giving you a heads-up. They’ll be pissed.”

  Maybe he was right. Maybe this wasn’t my concern. I’d been hired to look after him, plain and simple. I hadn’t been hired by the defense.

  But I couldn’t help but feel bad for the kid. Outside of his family and Bob, I thought I might be the only one on the planet who felt that way. His father sure didn’t seem to have much time for him.

  “We’ll talk in the morning,” I said. “Maybe you can give me some names then.”

  He shrugged.

  We got our tickets, a bucket of popcorn big enough that it could have served as roofing insulation for a medium-sized house, and some Cokes. Jeremy and the rest of the audience were pretty taken with the movie, cheering at the end, especially when there was a teaser about the next instalment in the series. I knew I’d only be attending under threat of death. All these flicks were the same. Regular guy somehow gets super-powers. Comes up against villain with even greater super-powers. Big fight at the end where hero prevails, but not before the two of them have engaged in an epic, never-ending fight that pretty much levels a city. But it doesn’t matter if thousands of innocent people are killed in the crossfire, because the superhero’s girlfriend is okay.