Stalking the Dead

by E. C. Bell

  Yeah, I said I wasn’t going to lie to him, and there I was, two seconds later, quite possibly lying. But I didn’t know what to believe. I just knew that Arnie had lied to me his whole life, so I was pretty sure he was lying about his death, too.

  Pretty sure, but not one hundred percent.

  I needed to find out what happened, which meant doing some on-the-ground, talking to the living investigating. Then I’d know.

  “I’m going to the Blue Ox Inn,” I said, grabbing my purse and the car keys. “You want to come?”

  James frowned. “You want to go for a drink now?” he asked.

  Mom frowned just as fiercely. “This is not the way to move Arnie on,” she said. “You know that.”

  “We’re not going for a drink, James. And Mom, this exactly the way to move him on. If he’s lying about James—”

  “If?” James squeaked. I held up my hand for quiet.

  “I need to prove James is innocent, so that Arnie knows the truth. He needs the truth, in order to make the right decision. Doesn’t he, Mom?”

  “I suppose.”

  I turned to James. “Is that better?”

  “Yeah, I guess.”

  I turned to Mom. “Trust me,” I said. “Let me handle this my way. Everyone needs to know the truth, and I think I can get it. Once I figure out who killed Arnie, the cops won’t care about James. And then I can concentrate on moving Arnie on.”

  “Fine,” Mom said. “But remember, moving Arnie on should be your main focus.”

  It was always about the ghosts for her. But not for me.

  I grabbed James by the arm and pulled him to the door. “Let’s go.” Then I turned to my mother, who was sipping her tea. “Oh, and Mom? When I get back, we’re going to have a heart-to-heart talk.”

  “About what?”

  “About Dad.”

  I shut the door before she had a chance to answer.

  “Tell me why we’re going to this bar,” James said as the door slammed shut. “Looks to me like you need to talk to your mom.”

  “She and I can talk later,” I said, and led the way to the car. “You and I need to speak to everyone who saw Arnie on the night he died. The Blue Ox Inn was his favourite drinking hole. My guess is, one of his drinking buddies will be the one who killed him.”

  “Oh,” James said. “Oh!” Then he smiled. “Good plan!”

  “Thanks.” I tossed him the keys. “You drive.”

  Arnie:

  How Dare He Screw Up My Death!

  The blood-red door of that crappy little trailer burst open, and Marie waltzed out arm in arm with that bastard James Lavall and I had to change my plans on the fly.

  Okay, so that wasn’t quite the truth. I was so surprised to see them together, I lost my grip on that place, and boomeranged to Rosalie’s apartment.

  I stood in the middle of the roses and unicorns and blackening blood and screamed.

  That fucking Lavall. He was even screwing up my death.

  Marie:

  Blue Ox Inn, Part One

  WE HEADED TO the Blue Ox Inn, the last place I ever wanted to see again.

  Like I’d told James, that drinking establishment had always been Arnie’s bar of choice, when we were dating. Personally, I hated the place.

  I hoped that no one I’d known in my former life still worked there. And while I was certain that Arnie’s friends still hung out there—couldn’t see them changing their lives enough to actually get out of that particular divot—I was hoping we were arriving too early for even them. I didn’t need that little bit of pain.

  If all I had to deal with was staff, I hoped against hope that I’d get the answers I was seeking without having anyone rub my face in the embarrassment that was my former life.

  James maneuvered expertly down Franklin Avenue, where the traffic was still absolutely congested, and had the good sense not to say a word until we were much, much closer.

  “So,” he said, “are we getting something to eat when we get there? I’m starving.”

  “I promise, we’ll get food after we finish talking to everyone at the Blue Ox,” I said. “Let’s not eat there, though, ’kay? I don’t think I could stand it.”

  “Oh.” He thought for a moment, then shrugged. “Bad food. I get it. Where’s good?”

  “Maybe we can go to Ms. B’s again,” I said. I personally didn’t care where we went. I didn’t think I’d ever want to eat again. The whole situation had rolled so far past anything I wanted to be involved in that my stomach felt like one big horrible cramp. “You didn’t mind it, did you?”

  He shrugged again. “It was all right,” he finally said. “But maybe it would be nice to go to a steak place. Any good ones?”

  “Let me think on it,” I said. We were in sight of the Blue Ox Inn, and I was pretty sure I recognized at least three vehicles out front. “Now, let’s coordinate our questions.”

  He drove into the parking lot and parked beside a blue Ford 150 that I was fairly certain belonged to the bartender, Rich Gently.

  Rich had been an all-right guy and had saved me, a couple of times, from Arnie when he got so drunk that he forgot to act like a human being to me in front of others.

  God, I’d been an idiot.

  However, I was pretty sure that Rich would have questions for me that I didn’t want to answer. Like what I’d been doing since I escaped from Arnie’s clutches.

  If he remembered me at all. It had been a year, and I wasn’t the only idiot woman hanging with a man who treated her like crap. The Blue Ox was full of them. To the brim.

  Believe it or not, that made me feel a little bit better. If Rich didn’t remember me, I would just ask a few questions about who Arnie had been hanging with, and then get out, relatively unscathed.

  “So, what questions are we going to ask?” James asked.

  “Well, we want to know who Arnie was drinking with. Don’t we?”

  “We do.”

  “And we want to know if he fought with anyone.”

  “Right.”

  “And who he left with. Right?”

  “Right.”

  “So, do you want to do the asking?” I looked at him hopefully.

  “Don’t you know these people?” he asked, looking surprised. “It might be easier to get them to open up if they’re talking to someone they know. Right?”

  “Trust me,” I said. “It will be easier to get them to talk if it isn’t me doing the talking.”

  “But—”

  “But nothing,” I said, a little more harshly than I intended. I didn’t look at him, though. Just shook my head and grabbed the door handle. “Just ask the questions, James. Please.”

  “Will do,” he said. And then we opened the outer door to the Blue Ox Inn.

  The last time I’d been inside that place had been bad. I noticed that they’d changed the front of the bar, and distantly wondered if they’d had to do that because of Arnie and me, and our last, best, barroom brawl. We wrecked a lot of stuff that night.

  God, why was I doing this? Why did I think it was a good idea?

  “Don’t worry,” James said, and took my hand. “They won’t remember you.”

  “We can only hope,” I said, my teeth clenched. I tried smiling, but couldn’t pull it off, so I took a deep breath instead.

  Didn’t really help, but that didn’t matter. I disengaged my hand from James’s, and finally stepped inside.

  It smelled exactly the same. I hadn’t thought that was possible since they’d stopped letting anyone smoke inside forever ago, but it still smelled like cigarette smoke, beer, and blood.

  Nice.

  I stopped just inside the door, waiting for my eyes to adjust to the perennial twilight of the bar’s interior. James stepped in behind me, almost too close for comfort, and examined the room over the top of my head.

  “Where’s the bartender?” he asked.

  “I dunno,” I said. My heart started to pound when I saw two guys I thought I recognized, sitting at a t
able around the other side of the bar. Another glance, and I let out a relieved puff of air when I realized they weren’t anybody I knew. Just two guys in blue jean jackets and baseball caps, sucking beer and watching a ball game on one of the fifteen TVs dotting the bar’s walls.

  The bartender appeared. It was Rich, carrying a couple of boxes of beer. “I’ll be with you in a second,” he said, without looking at us, and then disappeared behind the bar.

  We listened to the beer bottles chime away behind the bar, and it was all I could do not to hit the door running.

  What the hell was wrong with me? I knew it was going to be hard to face these people, but why was I so afraid?

  “I’ll talk to him,” James whispered. “Don’t worry about it.”

  I thankfully stepped aside and let him take the lead.

  “So what can I get for you folks?” Rich asked.

  “I have a couple of questions for you,” James said. He leaned over the bar and smiled, as friendly as could be. I hid behind him, wishing I was anywhere but in that room.

  Rich grinned in a friendly way, but I could see that the friendly didn’t quite touch his eyes. He wiped the bar with a greasy grey cloth.

  “Ask away,” he said. “But a beer wouldn’t hurt, would it?”

  “I guess not,” James said. He pointed at one of the myriad beer spouts lining the bar, and Rich expertly pulled him a glass. Pushed it to him, and then waited until James paid.

  I noticed he didn’t ask if I wanted a drink. Wondered if he recognized me, even though I was hiding.

  “You want something?” James asked me.

  “No,” I whispered.

  “Marie, is that you?” Rich asked. “You can’t be off Slippery Nipples. It hasn’t been that long.”

  Dammit.

  I stepped out from behind James, and sighed.

  “Hi, Rich,” I said. “How’s life?”

  “It’s been better,” Rich said. “How you doin’?”

  “I’m doing well, thanks.” Realized I sounded stiff, angry, and knew it would not help our investigation one iota. “I’m good,” I said again, trying to sound relaxed and just here for a friendly chat.

  “How’s Edmonton?”

  Wonderful. He knew I’d moved to Edmonton.

  “Great,” I said. “Fantastic. Can you answer a couple of questions, Rich?”

  “I guess they’d be about Arnie.”

  I thought I heard a hint of judgment, but Rich’s face looked absolutely neutral, which could mean anything. He was a good bartender. “Am I right?” he asked.

  “Yeah,” I said. “He was here the night before last, wasn’t he?”

  He didn’t answer. Just looked James up and down. “So who’re you?”

  James sucked the foam off his beer and smiled. “The name’s James Lavall. You going to answer her questions?”

  “Huh.” Rich wiped the bar again, greasy swirls everywhere. “So, you the one they’re saying killed Arnie?”

  Crap.

  “He didn’t kill anybody,” I said. My voice had gone iron hard and I didn’t care. “Just answer the questions, Rich.”

  “I would really like to tell you everything about that night,” Rich said.

  “That would be nice,” I said.

  “But I can’t,” he replied. “I wasn’t working.”

  “You could have told us that off the top,” James said. I was glad to notice that his voice had edged over to iron hard, too.

  “Ah, but then you wouldn’t have bought a beer, now would you?” Rich said, and laughed.

  “Who was working?” I asked.

  “Alex Randall,” Rich said. “You don’t know him.”

  Thank God.

  “When’s he working?”

  “Tonight. Come around nine.”

  “Will do.” James pushed the half-finished beer across the milky swirls on the bar. “And, just so you know, the beer? Tastes skunky.”

  He turned on his heel and grabbed my hand, pulling me out of the bar and into the flat, hot afternoon sun. As the doors slapped shut, I was sure I could hear Rich laughing.

  God, I hated this town.

  “Let’s go home,” I said. “I don’t think I can handle any more reunions.”

  “No problem,” James said, and wheeled the car out into the never-ending river of traffic.

  HE WAS GOOD about everything, and didn’t ask me any questions as we headed home. But that didn’t stop me from opening my big mouth.

  “I hate that place,” I muttered. “I used to go there—with Arnie.”

  “I got that,” James said. “What’s a Slippery Nipple?”

  “A drink. A shooter,” I mumbled. “Sambuca and Baileys.”

  “That sounds a bit sweet for your tastes,” James said. “I thought you liked Scotch.”

  “I do, now.” I shook my head. “This is the way it’s going to be, you know. Wherever we go, and whoever we talk to. If they know me, they’ll act like that.” I turned to him. “Can’t we just go? I don’t want to talk to any more of them. Don’t want to go through my history—”

  “In front of me?” He shrugged as I nodded my head vigorously. “Don’t worry about it,” he said. “It wasn’t that bad.”

  “But—”

  “But nothing,” James said. “We have to stay. At least, I do. The police told me to stick around. So I’m here until whoever killed Arnie is caught. I wouldn’t mind using this time to get me off. So, we need to talk to everyone who knew what happened to Arnie that night. My guess is, they are going to know you, too. If you can’t handle this, I’ll go to the bar tonight, myself.”

  The last thing in the world I wanted to do was let James out there in my old life, asking questions on his own.

  “No,” I said. “I’ll go with you.”

  “Great,” he said. “So, let’s go to your mom’s and get something to eat.”

  “Right.” I started, guiltily. “I said I’d take you out for a steak. I’m sorry—”

  “No worries,” James said. “Your mom’s place will be fine.”

  “And I’ll cook when we get there,” I said. “I promise.”

  I hoped Mom had something I could actually make for James. In other words, I hoped she had some sandwich fixings, because I wasn’t really that good with the whole “cook a meal” thing.

  Letting James down again. Of course.

  THE COP CAR had taken up all the space in Mom’s tiny driveway.

  “Dammit,” I muttered. “What are they doing here?”

  “I’m guessing they want to talk to me again,” James said. “Or maybe you, this time.”

  He threw the car door open before I had a chance to answer, and strode to the trailer. Knocked twice, and was met by Officer Tyler.

  “Good to see you both,” he said. “I’m afraid I’m going to need you at the station, Mr. Lavall. Just to clear up a few timeline issues we have.”

  “And what timeline issues would those be?” I asked.

  I heard a screen door slap shut behind me, and guessed that Mom’s neighbours were out on their deck, watching the entertainment.

  Enjoy the show, assholes.

  “We just have a couple of questions,” Officer Tyler said. “He’ll be back soon. I promise.”

  I knew just how good Jackson Tyler’s promises were.

  “I’m calling a lawyer,” I said. “This BS has to stop. He hasn’t done anything wrong.”

  “If he hasn’t done anything wrong, why would he need a lawyer?” Officer Tyler asked. I could see that the idea of lawyers being involved ticked him off, so I pushed.

  “It’s for his protection,” I said. “You guys don’t have the best track record when dealing with anyone connected with the Jenners. Know what I mean?”

  “I don’t think I need a lawyer,” James said.

  “See?” Tyler snapped. “He doesn’t need a lawyer.”

  “Not yet,” James said. I raised my eyebrows, incredulously, ready to fight him about this. He didn’t know who he w
as dealing with. But James shook his head. “I’ll let you know if and when.”

  “All right,” I said. Then I glared at Tyler. “You bringing him back?”

  “I’ll let you know,” Tyler said, and took James by the arm, leading him to the patrol car. Put him in the back seat and slammed the door.

  As he drove away, I turned and snapped, “Show’s over!” to Mom’s snoopy neighbours.

  Arnie:

  What the Hell Happened?

  I IMMEDIATELY TRIED to fling myself to old lady Jenner’s trailer, but nothing happened. Absolutely nothing at all.

  I figured it was because I was worked up, and tried to calm my chi or whatever those yoga chicks on TV say, before I tried again. Still nothing, so I screamed bloody murder for a while. Which, of course, did nothing except bring my frigging headache back.

  “Idiot!” I screamed, as the pain in my head went from a one to a nine point nine in about three seconds flat. “You should be able to figure this out!”

  Fucking Roy could figure out how to move around. Even his stupid bitch wife, Laurel, could. Why couldn’t I?

  Thinking that thought took me back to the bad old days when I lived with my parents.

  “Deal with him,” Mom would say to Dad.

  “Is he being an idiot?” Dad would ask.

  Mom never answered. She just sighed, deep, and then poured herself a drink as Dad tuned me in for whatever infraction they thought I’d done.

  Came home a half hour late? Got a tuning. Forgot to pick up milk? Got tuned in. The time I threw a chair through the front window. You would not believe the tuning in I got. I missed nearly a month of football because of that. Oh yeah, and school. I thought the old man was going to kill me. And all my mother did was sip her drink and sigh, shaking her head.

  “Why can’t you be good?” she’d say. “All you have to do is be good. You know it.”

  “Because he’s an idiot!” my father would call from the front room that smelled of cigarettes and stale beer. “You know that as well as I do, Myrtle. All he understands is the stick.”

  “I think you just need to try a little harder,” Mom said after one of the tuning in sessions. My back was bad, so she dabbed Ozenol ointment on it. She said it minimized the scarring, but it didn’t work. “You’re not an idiot. I think your father’s wrong. Come on, boy, just prove him wrong!”