As they dug into the meal, Bertie told Cully about her day, starting with the mice. “He’s not as dumb as he seems if he could figure out that heavy metal music stuns mice into surrendering,” she said, in between bites of crusty bread.
“Did you ever actually listen to the lyrics of heavy metal music? I’m surprised the mice didn’t run screaming from the house,” Cully said. “Do you think he could’ve found a way to make the environmental movement pay off at least enough to buy that TV?”
“Dunno.” Bertie jumped up, retrieved her laptop from the bedroom and plugged it in to an outlet near where they were eating. “Let’s see what the going salary is for an activist these days.”
“Holy cow!” she said, almost choking on a big bite of pasta, “That can’t be.”
“What? How much does Buddy make?”
“Not him, Rowley Poke. It’s too soon after Poke’s death for Buddy’s salary to be listed, but according to the public site for The End, Rowley Poke made thirty thousand dollars a year and some change.”
“So? That’s not so much. Not enough to kill him for.”
“Exactly! So why did Buddy want to take over The End? Drew told us that it was more or less an open secret that Buddy really wanted to be in charge. What up with that? I doubt it was his altruistic nature. And thirty thou a year doesn’t give a guy enough money to buy that slab of new TV Buddy has in his living room. So where is he getting it?”
Bertie went silent for a minute.
“That locked drawer really bugs me. And there were sheds out in a field about a half mile away from the house. I ran out of time before I could get to them.”
“Hey, maybe he inherited some money; maybe he found oil on his land. Maybe he’s ripping off tractors and stuff from The End and selling them.”
“Maybe. And maybe that house sits on an energy-sucking abyss that draws all the water and electricity and propane into it and that’s why his bills are so big. Get serious.”
Cully shot her a look and Bertie fell quiet. He took another helping of pasta and slowly wound it around his fork. She felt mesmerized by the motion.
The silence between them grew, then multiplied as they finished eating. Cully stood and started putting dishes in the dishwasher.
“Would you mind finishing up, Bert? I’m going to work on my photos in the garage for the rest of the evening, if you don’t mind. I have to do something to stay awake.”
“Um, no, that’s fine,” Bertie said, but he was already headed for the door.
The encounter left Bertie feeling unsettled. She wanted to be the one who was reluctant to talk, who expressed regret at their indulgence in the wild monkey dance. What did he have to feel so put-upon about? She wasn’t the one who came to his doorstep, she was having a perfectly fine life (except for losing her job, getting bashed in the head and writing about frickin’ rich people), she didn’t …
“Aaarrrggghhh!” Bertie said to the empty apartment and went to bed.
***
Bertie got another shock when she got an eyeful of Howard the next morning at work. It settled one of the big questions she’d had about him.
She messaged Tiffany: Boop. And waited. She messaged again: Boop. And waited some more.
Boop. Boop. Boop. Boop.
Nothing.
Finally, after about an hour, Tiffany replied that she’d meet her in the bathroom.
They combed hair, washed hands, searched purses for tissues until the old biddy of the office finished up and glared at them, presumably for wasting the company’s money by going to the bathroom.
“What the hell, Bertie? Don’t keep Booping and re-Booping. I had an editor looking at my story over my shoulder. He sees Boop, Boop, Boop, on my computer screen and what do you think he thought?”
“I don’t know, what did he think?”
“I don’t know either, but it couldn’t have been good. What’s so important that it required multiple Boops?”
“Only that I know Howard is having an affair,” Bertie said.
“How did you find out? Little Miss Spy?”
“No, he’s wearing suspenders.”
Silence. “Suspenders?”
“Men don’t wear suspenders unless a woman is dressing them. Howard’s been married to wife number three long enough that I bet she doesn’t care what he wears. No, as soon as a man starts an affair, the woman wants to dress him up, and since there are so few ways to dress a man up, it usually means suspenders.”
“Yeah?” Tiffany asked.
“Oh, yeah. Suspenders are a definite sign of an affair. So is a bowtie, but that usually means a gay affair, but since Howard is wearing suspenders and we know he’s not gay, I’d say he’s having an affair with the obvious affairee: Irene Poke. Well, I’m glad we got that question answered. What did you find out at City Hall?”
“Howie-baby owes money all over the city. He’s in pretty bad financial shape.”
Bertie leaned against the sink. “So … he needs money, he’s having an affair with a rich widow, and her husband was just murdered clearing the way for the two of them to be together. And even if Howard dumps lucky Mrs. Schompe the third and gets stuck with another alimony payment, Irene Poke should be able to cover it.”
“Do you really think Howard is capable of murdering someone? I mean, c’mon, he’s such a …”
“Milquetoast?”
“What’s a milquetoast? I was going to say sneaky creep.”‘
“That, too. He might be a sneaky creep milquetoast but everyone is capable of murder, given the right incentive. Everyone.”
CHAPTER TWENTY TWO
Bertie sat at her desk and typed Irene Poke into the search engine of her computer. Several hundred hits popped up. There was the Irene Poke who invented a tie that would shock the wearer if he lit up a cigarette (presumably because the wearer wanted to quit smoking). There was the Irene Poke who was the first woman to cross the Alps with a live chicken; an Irene Poke who broke the world record for continuous hours break dancing on ice; and another Irene Poke who created the Zucchini-tini, a martini made with zucchini.
“The wonderful world of the Internet,” Bertie thought, shaking her head to get rid of the thought of the Zucchini-tini. She added “Rowley” to Irene Poke in the search engine and was given fewer choices, but more that looked promising.
The first was a story by her predecessor, Bromby Pompton, that was mostly a list of the people attending a gala. Rowley and Irene Poke were there and, Bertie noticed, so were Howard and Condressa Schompe.
“Hmmmm,” Bertie thought.
In the third choice, Bertie found a picture of Rowley Poke speaking at an End rally with Irene in the background.
“Yikes,” Bertie thought. Irene Poke was “ummm, unfortunate looking.” She had frizzy grayish blonde hair, an overbite that would’ve kept an orthodontist busy for several years, and a large schnozz roughly the shape of the dangly part of Florida on a map.
“Could Howard have murdered Rowley Poke for … this?” Bertie wondered silently. She peeked around her computer, giving Howard a searching up-and-down look. He looked up and she pulled back quickly.
A few more tries and Bertie found a story that included background on Irene. She was born Irene Kinsey to wealthy parents who’d made their money manufacturing coin machines for “adult” stores. In a private booth, you could plunk a coin in the machine and a curtain opened showing a nude girl behind glass “performing.” To keep the curtain open, coins had to be continually fed into the machine. The coin machine had revolutionized the adult entertainment business after a riot in the 1950s when a nude girl had refused to perform because she had no place to store her coins.
“Hooray for capitalism,” Bertie thought.
Irene grew up privileged, attending private schools and eventually Bryn Mawr, where she studied the evolution of glass beads in society. She was married in her 20s to the lead naked guy in “The Age of Asparagus,” an off-off-off-Broadway spoof of the sixties, and divorced three ye
ars later. Her parents had died several years ago and left her a ton of money; then she married Rowley Poke. She had no children to either marriage. “Probably a good thing to keep that nose contained to one generation,” Bertie thought.
Irene had supported her husband in his quest to make the world a greener place. Did that include letting him raid her inheritance? Bertie wondered.
“And would she let Howard raid it if they get together sooner or later?” Bertie again peered around her computer, more cautiously this time. Howard was already looking in her direction, as if he’d sensed her thoughts. She pulled back. It might be time to put Little Miss Spy into action.
Bertie looked up from her computer at the sound of laughter coming from the corridor to the elevators.
Mrs. Irene Poke was walking toward her, smiling.
Bertie froze. “What the hell?” she thought, her mind racing for an explanation. “Have I watched enough old ‘Bewitched’ reruns to conjure up people just by thinking of them?” She wanted to run, but wasn’t sure why.
As Bertie’s brain freeze melted, she noticed Dillard Johnson behind Irene Poke, both steaming toward her.
“Hello, I’m Irene Poke,” Irene Poke said, extending her hand. She was a small woman, almost dwarfish in stature, and dressed in a purple pantsuit that muddied her skin tones. But when she smiled, Bertie realized her appeal wasn’t in her looks but in the light that radiated from her eyes. With a simple “hello,” she made Bertie feel as if she was the most important person in the world.
“Bertie, I’d like to talk with you in my office,” the Big J said. He didn’t smile at her, his high-cheeked face looking cold and withdrawn when he spoke to her.
“He has an office here?” Bertie thought, following them to the elevator. It stopped on the first floor and spilled them into the lobby. Dillard opened a door that fit so snugly in the wood-paneled wall that it was practically invisible.
Waiting inside was Blythe Kees. Her beautiful silver hair hung around her aristocratic face, softened into a smile for Bertie. She was wearing a shortish silk dress in a flowered pastel print that reflected pink into her cheeks. Except for her silver-white hair, the woman looked like she was in 20s.
While Bertie recovered from the shock, the three of them took turns telling her about the charity gala they were planning to benefit The End. Blythe Kees and Irene Poke were the chairwomen and Dillard Johnson was the host and emcee.
Blah, blah blah … “it’s an important event” … “we need a lot of coverage” … blah, blah, blah, “we’re counting on you for some stories,” blah, blah, BLAH.
“What do they think? I’m going to say no?” Bertie thought. “It’s not like I have a choice.”
“And,” Blythe Kees said, smiling at her, “we’re going to sell tickets for our big yearly money-making event.”
“That’s right, I almost forgot,” Irene said. When she smiled, her nose hung down almost past her top lip. “To raise even more money, we’re sponsoring a cruise. We’re selling tickets for $200 apiece.”
“Wow, that’s some cruise,” Bertie said.
“Yes,” Dillard chimed in, “it’s to the North Pacific. To the Great Pacific Garbage Patch. You know about the Great Pacific Garbage Patch, right? It’s an area in the Pacific where ocean currents have pushed mass quantities of garbage into a several-mile-wide ‘dump,’” Dillard said. “Estimates of its mass are seven million tons.”
“And you’re offering a cruise to see it?” Bertie asked.
“Yes, isn’t it a wonderful idea?” Irene asked. “For the cost of a $200 ticket, the winner could win a $10,000 cruise.”
“To a garbage dump,” Bertie repeated, making sure she’d heard right.
“Yes, it’s an eco-adventure beyond compare,” Dillard Johnson said.
The three sat there, smiling at her, looking very pleased with themselves.
Another hour was eaten up with plans for stories that Bertie was going to write, how she was going to cover the event, and general self-congratulation.
Back at her desk, she realized she’d missed the opportunity to see how Howard reacted to Irene Poke.
But even more stressing was the thought of making a cruise to a garbage dump sound attractive.
CHAPTER TWENTY THREE
A couple of cheap plastic lawn chairs and a table from the thrift store under a tree and Bertie’s tiny backyard had become a cool retreat in the hot city. Even more so since there was a fence surrounding it and Bertie felt safe from the attacker that now stalked her dreams.
Cully – his face still black and blue but sans his potato headband – and Bling found her there after dinner. He’d been out when Bertie arrived home. She’d heard him rummaging in the refrigerator and wondered if he’d head straight out to the garage after eating,but he opened the sliding glass door and came out, holding a plate with a sandwich and a bottle of beer. He put them down on the table, and sat.
“So, what’s up?” He didn’t wait for her reply but started wolfing down the sandwich.
She told him about her day, the meeting with Blythe Kees, Irene Poke and the Big Johnson and the big fund-raising gala.
“Oh, yeah, I had some voice mail, asking me to come out to the mansion to talk to them, but I didn’t find the message until it was too late. I couldn’t have gone anyway, with my face looking like this. Too many explanations needed. What’s the mansion called?”
“Snarky Park.”
“No, that’s not right … is it?”
It would serve him right if he called it that while talking to Dillard Johnson, but they needed the money he was making freelancing so Bertie said, “No, it’s Snarles Park.”
“That’s it, Snarles Park. I guess I’m going to be shooting the party.”
“You? Why not the staff photogs?”
“I’m not going to ask. I don’t want to queer my chance for the job. I guess we’ll be working it together.”
They sat quietly for a few minutes, Cully stroking Bling’s ears. The little dog had picked up some kind of skin allergy because he’d started licking his paws continually. Cully gently turned his head away from his feet and said, “No licking, little guy.”
“Are you still in on helping me get the big story about Rowley Poke’s murder?” Bertie finally asked.
“Sure, why wouldn’t I be?”
Apparently they were going to continue ignoring their night of sex.
“I think we should go out to Buddy’s place and scope out those sheds,” Bertie said. “I can’t stop thinking about them. There’s something about them … I can’t put my finger on it, though.”
“Really, Bert? You’re not thinking of breaking in, are you?”
“No … No! Of course not. Maybe we could take a ladder with us and look in or, I don’t know, you could boost me up.”
Cully smirked at her. “Have you looked in a mirror lately? Your ‘booster’ is quite a bit bigger than it used to be. I don’t know if I can handle it.”
“Ha, ha. Let’s go to Buddy’s tonight.” She stood.
“Bert, stop for a minute. Think. He’ll probably be there. It’s a week night. Let’s wait until the weekend. Based on what you told me about his T-shirt collection, he’ll probably be out drinking. It’ll be safer.”
Bertie didn’t want to wait, she wanted to do something. And she wanted to see those sheds again and try to figure out what about them was bothering her.
The next morning her morose landlord, Grady Mudgett, was skulking around the end of the sidewalk that led to the street when she left for work. He was tall with a runner’s thin build and a healthy head of gray/white hair. He’d be good looking if it wasn’t for the scowl perpetually covering his face. She put him about seventy-five or seventy-six years old. There was no sign of a Mrs. Mudgett or any little Mudgetts.
When she’d told Cully his name, he’d laughed. “Mudgett? That sounds like a character out of a Dickens novel,” and that was how Bertie thought of him now. He was prim and prissy and she pictured hi
m with a green visor shading his eyes, and garters holding up his shirt sleeves while he hunched over a desk, working on rows and rows of tiny numbers.
“Hello, Ms. Mallowan,” Mudgett said. He was dressed in plaid Bermuda shorts, a striped soccer jersey and leather sandals that exposed his bony feet. The combination of plaid and stripes made Bertie’s head swim.
“Hi, Mr. Mudgett. Please, call me Bertie.” He didn’t ask her to call him Grady.
“All right. Bertie. I’m quite pleased with your tenancy so far. You’ve paid on time and you put the garbage can lids on nice and tight – believe it or not, there are raccoons this far into the city – but you are aware that my living quarters are right above yours, aren’t you?”
“Yes, of course. It’s a two-story house.”
“Well …” He looked away and Bertie could swear he looked embarrassed. She could almost see a flush on his cheeks.
He cleared his throat. “Well, I don’t object to you having company. You’re a healthy young girl and all, but …”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Mudgett, I should have asked you if it was all right if Cully, my friend, stayed with me for a short while. He’s been laid off and I’m helping him get back on his feet.”
“Very admirable. This damned economy, it’s hitting us all so hard. If it’s for a short while, it will be fine, just throw an extra twenty in the rent. But …”
Bertie tried to sneak a look at her watch. What the hell was he trying to say? She had to get to work.
He looked away from her. “It’s the noise at night. Not exactly noise, but …”
“Yes?”
“Could you please hold down the level of the, um, sexual comments in the middle of the night? I’m a light sleeper and easily disturbed.”
“Sexual comments? Mr. Mudgett! There’s no sex going on in my apartment!” Bertie crossed her fingers behind her back and thought “except for that once and I don’t remember saying much during it. I didn’t, did I?”
“Well, I’ve heard, oh dear …” and now he did flush, a bright ugly red that painted his cheeks scarlet. “There have been several comments about licking. ‘No licking’ I believe is what’s being said. Really, Ms. Mallo … er, Bertie, could you and your friend, Mr. Cully, I think you said his name is, please not make comments during sex? I’d really appreciate it, I need my sleep …”
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