Saint Patrick's Day - The Gordonston Ladies Dog Walking Club Part III: A Dark Comedy Cozy Mystery With A Twist

by Duncan Whitehead

  She heard someone in her room, someone who opened the curtains fully, allowing the sunlight to flood her room. It was her nurse, the kind nurse who had fed her soup the night before.

  “Good morning. It’s early I know. I will be back with some juice and something you can eat. Happy St. Patrick’s Day.”

  Yes dear, thank you. Happy St. Patrick’s Day to you also. I am sorry you are working and that you are going to miss the parade. I regret not ever going to one. They seem like so much fun. My son Steven…

  The nurse had already left. She hadn’t heard the undistinguishable and garbled sounds coming from Heidi’s mouth.

  What of Betty? Poor Betty...she should have been kinder to her, and she wished she could tell her how sorry she was. She wanted to tell Betty that the car was hers, to take anything from the house, and that she was the best friend Heidi ever had. And Fuchsl? What would become of him? The dog she had named after his dog. She did not care about the room. It was all fake, from the Luger that hadn’t killed her three years previously to the flags, movie reels, and medals. All those items were purchased from collectors and auction houses during her madness; it was all lies and make-believe. She had never been to Berlin, she hadn’t been to any Olympics, and she hadn’t sat with anyone in the VIP area. She’d even gotten the year wrong, so corrupted was her mind, that easily-checked facts had been ignored by her delusions.

  Her madness was finally cured, she knew that now. She knew who she was. Who she really was. It had taken eighty years and a stroke for her brain to finally rid itself of the delusions. Her delusions had led her to pursue a man who had done nothing wrong; Elliott Miller was innocent, he was a good man, he was…one of her people. If only she could sit up. Write a note, do something.

  Heidi took one last breath, and as she drifted towards death. As she died, alone, paralyzed, and confused, as her heart finally stopped beating and her organs shut down, she could hear her father’s loving voice once again, whispering gently into her ear. She heard him telling her the old folk tales, known and loved by children throughout Austria, loved by her brother and her sister, passed down from generation to generation. Tales of witches, castles, and of boys lost in the Bavarian woods…and of course, the dragons…

  Chapter 21

  One Month before St. Patrick’s Day

  Rio de Janeiro, Brazil

  Doug Partridge was suffering, and like it always was, his suffering was wholly self-inflicted. Once again, he had drank too much, smoked too much, and not slept enough. His head was throbbing and he felt nauseous. His mouth tasted like stale cigarettes and alcohol. He looked at his watch and saw that it was already three in the afternoon. He was relieved. At least he still had his Rolex and the previous evenings ‘guest’ hadn’t removed it from his wrist as he slept. He shifted his bloodshot and bleary eyes and saw that his wallet was still on his bedside table. He couldn’t remember if he had paid her or not. If he hadn’t, he was sure he would see her again, as the girls always knew where to find him.

  Sunlight flooded his apartment. He really needed to get around to putting up some blinds or curtains. He curled over and thought about sleeping some more. Instead, he rose naked from his bed and headed to the bathroom. He hoped today that there would be hot water coming out of the showerhead, but he was so hung over, maybe a cold shower would do him good.

  After showering, he made his way into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator. All it contained was a bottle of water. He took a swig from it and placed the plastic bottle back it back into the poorly stocked cooler. He yawned, and then proceeded to dress himself.

  The apartment was barely even an apartment; it was a one-bedroom efficiency, with simple amenities and sparsely furnished. Eight stories up, the only window looked down onto a courtyard. Ten stories upwards, a peak of sky formed the shaft of light that informed him it was daytime. It was a dismal place. But for now, and the past six months, it was home.

  Once dressed, Doug exited his apartment and headed to the elevator, which he took to the ground floor of his building. He passed the doorman, who also acted as caretaker and nodded towards him as he stepped through the iron security gate and onto the bustling street.

  “Bom Dia,” said the doorman, who Doug remembered was called Carlos or Juan. He could never remember, “Or should I say boa tarde?”

  “Morning or afternoon, neither is particularly good,” replied Doug.

  As he exited the covered courtyard of his apartment building, the mid-afternoon heat hit him immediately. He was dehydrated and hungry. He needed a drink and a sandwich. On the corner of the avenue was a small bar, a bar he frequented often and usually on days like this, when he was hung over but in need of more drink. He ordered a beer, a Brahma, lit a cigarette, and drank the bottle in less than half a minute. He ordered another, which he drank a little more slowly, paid for his drinks, and then headed towards the promenade.

  Living in Rio, as he had done for the past six months, had its advantages. Doug had money, plenty of money, and money bought him alcohol and women. He despised the heat though; it was a different kind of heat than Savannah’s. While Savannah was humid, the heat in Rio was burning. He didn’t sweat, he burned in Brazil. His bar of choice was named, The Balcony; it was located along the promenade in Copacabana, about a quarter of a mile from his apartment. He spent more time there than he did in his dingy room, and it was to there he was headed, after his quick fix me up. He intended to drink all day, hire a prostitute for the night, and then inevitably sleep again until three the following day. He would continue the cycle as he had done for the past six months, and for as long as he could continue it. This was his life now, but he knew it was only a matter of time before they found him, or got close enough that would warrant him leaving, forcing him to assume yet another identity and head somewhere else. Sooner or later, he would run out of false passports, fake identities, money, and the will to keep on running but that was a long way off. Right now, as he arrived at The Balcony, all he could think about, all he wanted was another drink.

  Though Doug spoke Portuguese well, the bartenders, waiters and waitresses spoke English, as this bar was primarily designed for tourists. And, of course, they all knew Doug.

  “You are a glutton for punishment, Chris,” said Pedro as he entered the bar. Pedro was one of the many bartenders who knew Doug well, or as well as anyone could know a man who assumed multiple identities, “Your liver must be exhausted.”

  The Balcony had no door, and as such, the inside of the establishment opened onto the promenade where the restaurant and bar extended further, with tables and chairs placed outside under a white canopy, increasing the capacity of the normally crowded bar.

  “Just get me a brahma and a whiskey chaser,” smiled Doug, “I don’t need any sermons, thank you. I think I’m beyond saving.” Pedro obliged and Doug drank the whiskey immediately before raising the bottle of beer to his mouth. It was early, and apart from Doug, there were just three other patrons at the bar. Outside, under the canopy where food was being served, it was equally deserted, with only two tables containing diners. Despite being known as a ‘seedy bar’ populated by prostitutes, drug dealers, and sex tourists, The Balcony also served food, good food; the combined menu included Brazilian food as well as dishes from Germany, England, and America. In Doug’s opinion, The Balcony served some of the best food in Rio.

  Doug’s rumbling stomach reminded him that he hadn’t eaten yet, and he made his way outside of the bar. He found a seat at one of the empty tables under the canopy, and a few seconds later, his waiter appeared.

  “Hello Chris, how are you?” asked the waiter. He was an older man, one of the oldest waiters employed by the bar.

  “I’m fine, Santiago,” replied Doug as he lit a cigarette, “You know me, I’m always fine.”

  “May I interest you in a bottle of wine to accompany the steak that I know you are going to order?” asked Santiago, now speaking in Spanish. “I can recommend a fine Argentinian wine--a Luigi Bosca. A littl
e expensive but worth the extra few reais.”

  ”You know my habits and routine very well. A long time ago, that would have been dangerous. Yes please, steak, wine, and another whiskey,” answered Doug in Spanish.

  “Of course,” replied Santiago.

  Though his Portuguese was good, Doug’s Spanish was even better and he enjoyed talking with Santiago. The practice helped to keep him up with the language, especially since Doug had no idea which country would be his next home. It was prudent that he keep his language skills well-honed, and as Santiago was an Argentine, it was also good for him to speak his mother-tongue once in a while.

  Santiago always recommended the same bottle of wine, and Doug always drank it. Santiago had explained, a few months earlier, how he had once worked in one of the finest restaurants in Buenos Aires, a place named La Casa Verde. There, according to Santiago, the meat was cooked to perfection and the wine selection was unbelievable. Rows and rows of the finest Argentine wines filled the racks that adorned the walls. Many times, Santiago had told Doug he would have loved the place, in fact many foreigners had often dined there. It was gone now, though. Demolished and replaced with a fast food restaurant after the owner had died of a heart attack. But the memories of the place still lived on in Santiago’s mind, memories of his youth, memories of a life now long since evaporated with the passing of time.

  Santiago returned to the table with Doug’s wine and told him his steak, though not as good as an Argentine steak of course, would be ready in five minutes. Doug thanked him and lit yet another cigarette.

  “Those things will kill you one day,” said Santiago, “You need to quit, Chris,”

  “I doubt cigarettes will be what eventually kills me,” replied Doug.

  Santiago smiled. He enjoyed talking with Chris; he was a good tipper, he was popular with all the staff, and of course, he was very popular with the girls who plied their nocturnal trade at The Balcony once the sun went down.

  “Oh, by the way, I nearly forgot. Your friend told me that your meal was on him this afternoon, and that he would cover all your drinks and anything else you consumed today.”

  Doug stared at Santiago and suddenly, despite the alcohol he had drunk and his hangover, he was fully alert.

  “What friend?” he asked, his tone serious and his face stern.

  Santiago was surprised at the sudden change in his favorite customer. Chris was usually relaxed and easy-going, but he suddenly seemed like a different person, cautious, alert, on edge even, and slightly intimidating.

  “Him,” replied Santiago, pointing towards one of the three occupied tables. The table in question was the one in the far corner of the canopied dining area that spread onto the promenade, but still remained inside the official boundaries of The Balcony. “He told me that, when you arrived, he would pay for everything. I thought he was someone you knew.”

  Doug Partridge stared at the man, who appeared to be reading a newspaper. Doug could see that the paper was the Washington Post and he did not recognize the man. Doug, whose observation skills were well-honed, analyzed the man’s hands and guessed that his new ‘friend’ was old, probably in his seventies. He was dressed in a white flannel suit, his hair was grey, and Doug could see that he had a slightly receding hairline. Though Doug could still not see his face, he could make out his height even despite the fact he was seated. The man lowered his newspaper and smiled directly at Doug.

  “How long has he been here?” Doug asked Santiago, his gaze still fixed on the stranger who remained staring at Doug, and still smiling.

  “About an hour,” replied Santiago, who was confused by the situation.

  “Has he been here before?” asked Doug.

  “Yes, he has been taking breakfast here for a week now. I believe he is staying at the Copacabana Palace.”

  Doug knew the hotel well; it was only 500 yards from The Balcony. It was a very expensive hotel, and considered to be the best in Rio, as well as one of the most luxurious in the world.

  “I assumed he was your friend. Every morning he asks about you, ‘his good friend Chris,’ he says. Sometimes, he is here at night. I think that maybe you could be sometimes too drunk to notice him. But he is here, before you arrive and late in the evening.”

  Doug stared at the man, his face showing no emotion. His eyes fixed on the stranger, who in turn, returned the stare. However, the stranger continued to smile.

  “Santiago, I am going to dine with my friend,” said Doug eventually.

  Santiago nodded that he understood, and told Doug he would deliver his food to the man’s table. Doug rose from his seat, and taking his bottle of wine and glass with him, approached the stranger’s table. As Doug drew close to his table, Peter Ferguson stood politely and indicated with his hand for Doug to sit down.

  “So, at last we meet. I have read and heard a lot about you,” said Ferguson. “You have been a hard man to track down. I came close when you were in Budapest but missed you by a few days, in Hamburg by a few hours, and in Bangkok by mere minutes. But here we are, finally. How are you Doug? You seem to be having fun, if the ladies are anything to go by. You know you are smoking a lot…too much. Those cigarettes are bad for your health. You know that?”

  Doug knew immediately the man in front of him was from the Organization. Who he was, Doug did not know, but he was important. He was one of the higher-ups, Doug could tell.

  “Tell me,” said Doug calmly, “What is stopping me from smashing this bottle,” he indicated towards the bottle of Luigi Bosca, “Jabbing it into your neck several times and then disappearing again, leaving you here to bleed to death?”

  Ferguson smiled again. “You wouldn’t do that, Doug. Not if you want to see your daughter again…alive that is. We don’t usually hurt children, but in your case, I might make an exception. She is with your late wife’s parents if I am not mistaken. Lovely couple. They are doing a good job raising young Katie.”

  Doug felt himself flush with anger, but he controlled his reaction. The Organization knew everything, had people everywhere, and he had no doubt that they had been watching Veronica’s parents’ home, just waiting for the moment when Doug would return. That was just one of the reasons he hadn’t.

  “What do you want?” asked Doug. “You have already killed my wife and made the world think that I am a murderer. If you’re going to kill me then fine, just do it and let’s get it over with. I am getting tired of all this. All this running and hiding. I did what you people asked. I carried out my contracts, and I did whatever the Director told me to do.” Doug took a large swig of wine and then poured himself another glass. He then offered the drink to Ferguson, who thanked Doug as he pushed his glass towards the younger man. Doug dutifully poured Ferguson a glass, and as he did, Santiago arrived at the table with Doug’s meal. Doug ordered a second bottle of Luigi Bosca, and Santiago nodded and left the men alone as he went to fetch a second bottle of the Argentine wine.

  “Yes Doug, you did everything we asked. But you messed up. They found Tom Hudd’s body, and we didn’t kill your wife. That was your fault. You also put a very close friend of mine in danger. It was him who warned you, the Director that is. He had a soft spot for you for some reason. I don’t. But he saw something in you. And he liked your family.”

  Doug stared at Ferguson, a look of surprise on his face as he took another drink of his wine, drinking a full glass as if it was water. “He liked my family? He never met them. He never saw my family. How could he like me? We never even met.”

  Ferguson did not respond to Doug’s questions, but instead raised his glass to take a drink, but before he did, he proposed a toast. “To the Director, may he rest in peace,” Doug did not return the toast; instead he lit another cigarette and poured himself another glass of wine.

  “You do know that it was Deripaska’s father who killed Veronica? He found you. Which created a big problem for us. Admittedly, we had been compromised, so we were partly to blame, but you should have been there for her. It wasn’t
on us that you left your family unprotected, that was your choice. No one would have linked you to Hudd. No one. But you panicked. We didn’t kill your wife. We would have killed you. But not her,” said Ferguson, “We would have protected her, but we were too busy worried about where you were.”

  Doug stared hard and long at Ferguson. He glanced at the bottle of wine on the table and then back at Ferguson, his look menacing. But Ferguson was right. He should never have left Savannah. The note he had received from the Director had panicked him, but he should have stayed, or at least stayed close by. Now he had the FBI, the police, Interpol and the Organization looking for him. Labeled a wife-killer and wanted for the murder of Tom Hudd, he had even once been accused of being Hudd’s lover. He had read that in the newspaper and admittedly it had made him smile, but that story had quickly been replaced with the supposed facts; that Doug Partridge had first killed Tom Hudd, burying his body in the park, and then killed his wife later, enraged by their affair.

  “So, what do you want?” Doug knew that the man who sat opposite him wouldn’t give away much information, wouldn’t ever answer questions about the Director, and certainly wouldn’t tell Doug his name. So, Doug didn’t ask; he knew it was pointless.

  “I am offering you a chance to redeem yourself,” replied Ferguson, “the Organization is in disarray. We have cut down our operations. Many contractors have been let go, so to speak,”

  “You mean you killed them all. Like you planned to kill me.”

  Peter Fergusson didn’t reply to Doug’s accusation, even though it was true. “Let’s just say you are the only one we can reach,” he said as took a sip of his wine. “We do, though, have a situation, a situation we need your help with. And, to coin a phrase, it really is an offer that you can’t refuse.” Ferguson smiled.