Allen and Mildred watched as Cam, scrunching up his butt cheeks, trotted on his long shanks across the street.
“I hope he makes it,” Allen said.
“He usually does,” Mildred replied.
“Usually?”
Mildred ignored Allen's question and rattled off Cam's cell phone number. “You'll have to call twice.”
“Why's that?”
“He'll hear it ring the first time and search the whole room, usually finding it just as it quits ringing. He'll answer on the second call.”
“I'll keep that in mind.”
“Talk to ya later, Allen,” Mildred said as she walked away. “I better make sure he made it to the toilet in time.”
“Good luck.” Allen glanced up at his door and then down at Jacob's door. Where's that kid with my dog? he wondered.
On his way up to his room Allen stopped at the front desk and asked Crystal for a few more packages of coffee. She handed them to him with a smile and told him she was right next door if he needed anything else. He thanked her and went up to his room.
He tried the doorknob; it was locked. Dammit.
Allen jogged down the stairs and stuck his head into the office. “Hey, Crystal,” he asked. “Did Jacob leave my room key with you?”
“Nope,” she said. “Ain't seen him.”
“Thanks.”
Allen left the office and walked down the sidewalk to Jacob's room and knocked.
“Hey, Allen,” said Tess.
“Is Jacob here?”
“No. He said he was taking Frankie for a walk.” She leaned over and looked past Allen. “They were right out there by the picnic tables a little while ago. They were throwing the ball to Frankie.”
Allen turned and spotted Frankie's ball under one of the picnic tables. “They?”
“Jacob and Oliver.”
“He didn't happen to leave my room key, did he?”
“He sure did.” Tess turned and walked to the dresser and grabbed the key. She returned to the door and handed it to Allen. “Here ya go.”
“Jacob went into my room and got the ball?” Allen asked.
“Yes. I hope that was okay.”
“Yeah, that's fine. Did he take Oliver in there with him?”
“No. He went in before Oliver got here.”
“Okay, thanks.”
As soon as he was inside his room, Allen went directly to the side of the bed and lifted the mattress. His 9mm was lying right where he'd left it. He lowered the edge of the mattress. He looked over at his laptop, and then his eyes went to the bottle of tequila.
Good time for a nap, he thought.
He lay down on the bed and closed his eyes.
*****
A knock at the door awakened Allen. He opened his eyes and looked at the red digital numbers on the alarm clock on the nightstand. He had been asleep for about an hour.
Whoever was at the door knocked again.
“Hold on!” Allen hollered. He rolled to the edge of the bed and got up.
“It's just me!” Jacob hollered back.
Allen opened the door and Frankie ran into the room.
“Enjoy your walk?” Allen asked, scratching the dog's head.
“We played with his ball for a while,” said Jacob, “and then walked over to my friend's house.”
“Yeah, your mom told me.”
“Was she looking for me?”
“No, I was.”
“For what?”
“My key.”
“I left it with my mom.”
“I know, that's how I got in.”
“Oh yeah,” said Jacob, nodding. “I left Frankie's ball downstairs.”
“I saw it.”
“You want me to go get it?”
“No, I'll get it later.”
Jacob rocked to his side and looked past Allen. “What were ya doing?”
“Writing.”
“How come it took so long to answer the door?”
Allen shrugged. “I don't know.”
“Were you sleeping?”
“Yes.”
“I thought you said you were writing.”
“I lied.”
“My mom says you haven't written a new book in four years.”
“Did she?”
“Yeah. How do you make money if you don't write any books?”
“You're full of questions today.”
“Just curious.”
“You know what that did to the cat, don't ya?”
“What cat?”
“Never mind. I gotta get back to my writing.”
“I thought you were sleeping.”
“That too.” Allen swung the door closed in Jacob's face.
“See ya later!” Jacob hollered.
Allen sat down at the table and opened his laptop. He read down through what he'd written. When he got to the last sentence, he began typing.
A thirty-something brunette pushed a stroller through the crosswalk. Reed waited for the woman to reach the other side before giving the Cherokee a little gas. Just as the Jeep lurched forward, a long-haired boy jumped his skateboard into the crosswalk. Reed slammed on his brakes.
“Son of a bitch!” Reed grumbled to himself. “Can't you read the no skateboarding signs?” he yelled out the window.
The kid looked back over his shoulder and grinned. “No, I can't,” he shot back sarcastically. “I don't know how to read.”
Reed shook his head. “Kids.”
Allen leaned back in the chair, wove his fingers together behind his head, and reread what he'd written.
“Someone has to kill someone eventually, Frankie,” said Allen. “Why would someone commit murder in York Beach, Maine?”
Frankie barked.
“I've used that before,” said Allen. “Lust, love, loathing, or loot—the four Ls of murder.” He folded his arms across his chest and stared at the screen for a second. “Let's go with loot. But first, let's have a drink to celebrate the start of a new book.”
Frankie didn't make a sound. Allen looked back over his shoulder at the dog; he was sound asleep on the couch.
“Looks like you won't get a drink, ya party animal,” said Allen.
He got up and walked toward the bottle of tequila. As he neared the silver goodness, he tried to recall exactly how much of the booze he'd given away.
Was it three, or four? He wondered.
He unscrewed the cap and drank from the bottle. He glanced over at Frankie to see if he was watching; he wasn't. Allen took another sip and returned to the table.
Write drunk, edit sober, he thought. That's what Papa Hemingway said.
Chapter Eleven
By Wednesday afternoon Allen had written over eight thousand words, and the words were still flowing effortlessly. The book had turned into a mystery about two mob brothers who'd retired to York Beach, Maine. The brothers hadn't gotten along in years, according to a local cop who had befriended Reed Templeton.
Around three in the afternoon, Allen's cell phone rang.
“Hello?” Allen answered.
“Hey, Frankie's owner. What's up?”
“Mya?”
“Yes.”
“Hey, what are you doing?”
“Calling you.”
“Not to cancel our date, I hope.”
“Nope. What are you doing in about two hours?”
“I'm writing right now. Why? I thought it was ice cream night at the nursing home.”
“It is, but I was just informed that Betty Strong couldn't make it tonight—I guess she's out of town.”
“Um … what does that have to do with me?”
“I need a helper.”
“What are you saying?” Allen knew what she was saying, but he asked any way.
Mya giggled. “I think you know what I'm asking.”
Allen sighed. “What time are you picking me up?”
“I'll pick you up at 5:45.”
“I'll be waiting with bells on.”
�
��Bells are only for the Christmas Eve ice cream, silly.”
Mya hung up before Allen had time to respond. He glanced over at the clock. It was three thirty.
“What should I wear to an ice cream social, Frankie?”
Frankie raised his ears and opened one eye.
“You're no help.”
Allen pounded away at the keyboard for another hour and a half before jumping in the shower and getting dressed. While he waited for Mya to show, he sat back down at his laptop and read through what he'd written. He took a deep breath and exhaled. It felt good to be writing again.
A car pulled into the parking lot and Allen craned his neck to see if he could see the driver; he couldn't. The car pulled into one of the empty spots and the driver got out. It was Mya.
Allen stood. “She's here, Frankie.” He walked over to the dog and patted his back. “Jacob's gonna come up and check on you a couple times while I'm gone.” He turned and walked out the door.
He waved to Mya as he hurried along the walkway. She waved back and smiled.
Allen met Mya in the parking lot. “I'm glad you called,” he said.
“Yeah, I figured you were dying to serve ice cream to a building full of old people.”
“It's always been a dream of mine.”
The two climbed into Mya's red 2019 Chevy Volt. She stated the engine, and pulled out of the parking lot onto Long Sands Road.
“Nice car,” Allen said, as he tried to adjust his seat to get comfortable.
“Don't make fun of my car,” said Mya.
“I said it was a nice car.”
“You were being sarcastic.”
“What makes you say that?”
“Because no one likes this car.”
“Oh,” said Allen. “Yeah, it's a weird-looking little car.”
She laughed. “I got a really good deal on it. A friend of my grandmother's bought it and died three months later. The woman's husband sold it to me for five grand.”
“That's a good deal?”
“Yes, smart-ass, it's a good deal.”
“How far is this place?”
“The nursing home? About fifteen minutes.”
“We got time to swing by Betty Strong's house?”
“Why would you want to drive by her house?”
“Curiosity.”
“That's what killed the cat.”
“What cat?”
“It's just a saying. You never heard of—”
“I know it's just a saying. I said it to a kid yesterday, and he asked me, 'What cat?'”
Mya pulled into a driveway, backed into the street, and drove back the way they had come. She took a right onto York Street.
“We didn't have to drive by if it was out of the way,” Allen said.
“It's just right up here,” Mya replied. “Are you friends with Betty's son?”
“No. Why do you ask?”
“Because yesterday you asked me if I knew Benny Strong.”
“You said you didn't.”
“I don't, but I asked a woman I work with about Benny Strong, and she says he's Betty's son.”
“Okay.”
“Why are you so interested in the Strongs?”
“Because Benny sent two of his goons to my motel room the other day. One was Vinny Tubbs. The other guy was Myron Spoon. You know either one of them?”
“No, but why did he send them to see you?”
“Because they were supposed to take me with them to see Benny.”
“About what?”
“I'm not sure, but I think it has something to do with my run in with Benny's brother, Bobby.”
“The guy who collapsed at the restaurant Sunday?”
“The one and only.”
“Bobby is Benny's brother?”
“Half brother.”
“Same father?”
“No. Same mother.”
“Betty Strong?”
“Bingo.”
“What did you mean, his goons?”
“Vinny and Bobby are bad guys, Mya. Local PD says they're into prostitution, loan sharking, drugs, and who knows what else.”
“My God. Does Betty know?”
“I would imagine she knows. Her husband was doing the same thing back in Jersey.”
“Like father, like sons.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Betty seems so sweet and innocent.”
“She probably has nothing to do with the family business,” Allen allowed, “but she knows what's going on. Mob wives conveniently turn a blind eye on their hubbies' shenanigans.”
Mya hung a left onto Roaring Rock Road. “It's right up here on the left,” she said.
The speed limit slowed to twenty miles per hour in the heavily wooded neighborhood, and Mya took her foot off the gas to navigate the narrow, winding road. As she came to the foot of one of the driveways she slowed to a stop.
It was difficult to see Betty Strong's house from where they sat because of the massive cedar trees and arrowwood and rhododendron bushes.
“Drive up the driveway,” Allen instructed.
“I'm not driving up the driveway,” Mya replied.
“No one will see us. They'll be in Augusta until Saturday morning.”
Mya turned her head toward Allen. “How do you know they went to Augusta?” she asked. “I only told you they were out of town … and I know I didn't tell you when they'd be back, because I didn't know that.”
“The cop I was telling you about, he told me.”
“I see. And why did he share this information with you?”
“Because he didn't want me to worry.”
“Worry about what?”
“Retaliation from Strong for putting his brother in the hospital.”
“Are you worried about what's going to happen when he gets back on Saturday?”
“No. Bobby's not angry with me over what happened, and he says his brother was probably just being nosy.”
“How do you know Bobby's not angry with you?”
“He told me.”
“You went to the hospital to see him?”
“No. He stopped over to my motel room after he left the hospital, and we shared a pizza and some tequila.”
“You're a strange man, Allen,” said Mya. She gave the little car some gas and continued around the loop.
“Aren't you going to drive up the driveway?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because that's just dumb.”
“Dumb? How?”
“You just told me the guy was a gangster, and now you want me to drive up his driveway and snoop around. Yeah, that's not gonna happen.”
“I never said anything about snooping around.”
“No, but I don't trust you to stay in the car once I drive up that driveway.”
“You're just jealous.”
“How do you figure?” Mya took a right back onto York Street.
“Because I'm stalking someone other than you.” Allen chuckled.
“Anyone ever tell you you have some serious issues?”
“A few people.”
“Only a few?”
“A few dozen.”
“What am I getting myself into?” Mya mumbled.
“No one ever told me I wasn't a fantastic server of ice cream.”
“That remains to be seen.”
Fifteen minutes later, Mya pulled off Lewis Road onto the long driveway that led up to the Durgin Pines Nursing Home.
“Nice place,” Allen commented, as Mya drove around to the rear of the building and parked.
“It ought a be,” Mya responded. “Grammy pays enough for it.”
Allen raised his brow. “Grammy?”
Mya was a little embarrassed. “My great-grandmother.”
“You call her Grammy?”
Mya opened her door and got out of the car. “Well, what do you call your great-grandmother?”
“Dead.”
“What about your grandmother?”
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“Dead. Died before I was born.”
The couple walked toward the rear entrance of the building.
“Both of your grandmothers are deceased?” Mya asked.
“I had lost all four of my grandparents by the time I was seven years old.”
“That's terrible.”
“Oh, it gets worse.”
“I'm afraid to ask.”
“My parents were killed in an automobile accident when I was thirteen, and my wife died of breast cancer a few years ago.”
Mya stopped dead in her tracks. “Please tell me you have siblings.”
“I'm an only child.” Allen pulled open the door. “After you,” he said.
Mya impulsively threw her arms around Allen and hugged him hard.
“What's this for?” Allen asked.
“It just felt like something I should do.” She squeezed harder.
“Are you hugging me,” Allen wheezed, “or trying to pop me?”
Mya released her grip. “Sorry.”
“I guess that's why I usually keep my past to myself.” Allen waved his hand, motioning Mya to enter. “Now, let's serve some ice cream.”
The two walked through the door. Mya waved to the receptionist.
“Hi, Mya,” said the receptionist.
“Hey, B. D.,” Mya said back.
Allen smiled at the woman.
“I see you got a helper for tonight,” B. D. observed.
“Yes, I do. I guess Betty is out of town. Allen, B. D. B. D., Allen Crane.”
Allen could tell by the look on B. D.'s face that the name Allen Crane meant nothing to her. He couldn't decide if he was relieved or disappointed. “Nice to meet you,” he said.
“Nice to meet you.”
“Beedee?” Allen asked Mya, on the way down the hall.
“B. D. Like the letters.”
“What's it stand for?”
“I have no idea.” Mya made a quick right into one of the rooms. “Hi Grammy!”
Mya was right—Grammy definitely didn't look her age. If Allen had to guess, he would have said seventy-five. Grammy sat on a red and black checkered couch, in front of a large window that overlooked the parking lot, and beyond that, a forest as far as the eye could see. She was watching the evening news.
Grammy looked at her wristwatch. “Mya,” she said, “is it that time already?”
Mya crossed the room and bent down to give Grammy a hug and a kiss on the cheek. Grammy smiled at Allen over Mya's shoulder.
“Is this the young man you've been telling me all about?” Grammy asked.
The Maine Events Page 10
