Savage Summer

by Ruth Bainbridge

“Can I ask you about this cabal?”

  “You can ask, but I’m not going to say much.”

  “Because you still don’t know who I am,” I surmised.

  “Exactly. But if you want to know, I put up a blog. I post it under an assumed identity.”

  “And the name of this would be?”

  “Would be for you to find out. You could be recording this. I don’t want to be connected. Certainly not by my own admission. I’ll be happy to go through these photos for you, but it’ll take a while.”

  “I can narrow it down for you. It would have to be at least a year and a half ago.”

  “That helps.”

  “Good,” I said, standing up. Taking a pen out of my pocket, I began writing my number down.

  “I already got your number if that’s what you’re doing,” he said, smiling. “Never give someone your phone without expecting them to look.”

  Now he was giving me rules.

  “Thanks for the advice, but I’ll bet you don’t know my email.”

  “You got me there.”

  “Here,” I said, handing it to him. “Please let me know what you’ve found. I’m most interested in knowing if she was seen with anyone. Might help locate her. Do you have any idea of how long it’ll take?”

  “A couple hours or a couple of days, who knows?”

  Exactly, who the hell knows anything?

 

  CHAPTER 39

  I hung out in Wizzy for a while. Buying a t-shirt that proclaimed “I Got Wizzed” for Mike, I wondered how she and Candy were progressing on the passport front. It was strange how the euphemism that the world was a scary place had come true. Self-fulfilling prophesy? Something to consider on those nights you can’t sleep.

  I headed back to The Abyssinian. I didn’t believe in missing meals, especially when they were good enough to be called cuisine. I showered and changed—you couldn’t be too fastidious for this place. I half expected them to ask me to turn my jacket inside so they could check for loose threads. If there were any found, I had no doubt that I’d be sent packing.

  While the Chandlers were as delightfully verbose as ever, I checked out of the dinner show. I wasn’t in the mood to watch happy couples trip the light fantastic. I was being spiteful because I lacked the right partner, but that was how it went in my world.

  I checked for messages, seeing two. One was from an A. Blanchard. I still didn’t know his first name, but the first initial gave me a clue. The other from my buddy Wolfie. I’d have a go at Crazy first.

  “Hello, Mr. Blanchard. Just returning your call,” I said, sprawling back onto the mattress. Nestling in, I was making myself comfortable.

  “You take me for a fool?”

  It wasn’t the response I’d been looking for. I was immediately jarred into a torso-raising position. Why couldn’t things ever go smoothly?

  “Not sure what that means, Mr. Blanchard.”

  “It means you lied. Ruth Kramer, indeed! You know who she really is. She’s the fiancée you were accused of killing.”

  Why did people always mix up the facts? Being tarred and feathered in the local papers wasn’t the same as the police officially charging you with a crime.

  “I was never accused, Mr. Blanchard. And, no, I don’t think you’re stupid. I was just trying to find out who did murder the woman I loved. Is that so difficult to understand?”

  “I expect not, but under these circumstances, it leads to speculation as to what the truth is.”

  “I apologize. This is the truth.”

  “And the private investigator business?”

  “Truth.”

  “I don’t see a website. No listings in Creston. That is where you’re from,” he retorted.

  “It’s because I just got into this profession. I’m working on my second case, and this isn’t it. This is a personal vendetta. I want to know who butchered Ruth.” There was a pause. I was getting through, or thought I was. I dipped my other foot into the water. “Did you find any pictures of her? Do you know who she was meeting here?”

  “I found lots of pictures. Most were from December and January. Not last year, but the previous. Her father comes here too.”

  December and January. She had time off from school and told me she was spending it with her family. Maybe she was.

  “And was her father with her?”

  “Nope. Daddy wasn’t there.”

  “Who was? Do you know? Can you send me the photos?”

  “I could, but I don’t trust ya. Only one person in the world I trust, and it ain’t you.”

  “Look, Mr. Blanchard. I’m sorry about the deception. I don’t know why I lied. I just thought …”

  “That I was crazy. That’s my nickname, you know. Nobody believes me, but then maybe you do. You would if you were one of them.”

  We were back to that.

  “What is your first name?”

  “Aleister,” he answered. No comment here.

  “Al, I’m only trying to find out who killed Ruthie.”

  “If you’re not one of them, you’ll go down before they will.”

  “You think this mysterious group killed her? Why?”

  “To keep secrets. For fun. Or just because. You want more?” he answered.

  I was tired of playing along with this guy’s paranoia.

  “No, I only want those photos.”

  “I’ll have to think about that. Long and hard,” he snorted before hanging up.

  God, I was so screwed. Hoping to cheer up, I punched in my friend’s number. He answered on the first ring.

  “Hey, Wolfie.”

  “Bad news, Savage. Don’t suppose you heard.”

  “No, I sure didn’t.” I moved to the couch for this one. If I passed out, I wanted to be sitting up. “What’s up?”

  “Amy Weissman’s been abducted.”

  “What?” I shot, springing to my feet. This could not be happening.

  “Hank?”

  “We think so.”

  “But I thought he was in jail.”

  “No, not since yesterday morning. With a first time offense …”

  “But the child pornography that you found.”

  “His lawyer said it was planted, and goddamn if I don’t agree. There were no fingerprints on those CDs. None. You know anyone that wears gloves for viewing their private collection of smut?”

  Fuck!

  “So they let him out?”

  “Yup. Judge set bail and he went home. Amy was snatched that afternoon—from her backyard. And coincidentally, Wallace has disappeared.”

  Double fuck!

  “So you put an Amber alert out on her … and him.”

  “Yes, we’re actively looking and not twiddling our thumbs, as you seem to be implying. And Wallace was released over my strenuous objections, but that evidence … it didn’t wash.”

  “Christ, this is worse than bad, Wolfie. The Weissmans must be going nuts right about now.”

  “Yes, they are. I’ve spoken with them both, several times. It’s absolutely the worst part of my job. Well, I just thought you’d want to know.”

  “Yeah, thanks. Keep me posted.”

  My head was swimming, my stomach in knots. I mean, what the hell? I hit speed dial. There was one more call to place. When the call slid into voicemail, I said my piece.

  “Mike, you were right. Wallace was after Amy—and he got her.”

 

  CHAPTER 40

  I rose, neither bright nor happy. Breakfasting with the Chandlers, I asked if they’d ever stayed in Room 311. After all, that room was why I came. The couple hadn’t, but Miriam was friendly with someone who had.

  “I think that Hathaway woman stayed there. I remember visiting her for brunch. What do you need to know?”

  “What it looked like before the renovation.”

  “That’s difficult to answer, since I don’t know what it looks like now.”

>   “Would you mind coming up after you finish and having a look?”

  “I suppose I could.”

  Miriam and Percy did make the pilgrimage. I stood to the side as she pointed to furniture, giving her best estimate as to where the pieces had been located before the rearrangement. She did say that most of it was new.

  “But what about the headboard?” I pulled out the picture of Mike. What was painted there?”

  She scrutinized the photo, taking my request seriously.

  “I’m sorry, Curtis. I really don’t know.”

  “Could it have been a bird?” I pressed. I hoped it would trigger her memory so that she could confirm what Sophia told me.

  “Who told you it was a bird?” Percival asked.

  “No one,” I responded. Why I was being deceptive, I didn’t know. Look where it got me with Blanchard. “It was a guess. The next guess would have been an animal and then a seascape.”

  “It could have been any of the things you mentioned,” Miriam answered. “Sorry.”

  Miriam returned my phone to me. I wished them well and started to pack. I needed to be out in a couple of hours. A rattling in the hallway caught my attention. It was a maid. What’s the saying? Carpe housekeeper?

  “Say, I was wondering if you could help me,”

  “You need towels?” the dark-haired woman asked. Cherubic, her long tresses were gathered in a bun. From the way she chopped her words, it was clear that her first language wasn’t English. I pressed ahead.

  “No,” I replied, displaying the photo of Mike again. “Do you know what was on here?” I asked pointing to the painting on the headboard. “It was in the room I’m staying—311.”

  She thought a moment, squeezing her cheeks together before puffing them out. A eureka moment passed over her features.

  “A bird,” she exclaimed, her arms mimicking the flying motion of wings.

  “Excellent, but what kind of a bird?”

  She shook her head forcefully. The well was dry. I took my cell back, thanking her profusely before returning to my room. While she couldn’t answer all my questions, she’d at least validated what Sophia had said.

  Once inside my temporary digs, my phone went off. It was Mike. This wasn’t going to be pretty.

  “You fucking moron!” she started, but then I’d been expecting worse. “I told you he was after Amy! I fucking told you!”

  “Yes, you did.”

  “And I told you that the police were nunchucks! I told you! And they let him go and now Amy’s gone!”

  “Well, technically, the judge let him go. The police objected, but there were no fingerprints on those CDs. It pointed to the evidence being planted.”

  “I didn’t have that much time, did I? At least I tried, which is more than you did!”

  “How’s Candy doing? Did you get her passport back?”

  “Fuck you!” she screamed before she hung up. It was the Mike I’d grown to love and I did not blame her one bit. The little girl being snatched was devastating.

  I went into the bathroom, doing a last check. I found no more of my possessions littering the shelves, so I did a quick search of the drawers and closets. They were Savage-free. With two minutes to spare, I grabbed the handle of my suitcase and loped down to the front desk.

  “Hey, Sandra. I’m checking out. What’s the damage?” I teased.

  “Damage? Oh, you mean ‘bill’? It’s been taken care of.”

  Did the surprises never cease?

  “By who?”

  “Sophia,” she responded before walking away.

  Okay, ratchet up the surprises into the realm of shock. Was I that good? Evidently, size really doesn’t matter.

  I piled into my rental, tipping the attendant mightily. Why not? I was off the hook for hundreds of dollars. I strapped myself in just as the phone rang. Thinking it might be Blanchard, I answered immediately.

  “Hello, Mr. Savage. You must have enjoyed The Abyssinian. Why else stay an extra night?”

  Dr. Shadows was back. And how did everyone know what I do? Was it being simulcast on some website?

  “Whatever,” I sneered. “I only answered because I thought you were someone else. And this place was another dry hole. If you have something to say, go ahead because this is the last call I’m taking from you.”

  “I doubt that because I have something worth your while. And that hole you believe is dry; it’s not. There’s plenty to drink if you know the right places.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes, really. You see, you think it is because you’re relying on bad information. You’ve got to be careful who you listen to.”

  “Oh, but I can trust you.”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, then tell me what it is that I have wrong?”

  “Ruthie’s favorite Greek character.”

  “But I already know that. It’s Demeter.”

  “No, you only think you know.”

  “Are you saying what I think you’re saying?”

  “Yes, Mr. Savage. Becca lied.”

  * * *