“And you didn’t notice anybody else talking to Morgan?”
She shook her head. “Oh, wait a second. There was this zombie guy. She talked to him a few minutes, then brushed him off.”
“Did you recognize him?”
“The Walking Dead guy? I don’t know. He looked like a tourist to me. Not familiar. He kept buzzing around her.”
“For how long?”
“I don’t know. It was so fucking busy, like I said. Maybe a few minutes. This Halloween was totally ramped, wasn’t it?”
“Could it have been Hollis Jones in a zombie costume?”
“No,” Gabby said firmly. “I’d recognize that asshole in greasepaint.”
“Why do you call him an asshole?”
Gabby rested her cigarette in the ashtray and swept the counter with her hands, catching a few toast crumbs in her palm. “Here’s the thing. He’s slept with half my girlfriends. He’s a self-aggrandizing jack-off drowning in a lake of his own testosterone. I was tempted to warn her about him, but I’ve learned to keep my mouth shut. No good deed goes unpunished, right? Anyway, Hollis never showed.” She shrugged. “So no harm, no foul.”
“Are you saying he sleeps around a lot?” Natalie asked.
“That guy’s a big-time slut.”
“How drunk would you say Morgan was that night?”
“A little tipsy. A little fuzzy. Not falling-down drunk.”
“So you wouldn’t call her inebriated or incapacitated?”
“She wasn’t trashed. She was okay. I could’ve served her again.”
Natalie nodded. “What about the glassware? I’m assuming it’s all been cleaned and put away by now?”
“A dozen times over.”
“Anything else you can think of that was out of the ordinary?”
Gabby shook her head. “It was packed, like I said. Wall-to-wall flaming assholes, all demanding special drinks. Things I’ve never heard of before, cocktails they looked up on the internet, and here I am, taking instructions from half-wits, and everybody’s shoving and pushing closer to the bar, shouting their drink orders at me. I’m just relieved it’s over. Thank God for the parking lot.”
“What’s that?” Natalie said.
“You know, our quick getaway. Everyone in town knows we’ve got the fastest route out of Dodge,” she said, writing down today’s draft choices on the chalkboard menu. “Which is why I always park as close to the exit as possible. My shift ends at midnight, and I get home in like ten minutes.”
Natalie glanced at the back door. “Do you have CCTV out back?”
“Nope, just the front entrance. Detective Labruzzo took everything.”
“I appreciate your candor. Nice talking to you, Gabby.”
“You, too. And good luck finding the creep who did this,” she said. “We’ll all sleep better.”
Natalie left through the back door and stood on the edge of the dusty parking lot on Howard Street, which Blondie’s shared access to with a handful of other businesses, including the Barkin’ Dawg. Burning Lake had survived its biggest season. Only the locals knew the quickest, easiest way out of downtown during the entire month of October. Natalie had parked here herself on Sunday night for that very reason.
Now she realized—you couldn’t plan a better escape route. The back exit of Blondie’s had no bothersome surveillance cameras to worry about. You could spike your date’s drink and then leave quickly and quietly, without getting stuck in traffic. Only a local would’ve suggested Blondie’s as a meeting place on Halloween night.
But Hollis Jones never showed.
She got on her phone and told Lenny everything. “I heard you have the surveillance footage from the front entrance of Blondie’s. We should be looking for Batman, a Walking Dead zombie, a musician named Hollis Jones, or anyone else who might’ve followed Morgan Chambers out of the bar on Sunday night.”
“Sure thing,” Lenny said, sounding dog-tired. “I’ll add it to the to-do list.”
“It’s kind of a priority.”
“Don’t worry, Natalie. I’m planning on pulling an all-nighter.”
“You and me both. Thanks, Lenny.” She hung up and looked farther down the block at the back entrance of the Barkin’ Dawg Saloon, where she, Luke, and Brandon used to meet regularly. Her head hurt. Tears sprang to her eyes, and she brushed them away. She decided to retrace Morgan’s fateful steps out of Blondie’s and toward the alley.
29
It was seven blocks from Blondie’s to the mouth of the alley on Sarah Hutchins Drive. The sun was setting, and the sky ranged from pink along the horizon to purple overhead. The cleanup was ongoing, although the volunteer crews had thinned out. There were big piles of trash awaiting collection on every corner.
Natalie walked past boutiques, bookshops, restaurants, and bars, while the old clock in the town square tower struck six o’clock and the streetlights blinked on. Most of the businesses hadn’t reopened yet. Their storefronts were dark, with a few exceptions—hardworking merchants taking inventory post-Halloween.
Natalie checked her watch. If Morgan had left Blondie’s at around eleven P.M. on Sunday night and entered the alley at 11:44, that would leave forty-four minutes unaccounted for. On a normal day, at a leisurely pace, it was about a ten-minute walk to the alley at best. However, the size of the crowds would’ve slowed her down considerably. On the other hand, the crowds would’ve kept flowing, since the streets were closed to vehicular traffic. Only foot traffic was allowed. Therefore, there would’ve been no bothersome walk lights to wait for on Halloween’s Eve.
Bearing in mind that Morgan was seen on tape pushing her way through the crowd—in other words, fighting against the tide—Natalie checked her watch and headed slowly down Sarah Hutchins Drive toward the alley, imagining hundreds of people around her. It took her fifteen minutes. That left twenty-nine minutes unaccounted for. Even if it had taken Morgan twenty minutes to get to the alley, that would’ve left a gap of twenty-four minutes.
So what happened between Blondie’s and the alley?
Standing at the mouth of the alley, Natalie wondered what could’ve happened during those lost minutes. The dumpster was gone. They were still sorting through the garbage at the impound lot. She imagined the oblivious staff from local businesses throwing their trash away, tossing it in the top bin and leaving the alley, unaware that there was a body inside.
Natalie’s phone rang, startling her.
It was Lenny. “The surveillance tape we pulled from the front entrance of Blondie’s shows Wonder Woman, presumably Morgan Chambers, leaving the bar at ten fifty-four.”
Natalie furrowed her brow. That was worse—now they had thirty-five minutes unaccounted for.
“So now, we’re reviewing dozens of CCTV tapes from all the businesses on Sarah Hutchins Drive, following Morgan’s steps and looking for any Batmen or zombies in the crowd around her. It’s an eye-straining exercise, and we’re all pooped. But we loaded up on pizza and Red Bull and energy drinks and Snickers bars, so…”
“You’re my hero, Lenny.”
“Now I can die happy.” He hung up.
From the mouth of the alley, she looked back at Blondie’s neon sign, seven blocks away from where she stood. Across the street was Rainie’s New Age boutique, all lit up tonight. Rainie was talking on her phone at the back of the shop, bathed in a warm light. This was what normalcy looked like. Now she laughed flirtatiously and touched her hair, and Natalie wondered if she was talking to Luke and grew jealous. She had no right to be jealous, but still. She studied her own reflection in the storefront window, familiar lines of grief etched on her face. Jesus, she thought. Time to move on to the next stage—fighting spirit.
Natalie headed back the way she came. Seven blocks of prime real estate. The moon was high in the sky. The old-fashioned, wrought iron streetlamps lit the brick sidewalks. It was eerie with the crowds gone. A dampness invaded her bones. For a while, the town had transformed itself into a bewitched Halloween village.
Now it was all over.
Earlier that day, Lenny had sent her a list of bars, restaurants, and pubs on Sarah Hutchins Drive that corresponded to the ink stamps on Morgan’s hands. Now Natalie thought it was possible that Morgan had patronized another bar before making her final mad dash for the alley—that would certainly explain the thirty-five-minute gap.
She activated her phone and found two matches—a pub named Sir Martin’s and the Barkin’ Dawg Saloon. Both establishments were closed for business tonight. She tested the doors, but they were locked with the lights out.
As she approached Blondie’s, Natalie walked past the bronze statue of the founder of Burning Lake, Thomas Latham, one of the magistrates who’d condemned Abigail Stuart to death. Light from a nearby storefront fell across his stern, puritanical face. She turned to face the only other business open on this side of the street tonight and spotted an antique violin in the storefront window. The sign above the front door read BERTRAND ANTIQUITIES.
30
A little bell jangled as she opened the door and stepped inside. Natalie was greeted by a ginger cat peeping out of a Victorian baby carriage. She gave the cat a pat on its fuzzy head and looked around. She and Bella used to come in here after school to ogle the historical witchcraft section, a locked cabinet full of ancient spell kits and handmade poppet dolls. Nowadays the store was mostly stocked with colonial paintings and high-end antique furniture—valuable things that Ned Bertrand found in people’s attics, things they took for granted until he put a price on them.
The first floor of this beautiful old building was so crammed with antiques, it felt like a firetrap. Whenever she came in here as a kid, Natalie’s eyes would glaze over after staring at so much wonder—heaps of rare books, a china bowl full of eighteenth-century reading glasses, a doctor’s kit crammed with murky test tubes—treasures from all periods of history. Walking into the shop was like stepping back in time.
Twenty-eight-year-old Justin Bertrand—son of Ned, lean and tall—was fussing with something behind the register. Everybody in town knew that Justin had taken over the family business while Ned was recuperating from his stroke.
Hearing the bell jingle, Justin glanced up. “Sorry, we’re closed.” Then his eyes slowly focused. “Hey, Natalie. Long time, no see. I mean, Detective. Should I call you Detective?”
“Sure, that’d be great.” She smiled warmly at him and walked up to the counter where they kept glass jars full of old marbles—tigers, chinas, crystals, bumblebees, agates. Justin was two years behind her at school. When she was a senior, he was a skinny sophomore riding his skateboard in the courtyard during lunch period. Now he looked like one of those young adults who lived in their parents’ basement—a distracted, spiky-haired intellectual who dwelled in his own little world and didn’t change his clothes often enough.
“How’s your father?” she asked.
“As well as can be expected.” Justin sat perched on the stool behind the cash register, just like his father had done for thirty years. “His physical therapist says he’s seen some improvement lately. Anyway, I gave up smoking after Dad had his stroke. Want a piece?” He offered Natalie a stick of spearmint gum. “It’s a halfway decent substitute for cigarettes.”
“Nah, I’m good.” She smiled.
“I can’t wait for him to get better,” Justin went on. “Running the show all by yourself is a lot harder than I thought. Electricity, gas, phone, internet, advertising, part-time employees. Our profit margin’s surprisingly slim. You can have a good streak, but then all of a sudden nobody’s buying. Winter’s a slow period. Spring is better, but summer and fall are good for tourism. That’s when we do best. I hope Dad will be ready to come back to work in the spring. Although his doctors are skeptical.”
“Really? I’m sorry to hear that,” she said sympathetically.
“He can’t walk or talk yet, but he’s doing okay. I knew something was wrong when he started to shake, right here behind the register. He looked really scared, and his mouth was all crooked. They said it was a major hemorrhagic stroke. There was brain swelling and everything. Dr. Swinton took good care of him in the ER, otherwise he might not have made it. Dad was in rehab for months before they let him come home. We’ve got a day nurse now who makes sure he’s comfortable, gives him his meds, and helps him do his exercises. Just moving his fingers is exhausting for him. I can tell he’s frustrated, but they’re working every day on mobility, energy, and endurance.”
“Glad to hear it,” Natalie said. “I’m sure he’ll get there soon enough.”
“He’s on the mend,” he said optimistically.
She remembered visiting Joey in the hospital—it was horrible to see him looking so weak and thin. No more tests. No more treatments. Tears ran down the sides of his face. His body was shutting down, and yet he was awake and conscious. “Be the strength I need,” he told Natalie.
It killed her that there was nothing she could do to help him.
“I’m worried about you,” he whispered.
“Don’t worry about me, Dad. I’ll be okay. I love you.”
He closed his eyes and never opened them again.
Now Justin Bertrand picked up the cat that was lacing itself around his legs and told her, “You used to come in here after school with your friends, didn’t you? And now you’re a famous detective.”
“Oh God—famous? I hope not.” Natalie felt herself blushing. She hated it when people asked her about the Crow Killer. How did you tell people you were happy you’d shot a man, but at the same time that killing another human being had stripped your soul bare? That you had to learn to live your life all over again? That your misery was all tangled up with the death of your sister and your family’s fall from grace?
“My friend Bella and I used to head straight for the glass case full of poppet dolls and talismans. Whatever happened to them?”
He shuddered. “Oh, that. Bad karma. I got rid of the last of it after Dad had his stroke. I won’t keep old curses in my store. I refuse to sell anything that’s supposed to be haunted, not in my store.”
“So you’re superstitious?” she asked with mild amusement.
“Of ancient occult curses from Burning Lake? Hell, yes. Aren’t you?” He laughed. “We used to have a Victorian embalming table, too, but we sold that to a rich guy with peculiar tastes.”
Natalie had a flash memory of Justin as a scrawny teenager working in his dad’s store. “You gave me a marble once,” she said.
“I did?” He frowned. “I don’t remember.”
“Yeah, one day after school. Bella and I were in junior high, and you were here working with your father, and you gave us each a cat’s-eye marble. You told us they were cat’s-eyes, that’s how I remember, since I know nothing about marbles.”
“Well, I hate to break it to you, but that’s an old sales trick. I was probably flirting with you, too.” He laughed. “But the truth is we give away marbles and other inexpensive items for free. Advertising doesn’t work. Word of mouth is how people find out about us. We’re in a prime location. We get plenty of foot traffic. But the whole trick is to get people to come back. Repeat business. My dad says, if you give away something for free, most folks will develop a sense of loyalty. It’s like winking while you give the customer an extra donut … you know, baker’s dozen.”
“Is that how that works?” Natalie said.
“Yeah, unfortunately. You have to use a few tricks, or else you’re toast. Things can be good, and then wham. If the economy’s bad, it affects sales. We have to buy reserves in advance to get through the hard times. That’s why we’ve got a space in back for storage and furniture restoration. We own the second floor, too. It’s jam-packed with inventory.”
“Well, you’ve done a good job.”
He shrugged. “It’s a living. Like my dad says, we have done respectably well.” He put down the cat. “Are you here about the woman they found in the dumpster?”
She nodded. “Did the police talk to you about it
?”
“They’ve been in here a couple of times already,” he said, closing the register drawer. “Detective Labruzzo wanted any surveillance tapes we might have, but I told him my father never installed a camera. We have a burglar alarm instead.”
“Did you see Morgan that night around, say, ten or eleven o’clock?”
“No. Sorry. I closed up early. Six o’clock. Traditionally, we never stay open on Halloween, since we can’t afford to have a bunch of drunken tourists or kids on a sugar high in the shop. You know. Bull, china. Too much breakable stuff.”
Natalie nodded and said, “I noticed the violin in the window.”
“Yup.” He smiled. “That’s a fake.”
“Really?”
“A very valuable fake … made in 1895 to look like a Stradivarius.” He held up a set of keys. “You want to see it?”
“Sure.”
He walked over to the display window, unlocked the antique cherrywood cabinet, and plucked the violin and bow off its stand. “People don’t realize the value of the things in Grandma’s attic.” He turned the violin horizontally. “If you look inside through the f-holes, you can see a label glued to the back of the violin. Can you see it?”
She leaned forward and took a peek. “Yes.”
“Anything before 1850, and the label should be made of paper. Not just any paper, mind you. It’s called ‘laid paper,’ which is made from rags using a special process. The printing would’ve been done by hand with lead type. Anything after 1850, and you’ll get ‘wove paper,’ which is made of wood pulp. Also, if it’s pre-1850, the label should be the same shade of brown as the wood, with no curling around the edges. Otherwise you’re looking at a counterfeit.”
“And this one is a counterfeit?”
“A very rare counterfeit,” he said, eyes lighting up. “It’s worth a lot more than you’d think. Ironic, isn’t it? That a fake can have real value?”
She nodded toward the front of the shop. “I noticed an appraisal sign in the window. Morgan Chambers was considering selling her violin. But you said she never dropped by. So she didn’t see the violin or the sign in the window, and come in here asking for an appraisal of her violin? Not at any point between say … last Thursday and the weekend?”
The Wicked Hour Page 17
