Maybe tomorrow, I'd pull out my lawn chair and nap in the sun. So what if it wasn't considered healthy? Neither was freezing and crying. But I'd been doing plenty of those things lately.
I was just settling in for the final two hours of the drive when my cell phone chirped. I picked it up and glanced at the display. It was Crystal. I set the phone aside, planning to call her back on my next stop.
Seconds later, the phone chirped a second time. Again, it was Crystal. This couldn't be good. I answered. "Hello?"
Her voice was unsteady as she blurted out, "Edgar Kreezak's dead."
My stomach sank. "What?"
"Dead," she said. "In the river."
"You're kidding," I said. "What happened?"
"He fell through the ice," Crystal said. "Steve and Anthony... "
"Oh my God. Don't tell me they found him?"
Her voice quavered. "Can you come back home?"
Chapter 69
An hour later, I was on the road again, heading back the way I'd come. Seeking more information, I called Steve.
"You talk to mom?" he asked.
"Yeah, that's why I'm calling. I heard you found Edgar." I swallowed. "Dead."
"Dude's dead alright," Steve said. "But no one will be finding him 'til the thaw."
I shuddered. "What do you mean?"
"Dude fell through the ice, right there in his own shanty."
"Oh my God," I said. "You saw it happen?"
"No, no," Steve said. "We been checking, you know, every day like you asked."
"Yeah?"
"So today, we go down to his shanty, and all his stuff's back. The heater, the blender, all that shit you talked about. But the dude's not there. So we sit to wait, figure maybe he ran out for junk food or something."
"Yeah?"
"And we get to looking at the hole."
"The one in his shanty?"
"Yeah," Steve said. "It's fuckin' huge. So Anthony's leaning over and giving it a good look, and suddenly he says, 'Hey, check this out.’ So I get up and take a look. And this Hawaiian thing's sitting there under the slush."
"A lei?"
"Yeah," Steve said. "This green plastic thing. And we get to noticing some gunk around the edge of the hole, like maybe someone gutted a fish or something and threw the guts back in."
I gulped. "I'm not sure I want to hear this."
"So Anthony says to me, 'Hey, those look kinda like hand-prints around the edges, maybe some scratch marks too."
"Around the hole?"
"Yeah," Steve said. "But we're thinking, no way, it can't be what we're thinking. But we figure what the hell, we should tell someone, just in case. So we call the police, and they come out, take a look, and call in some tech guys."
"What'd they say?"
"Well, first we think it's good, because they decide it is fish guts, just like we thought. But then, they take a sample of those things that look like handprints."
"And?"
"And then they boot us out of the shanty, run the stuff back to the lab. They don't tell us dick."
"So maybe it is just fish guts," I said. "Maybe Edgar's fine."
"No, no," Steve said. "So we get all pissed, and figure we got a right to know. So we go down to the station and catch that police guy that's always coming into the coffee shop."
"Officer Jolly?"
"Yeah, him," Steve said. "And so he pulls us aside and tells us the blood was human, Edgar's type and everything. He says they figure the guy hung on as long as he could, and then slipped under, probably tore up his hands going down."
The scenario Steve described made my heart ache. Edgar wasn't the first person that year to fall through the ice. It happened more times than I'd care to consider.
Every once in a while, a lucky person survived, thanks to the quick thinking of their companions. But Edgar fished alone, and drank too much. It was too terrible to imagine. I pulled the Mustang to the side of the highway to regroup.
"You there?" Steve asked.
"Yeah. Just pulling over." I wiped my eyes. "Mom sounded pretty shook up."
"Oh yeah," Steve said. "First that reporter, and now Edgar? She's all freaked out."
Disconnecting the call, my thoughts turned to Edgar, and I felt an ache in my chest. Accident or not, his death seemed an odd coincidence.
After napping at a rest station along the way, I didn't reach the coffee shop until late the next morning. I eased the Mustang into the alley and faltered out of the vehicle.
Inside the coffee shop, Darren was slurping his latest mocha. "Hey," he said when he saw me, "I don't mean to be rude or nothin', but you look like shit."
"Here's an idea," I snapped. "Tell me something I don't know. I know I look like shit. I always look like shit these days. With everything gone to hell, how would I not look like shit?"
Darren took a step backward. "Gee," he said, "what's gotten into you?"
"What's not gotten into me?" I said. "And here's a question. You're all from jail. Yet here you are, picketing us. How in the hell are you supposed to account for your high moral standing when you're ex-cons, for God's sake?"
Darren scratched his chin. "Now, lemme see here," he said. "I know the answer to this. Scruffy said we're supposed to say – What was it? Oh yeah. – We're supposed to say that as those who have fallen, we understand that witchcraft is the path to wickedness."
Darren gave a self-satisfied smile. "I was hopin' someone would test me on that."
I stared at him. "You've got to be kidding."
"Nope." He picked up his sign. "Well, I better get back to work." With that, he headed out the door.
I found Crystal in the book room, standing at the window, watching the picketers parade past.
"How's it going?" I asked.
She shrugged, not turning to face me. "Been better."
"Any new developments?"
"Officer Jolly just left," she said. "Said the police don't believe there's a connection between Edgar and Lucy." Crystal leaned her forehead against the window. "So I guess that's good."
"Why don't they think they're connected?" I asked.
"Too different," Crystal said.
"I bet it's all over the news, huh?"
"You have no idea," she said. "We've had satellite trucks here all morning. Channel Thirteen's coming back at five."
"Why here?" I asked.
"Because Edgar was our biggest champion," Crystal said. "Now, with him gone, everyone wants to know what we're gonna do." She glanced my way. "I figured you could handle that part of it."
"Sure," I said.
Again, she turned to look out the window. "Don't you hate it?" she said. "Worrying about a stupid law when a good person, someone who tried to help us, is lying dead in that river?"
I gave a small shudder. "Yeah, I do hate it. More than you know."
Upstairs in my apartment, I sank onto my sofa. I understood why Crystal wanted me back. It was a lot for one person to deal with. Even with two people, it was overwhelming. I leaned back and closed my eyes, wondering how things could get any worse.
I woke to the sound of pounding on my door. "Selena!" Crystal called. "You coming down?"
I sat up, confused to find myself in Riverside. And then, like a tidal wave, it all came back to me, Edgar's death, the long drive, the interview at five. Crystal pounded again. "Channel Thirteen's here," she called. "You coming?"
I bolted upright. "Be down in a minute!" I called through the door. I jumped off the sofa and ran into the bathroom, where I splashed some cold water on my face and changed my shirt.
I dashed downstairs. The reporter, a middle-aged man with a well-groomed moustache, was waiting. With him was Ritchie, the Channel Thirteen cameraman who'd worked with Lucy Larimar. I steeled myself for the worst.
"Sorry I'm late," I told them.
"You're fine," the reporter said. "The live shot's at six. We've got a while yet." He thrust out his hand. "Chuck Monroe."
"Selena Moon," I said, shaking his han
d.
"I figured we'd chat a minute first, get some background," he said, leafing through his reporter's notepad. "We've already talked to Harold Scrufton, but we'll need your side too."
This wasn't what I expected. "You say you're from Channel Thirteen?" I asked.
Chuck pointed to the big '13' on his microphone. "Yup. On time, and on the job."
I said nothing, awaiting the ambush.
"Hey," Chuck said with a warm smile. "You nervous? Don't be. Just a routine interview."
Ritchie tapped Chuck on the shoulder and pulled him aside. In hushed tones, they conferred in the corner. I saw Chuck glance my way a couple times as Ritchie talked.
A minute later, Ritchie dashed outside. Chuck returned to where I stood. "Ritchie went for a battery." He lowered his voice. "But he told me what happened last time, says Lucy did quite the hack-job. For what it's worth, I'm sorry. So is Ritchie. He said he felt terrible."
"Then why didn't he say something?"
"Lucy could be–" Chuck let out a breath. "–I guess the nicest word is difficult." He held up his hand. "Now I know it's rotten to speak ill of the dead, but I've gotta tell you, Lucy's style of reporting didn't earn her any points at the station."
"Then why'd they keep her on?"
"They weren't planning to," he said. "You didn't hear it from me, but her contract was up next month. They weren't going to renew it."
I recalled Lucy's Tarot reading. "By any chance, do you know if she had a boyfriend?"
"Hard to say," Chuck said. "She claimed she did, but she wouldn't give a name. Acted like it was a big secret. We all figured he was married. Or maybe some imaginary boyfriend. Like I told you, Lucy was troubled."
Ritchie returned with the battery, and we got down to business. I gave Chuck some background information on the fortune-telling law, and we taped a quick interview inside the store.
From the corner of my eye, I noticed the picketers still going strong, an hour beyond their normal quitting time. Parading with the picketers was Gary from the comic store. His sign advertised free comic Wednesdays.
Harold Scrufton was also there, parading back and forth with the rest. Gabriel and his companions were putting on a good show too. I didn't see Darren though. I took a closer look. I didn't see a lot of the regular jailbirds, especially the more friendly ones.
Was Scruffy starting a second shift? Whoever they were, they looked a lot more hostile than the regular crew.
"What we'll do next," Chuck said as I handed back the wireless microphone, "is head outside for the live shot. We're the lead story."
Shaking off my misgivings, I followed Chuck and Ritchie outside. Ritchie set up the camera. He held up his fingers, counting off, "And we're on in three, two, one."
Chapter 70
Five hours later, Crystal and I sat in her apartment along with Steve and Anthony, waiting for the eleven o'clock news.
"What makes you so sure they'll run it again?" Crystal asked.
"Oh, they'll run it alright," I said. "Probably as the top story."
I was right. The segment opened with Chuck Monroe interviewing Scruffy, who came off as unhinged when he quoted the line about witchcraft being the path to wickedness. Score one point for us.
The segment cut to me in the store, explaining we offered nothing more than mild entertainment for people tired of pub-crawling or ice fishing. Score another point for us.
The segment panned to the picketers, parading past the camera – one group led by Scruffy, the other by Gabriel. Without warning, Scruffy dropped to the ground, going into convulsions. He pointed an accusatory finger at Gabriel and shrieked "Demon! Demon!" Scruffy shrieked again, this time hollering, "I'm on fire! Fire! He's burning me alive! Fire!"
The camera angle shifted, looking for Gabriel's reaction. At first there was none, and then, out of camera-range, the handle of a sign caught Gabriel on the back of the head. Gabriel fell forward, landing on top of Scruffy, who was still screaming.
Gabriel looked up, momentarily confused, as if wondering how Scruffy ended up beneath him. Gabriel tried to pull himself up, but another jailbird pounced, pushing Gabriel back down.
The camera cut to me, watching the commotion in open-mouthed horror. The camera panned back to the scuffle, zooming in for a close-up of Gabriel. His hands encircled Scruffy's neck. Over the sounds of scuffling, Gabriel bellowed, "I'll boil your innards alive, you poisonous half-wit!"
The camera panned to another jailbird, poised to hit Gabriel with the butt of his sign. Suddenly, I appeared in the shot, jumping on the jailbird before he could strike. The jailbird swung wildly, hitting me in the side of the head with the sign's handle.
A close-up caught my stunned reaction. The jailbird swung again. I ducked. I grabbed a sign from the nearest person and struck back, catching the jailbird in the groin. The jailbird stumbled toward the camera. The camera shook wildly, momentarily focused on the sky before returning to the fray.
The camera panned to me, using the sign to swat at the jailbird, now curled up in a fetal position. Slowly, the camera zoomed in, focusing on the sign's message, "Say Yes to Tolerance."
I flicked off the television.
"What happened out there?" Steve asked. "Who the hell were those guys?"
"Which ones?" I asked.
"The three guys who attacked."
I rubbed the side of my face. It hurt like hell. "I don't know," I said. "Never saw them before."
"None of them?"
"None except Scruffy," I said.
"We'll find 'em," Steve said.
"Good luck," I said. "The guys ran off in all the confusion."
"What about the guy you were whaling on with that sign?" Anthony asked.
"He ran off too," I said. "I chased him a couple of blocks, but–" I shrugged, letting the sentence trail off.
"He outran you?" Anthony asked.
"No," I mumbled. "I slipped."
Steve looked at my feet. "Your shoes?"
I looked down, giving my shoes a once-over. The salt from the slushy sidewalks had taken its toll. The brown loafers were stained frosty white around the soles. The shoes weren't just useless anymore. They were ugly too.
"Yeah," I said. "I really need to go shopping."
"What about that Scruffy guy?" Anthony asked. "Did the police throw his ass back in jail?"
"That's the worst part," I said. "You saw that segment. Scruffy doesn't attack anyone. All he does is claim to be on fire. They can't jail him for that."
"Son-of-a-bitch," Steve said. "He wasn't arrested?"
"Nope," I said. "Claimed he didn't even know the other guys. They just showed up out of the blue, Scruffy said."
"And the police believe him?" Steve asked.
"Of course not," I said. "But there's no proof. What could they do?"
Returning to my apartment, I ran a hot bath and peeled off my soiled clothes. In the pocket of my jeans, I found the phone messages Crystal had given me after the commotion. I looked them over. I didn't want to return any of the calls, or the visits either.
Bishop had stopped by less than ten minutes after the story had aired. Five minutes after that, he was joined by Conrad, who had also seen the live broadcast. By then, I was at the police station, filling out a report on the whole sordid affair.
According to Crystal, both men wanted to know how I was. Neither was happy to see the other. Both men wanted to wait. Neither was allowed to.
Crystal, showing more restraint than I'd ever imagined, had shooed both of them out, telling them I had enough on my mind without either of them adding to the chaos.
The hot bath was the highlight of my day. Given how badly the day had gone, that wasn't saying much. Still, I was thankful for the warmth and for the peace. When the water cooled, I got out, toweled myself off, and crawled into bed. I was sleep before my head hit the pillow.
When I woke, it was daylight. I made my way to the bathroom mirror and cringed to see a bluish-green bruise snaked across my jaw line. I told
myself I was lucky. The bruise would fade, but at least I was alive. That was more than Edgar could say.
I dressed and headed downstairs. From the book room window, I saw the picketers still going strong. Scanning the faces, I searched for the jailbirds that had caused all the trouble. But all that remained were the regulars from both sides. Scruffy was nowhere to be seen.
The rag-tag group looked subdued. Even Darren seemed to have lost his spunk. Gabriel, whose face looked a lot worse than mine, paraded past with a grim determination I found admirable. And irritating.
I wandered to the coffee bar, where I found Crystal, who handed me another stack of messages. I'd turned off my cell phone, but there was no turning off the phone at the store. This had to stop. I turned on my cell phone and considered who to call first. Better start with the easy one.
Conrad answered on the first ring. "I saw you on the news," he said. "So tell me, how are you doing?"
"I'm okay," I said. "Thanks for the flowers." I laughed. "Your note cracked me up."
"Go get 'em, champ?" he said. "I'm glad it made you smile."
"I'm no champ though," I said. "I'm pretty sure I lost that round."
"You're no loser by any standards," he said. "Tell me, are you free for dinner tonight? I bet some of that artichoke dip would make you feel better."
"Thanks," I said. "But food is the last thing on my mind these days."
His voice was sympathetic. "Your jaw, huh? Do the police have any leads?"
"Not yet."
"Tell you what," Conrad said. "I'm taking you out to dinner Saturday. And I won't take no for an answer."
"Really that's not necessary."
"Trust me," he said. "A night out will do you good. I've been there, remember?"
I smiled in spite of myself. "You're a hard person to say 'no' to."
"I'll swing by at six," he said. "We'll go for a stroll, have dinner, see if we can get you to smile again."
Disconnecting the call, I frowned. That was the easy one. Bracing myself, I dialed Bishop's number. Like Conrad, he answered on the first ring.
Illegal Fortunes Page 28
