The Stairwell

by M. M. Silva

  I chuckled. “There’s not a doubt in my mind. Let’s hold off on getting any evening wear until Jeff calls back. We don’t even know if we’re going to this thing, yet.”

  “Oh, we are going,” Kayla said, all bluster and certainty.

  As if on cue, my phone rang, and the Caller ID showed Jeff’s name and number. I relayed our discussion with Eileen O’Neill, and he good-naturedly said he’d check into getting tickets.

  “Sometimes it’s completely irritating, but at other times, it’s very cool having rich friends,” I relayed to Kayla. “Jeff said he should be able to get us tickets to the event.”

  “Yeah, at least he’s a good guy with money, unlike that monster Les.”

  I cocked my head. “Who?”

  “The guy I told you about—with the insurance policies and those little kids.”

  “Gotcha. Sorry, I don’t think you said his name last night.”

  She sighed and stared at the road ahead, rather than look at me. “I hope you don’t mind, but before we left today, I gave all his particulars to Doob. I asked him to find the articles on that lady’s daughter from last time to see if he could find anything incriminating about Les.”

  My jaw tightened.

  At last, she glanced over at me. “Meg, I’m sorry, but you don’t own Doob. He was glad to help. It’s the right thing to do if this asshole is as bad as I think he is. And I think he’s really, really bad.”

  I told myself to relax. She was absolutely right. Doob would help anyone, and with the whopping dollar I pay him a year, I certainly didn’t have exclusive access to his hacking. “That’s fine, Kayla. I’m just used to being the one to boss poor Doobie around. So he’s digging up info on Les. That’s cool. The guy seems more real to me now that I know his name.”

  I noticed her knuckles go white on the steering wheel. “We can just stick with calling him prick or scumbag or fucking-sicko. Whatever you want, Meg. He’s a goddamn-psycho-bumpkin, and we’ve got to stop him.”

  Taking a deep breath, I said, “I’m almost scared to ask, but do you have some type of plan? And if you do, and if it’s illegal, then don’t please don’t tell me.”

  She gave me a sly smile. “You wouldn’t perjure yourself in court for me?”

  “Kayla!” I gasped. “I don’t know what I would do. Just don’t put me in that position. Please.”

  “God, don’t piss yourself, Meagan. I do have a plan, and the first part of it definitely isn’t illegal.”

  “The second part?”

  Her lips twisted. “Well…that would involve your Uncle Larry.”

  Good grief. I don’t know precisely what Uncle Larry did as a younger man to earn a living, but I’ve heard all sorts of stories about him and the Boston mob when they had a stronghold in Southie. Whenever those accounts came up, I jammed my fingers in my ears and started screaming Christmas carols at the top of my lungs. It’s my way of keeping Uncle Lare a bright, shining star in my universe. The smart, practical me knows Larry could make some bad things happen to someone if he wanted to. And Kayla obviously knew that as well.

  “Why don’t you share the first part of the plan and leave my uncle out of it for now?”

  “I knew you’d say that. Your uncle digs me, you know.”

  “God, Kayla. You really have no shame. That’s just gross.” I stifled a shiver and stared out the window.

  “Okay, Miss Prissy Puss Pants, the first part of the plan is easy. I just need you to go talk with Alicia and tell her to dump the prick. Tell her what we suspect, show her some newspaper articles about that poor little girl, and tell her it’s pretty fucking coincidental that he’s repeating his pattern.”

  “You want me to speak with Alicia? I gather that’s the girlfriend? How did I get nominated for this?”

  “She knows me, Meagan, and so does he. I can’t talk to her without jeopardizing my job. Plus, he is probably—well, definitely—a psycho. Like the word Eileen used earlier, he’s a little off; you can see that if you spend two minutes with him. I don’t know how he even lands halfway normal women, because he’s all backwoods lout. You’re trained with all that shit, I’m not.”

  I gaped at her. “Are you serious? I’m trained in backwoods lout?”

  She arched a brow. “You aren’t?”

  “You’re something else,” I retorted with a snort. “So what happens when Mr. Backwoods Lout comes after me?”

  “Meagan, think about it. If you do it right, and convince her he’s bad news, she’ll break it off with him. She doesn’t need to explain why. She doesn’t need to betray you. And if he does find out why she’s dumping him, she could tell him someone mailed her a letter and a newspaper article anonymously.”

  “Which is exactly what we should do,” I fired back. “Why don’t we be the anonymous Good Samaritan? That would work.”

  She shrugged. “It might. But if you meet with her and say someone cared enough to hire you and have you speak with her, I think that would be more effective.”

  “Hire me? So you’re paying me for this little chat you want me to have?”

  “Don’t be dense, Meagan. You wouldn’t take it anyway.”

  “Funny. I always use that line on Doob, and when I’m the one saying it, I tend to believe it.”

  She sighed. “Fine.You need to at least call her.”

  I chuckled. “I need to? I’ll think about it, Kayla. But I really think the anonymous route is the way to go.”

  “Well, even if it is, that only solves this particular situation. He could move away and start doing it all over again. But that’s where your Uncle Larry comes in.”

  I pointed at a plaza coming up on the highway. “Pull into the liquor store, please. I am so done with this conversation.”

  “Meagan, Larry is no saint—”

  “Jingle bells, jingle bells, jingle all the way!” I screamed with fingers planted firmly in my ears.

  CHAPTER 8

  Wednesday, November 6th

  WE LEARNED THE PREVIOUS EVENING Jeff had secured tickets for the gala/ball/party, and it sounded like it was quite the process.

  “Seriously, I don’t mind spending the money at all; it’s a great cause. But from a security standpoint, it seemed a little over-the-top.”

  “What do you mean?” Kayla asked from the couch, her head supported by her propped elbow.

  “When I called, I had to go through three different people to get permission to attend. I felt like I was doing a phone interview for a job. Usually you don’t have to convince people to let you drop eight grand for their event.” He glanced over at Doob. “If you want to spring for a few more people, they said there are still tickets available.”

  “Nah, but I’ll be glad to pay for half,” Doob offered.

  Jeff shook his head. “My treat, no worries.”

  “That’s cool. In that case, I’ll write them a fat check when I get there,” Doob said with a mouthful of powdered sugar donut.

  “Enough you two,” I exclaimed. “Back to planet earth with the poor people. Jeff, obviously we owe you huge. But we’re all set, right?”

  “We are. I had to give them our four names, addresses, and our reason for wanting to attend. Had they started in with Social Security numbers or blood types, I would have bowed out,” he said good-naturedly.

  “What did you tell them about why we wanted to attend?”

  “I told them I was new to the area and wanted to get involved with the community.” He glanced toward Doob sheepishly. “I may have also mentioned I’m a lottery winner and bringing an entrepreneur friend who might be interested in donating to some of their future causes.”

  “Entrepreneur and computer hacker are fairly synonymous, right?” I teased, but Doob wasn’t smiling.

  “I’d donate whatever necessary if it would keep me out of a penguin suit,” Doob whined.

  He was in a tremendous dither about playing dress-up for an evening. But Jeff assured him he had “a guy” in Boston who could hook them both up with tuxe
dos as long as Doob knew his size. This sent Doob into a further dither, because all Doob knows for sure is that he’s male.

  It was finally agreed that Doob would head back to Boston with Kayla early tomorrow, which would allow him to go see the guy about the tux. She was going to get a little work done, and I could use Doob’s Mercedes until they got back late tomorrow night.

  So now I had to face the music, come hell or high water. Since we were in the Newport area, I was hoping for high water, but none came. Trying to hide my irritation, I hopped in Kayla’s car and watched as she punched in the address on her GPS to the consignment store called Second Thoughts we’d found on the Internet.

  “I’m having second thoughts about this whole thing,” I groaned.

  Kayla shot me a sidelong death glance. “This consignment thing was your idea, super sleuth. Suck it up. It’s going to be fun.”

  Meagan-Maloney-Mighty-Bargain-Shopper-Extraordinaire.

  About an hour later, Kayla and I had actually managed to find some pretty fabulous gowns, although I didn’t readily admit that to her. She’d landed herself a long, dark emerald, skin-tight ensemble with spaghetti straps that left zero to the imagination. It fit her like a second skin, and with Kayla’s willowy build, it was perfect.

  At her insistence, I’d decided on a red getup. Normally I view red as a color that screams look at me, and I avoid it like the plague, but somehow this red didn’t bother me. Like Kayla’s, it was also a floor-length gown, in somewhat of an empire design. There was a pretty tiny bow just under the bosom, with a strapless upper body. Along with the color red, I usually avoid anything strapless, but again, this seemed to work. Above the little bow, it kind of triangled up in several sections, in a pointy way that resembled a row of napkins at a fancy restaurant. It looked like an outline of the Rocky Mountains in a luxurious red fabric, and it had some type of built-in foundation that actually created a little bit of cleavage. It seemed a little odd, since only I could see the cleavage, due to the mountain range covering my breasts. But it was nice to actually have some cleavage, so I wasn’t complaining. The added benefit was I basically had a private little shelf within my dress. If the sandwiches were good at the gala, I could smuggle a couple out in my makeshift cleavage.

  All in all, a good find.

  Coupled with my pretty dress, I also found a great silver clutch and strappy, sparkly, silver heels that topped off the whole outfit; it was all so girly I could hardly stand it, but I was pleased that both Kayla and I found acceptable gowns for bargain basement prices.

  With that mission accomplished, I decided to get back to the task at hand, which was figuring out how Charlie died. While I could hopefully confront Malcolm at his enormous soirée on Friday night, that still gave me some time to explore some non-Malcolm options. The guy sounded like an absolute piece of shit, but I wasn’t convinced a decades-old feud resulted in Charlie’s death last week. Maybe, maybe not. But I was going to keep turning over rocks until I figured it out.

  So I needed to brainstorm. Fortunately for me, Kayla and Jeff had decided to go for a jog. It was a beautiful fall day, and a run by the ocean in the late afternoon seemed to agree with them. Doob—who barely believes in walking, let alone jogging—decided a nap would suit him just fine, and Sampson was more than happy to join him.

  Which left me alone with my thoughts, a very scary place to be at times. Grabbing a pencil and notepad, as I often do, I plopped down on a stool at Jeff’s beautiful, granite island in the kitchen. I started scribbling ideas that came to mind, however mundane those might be.

  First of all, the death could have been an accident, just as the authorities had dubbed it. Charlie could have had a legitimate fall which ended his life in an abrupt manner. But I wasn’t buying it, and several other people weren’t, either.

  I wondered if there was any chance Charlie decided to kill himself and dismissed this as quickly as I thought of it. Everything I’d heard led me to believe he was living a nice, peaceful life with his bride of many years. He had grandchildren; he was retired; he was healthy; he was enjoying his golden years. And even if I could force myself to believe he’d offed himself, why would he pick an abandoned house and fling himself down the stairs? It wasn’t even a guaranteed death. While I wasn’t an expert on suicide, my thinking was that launching one’s self down a stairwell didn’t make the top ten list.

  So okay; what was left? If it wasn’t a slip-and-fall or a suicide, there must have been something unsavory going on. Malcolm was definitely an option on the table—and I’d deal with him on Friday—but I needed to think about other alternatives. Did Charlie know something or find something or see something related to the house? Did he walk in on a squatter who pushed him down the stairs and then ran off? That was doubtful, as the police didn’t uncover any evidence of someone living in the home.

  Was it possible Charlie was looking for those coins or something else? But the house was completely empty when Jeff moved in. Wasn’t it? I couldn’t say for certain, so I circled that thought and made a note to ask Jeff about it later.

  On the flip side, was it possible Charlie had planted something in the house? But what and why? Jeff had never met him, so it’s not like Charlie was leaving a fruit basket for his arrival. And if Charlie was going to plant something, did he succeed? Or was he killed before he could leave it? And if so, was it on him when Jeff found his body?

  While I felt myself grasping at straws, that question niggled at my brain. Who could tell me what was on Charlie’s person when he was found? The police? The medical examiner? The undertaker? I decided it would be the police. My conclusion was based on my vast knowledge gleaned from CSI, NCIS, and other television shows that tidily solved their problems in an hour, minus commercials. I envied those detectives at times.

  By now, it was likely Charlie’s effects had been given to Eileen, and I simply couldn’t bring myself to bother her again just yet. But thinking about those television shows also gave me an idea—a lot of times, the arsonist hangs in the background at the scene of the fire, or the serial killer wanders outside the police tape of a discovered mass grave. If someone had killed Charlie, I wondered if they might have gone to the wake, the funeral, or the gravesite. Besides Eileen and her children, who could tell me that?

  I was thinking the sign-in book at the funeral home might be a good place to start. With any luck, Mr. or Ms. Killer would have signed in as such, and I could wrap this thing up and get back home, sans gala. That was definitely motivation to get this case solved before Friday.

  The problem was I had no idea who should or shouldn’t be paying their respects to Charlie. I would have to question the funeral home director to see if anyone was behaving out of sorts, although I’m sure the range of behavior at a wake is massive. Would the director know murder-behavior from regular funeral-sad-upset-behavior? Ugh.

  Then I wondered if anyone possibly took a picture at the gravesite? Maybe I could get one and show it to Eileen or her kids. They would have been seated close to the casket and probably didn’t notice everyone who attended.

  But a picture of attendees didn’t seem too likely; rather, it seemed completely inappropriate. Further, it seemed stupid. But sometimes stupid works out, and I guess it wouldn’t hurt to ask.

  Finally, I would have to ask Eileen and her family about the people who came to her home after the gravesite ceremony. That was typically an occasion for close friends and family, so hopefully those attendees would be easier to recall. Maybe one person would stand out—after notes were compared between Eileen and her children—who no one knew and who didn’t belong there.

  I looked at the scribbles on the paper in front of me and had created quite a mess but some semblance of a game plan. Tomorrow I would speak with Eileen about Charlie’s personal effects, the gravesite attendees, and the sign-in book. I might also try to meet with the funeral home director to glean, well…something.

  With that, my mind was tapped for ideas.

  A sudden clickin
g on the wooden steps caused me to glance up in time to see Sampson waddling into the kitchen, where he conducted his post-nap doggy stretch. His first move involved a Nike-swoosh curl with his butt to the sky, followed by a forward stretch with one leg extended out behind him. It was the same routine every single time, and it was as reliable as the sun coming up in the morning.

  Now fully limber, Sampson looked to the cabinet where we’d stashed the dog treats a couple of nights before. Quick learner. I obliged and had him go through the requisite sit, shake, and speak performance before giving him his reward. He passed with flying colors, so I gave him two.

  A few moments later, the front door flew open, with Kayla and Jeff bursting in, faces flushed and out of breath. Doob appeared seconds later, face flushed and out of breath from simply walking down the stairs.

  “Taxing nap, Doob?”

  Doob put his fingers under his chin and flicked them at me. He then walked over to the cupboard to get Sampson a treat.

  “I just gave him a couple of those,” I said in a scolding tone.

  “He had a bad dream,” Doob said and gave Sampson two more treats before I could protest any further.

  “Moira will have your ass if that dog gains so much as an ounce. You’ll be assigned to walking him all over the city if he goes back home with a gut.”

  “Speaking of, I hope my tux fits me come Friday,” Jeff said, patting his own stomach. “Thanks again for picking it up for me, Doob.”

  “Yeah. I’m counting the minutes until I get to wear the monkey suit,” Doob pouted.

  “It’ll all be worth it when you see the splash Meagan and I are going to make,” Kayla said as she grabbed a bottled water and disappeared up the stairs.

  If she only knew how prophetic those words would be.

  CHAPTER 9

  Thursday, November 7th

  AFTER DISCUSSING THE INFORMATION WE OBTAINED FROM EILEEN on Tuesday with Gus at breakfast, it was decided I would have to visit Rusty in prison. I had a sudden flashback to when I’d visited Melanie’s father, Vic, in jail before I knew he was her father. Like then, I didn’t relish the thought of visiting a complete stranger in the slammer, of all places, but it had to be done.