by T. W. Emory
Trouble in Rooster Paradise
A Gunnar Nilson Mystery
T.W. Emory
Seattle, WA
Coffeetown Press
PO Box 70515
Seattle, WA 98127
For more information go to: www.coffeetownpress.com
www.twemoryauthor.com
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Cover Illustrations by T.W. Emory
Cover design by Sabrina Sun
Trouble in Rooster Paradise
Copyright © 2015 by T.W. Emory
ISBN: 978-1-60381-996-1 (Trade Paper)
ISBN: 978-1-60381-997-8 (eBook)
Library of Congress Control Number: 2015932881
Produced in the United States of America
To My Folks
***
I’d like to thank my publishers Catherine and Jennifer for their input and support.
***
Chapter 1
An assisted living home in Everett, Washington
Monday, June 2, 2003
“Well, you’re a welcome improvement,” I told the pretty young woman standing at the threshold of my open door.
“Excuse me?” she asked.
“You’re not wearing scrubs yet, but you’re looking in on me, and you’ve got that concerned caregiver face worn by all the staff. So, I gather it’s you who’s replacing Amazon Sally.”
“Amazon Sally? Oh, you mean Sally Jennings.”
“Uh-huh. A big Amazon of a girl. Her height reminded me of a tall waitress I knew back when telephones were black and a call cost a nickel.” I turned my wheelchair to face my visitor.
“I didn’t get a chance to meet Sally, but yes, I’ll be taking over for her, starting tomorrow.” My cheery caregiver entered the room and came over on a sleek pair of legs with cute dimpled knees that brought back memories of a girl I once knew—one who liked to dance to music with a heartbeat.
The new girl was standing in front of my wheelchair now, so I had to glance up to see her shrewd eyes and moving lips.
“I’ll be working here for the summer. I’m not on duty yet, but I wanted to pop by and meet everyone.” I detected a hint of community college in her voice. “My name is Kirsti Liddell, Mr. Nilson.”
“Nice to meet you, Kirsti. And please, call me Gunnar.” We shook hands.
Kirsti Liddell wore a light blue blouse, red twill shorts, and tennis shoes. She was on the tall side of short, had big blue eyes, blonde hair cut in a pageboy, and a pert little bust that didn’t jounce as she moved about. I placed her age at about twenty.
“I understand you’ll be with us until your broken leg mends,” she said in a dulcet tone.
“Right,” I muttered. “You might say I found out the hard way that it’s high time to pay someone else to clean my gutters.”
Kirsti gave me a broad smile. Her airy, nimble movements provided a stark contrast to the sumo wrestler clunkiness of her predecessor. And whereas Amazon Sally had reeked of salve and her breath of far too many cigarettes, Kirsti’s scent was vanilla and jasmine. In my day, Big Sal was what we called a B-girl. Kirsti would have rated a hubba-hubba.
Kirsti and I got better acquainted in the next couple of days. She was a nail-biter who favored multicolored ankle socks. By the third day I’d sized her up as one of those terminal romantics, the type who have more than five senses, hear tunes we don’t, and view ordinary events as headline news. By the close of her first week, she was remembering to call me Gunnar and I was calling her Blue Eyes. By the second week of June, she was electrified to find out what I used to do for a living.
“Why you’ve been holding out on me! Mrs. Johnson says that years ago you were a private investigator in Seattle.”
“That biddy’s the one who’s the snoop.”
“It must have been exciting.”
“That was donkey’s years back.”
“What?”
“A long time ago. Long before Seattle became the current land of Oz.”
“You mean the Emerald City?”
“Yeah, whatever.”
“I’ll bet you’ve faced danger.”
It was her doe-in-the-crosshairs eyes that got me yammering. “Well, I suppose I’ve seen my share of mean streets. Sure. And I’ve been in more than one place where staring wasn’t just impolite, but hazardous to your health.”
“I’d love to hear all about it. You’ll have to tell me.”
After that Kirsti regularly quizzed me about my private eye days each time she came to the room. Her grillings reminded me of an ex-landlady of mine who fancied herself a playwright hunting up background material.
With big eyes made even bigger, Kirsti asked, “Did you ever find a missing person? Or deal with a murder case? Did you ever have to … you know, kill anyone?”
“Well, I wasn’t exactly Peter Gunn, but—”
“Who?”
“Skip it.”
A few times she came by after her day ended and we talked for half an hour or so. I was glad to oblige. She was far easier on the eyes than most of the natives at Finecare. Plus, frankly, I was flattered by the attention. Granted, it was the attention a granddaughter might show her granddad, but still, it had been ages since an attractive young female had shown me any kind of interest. And I appreciated it. So much so, that at Kirsti’s behest I began jotting down some of my recollections in a tablet—just a few words or phrases really, enough to remind me of a person, place, or thing. She got me prying into the undusted rooms of my mind. I was sweeping out memories from way back to just after the Second World War. Some were a hoot to recall, while others, well ….
By the third week of our acquaintance, she asked if she could visit on a Sunday to pick my brain.
“Don’t you have a social life, Blue Eyes?”
“Don’t you want a social life, Gunnar?”
I couldn’t argue with her there.
“During our brief visits you’ve told me bits and pieces about your detective days, but I’ve been thinking that if we got together on a Sunday, maybe you’d be okay with telling me about one of your cases from start to finish. I mean, if you think you’re up to it. Talking with me for several hours, that is ….”
I made a dismissive wave with my hand. “Trading in ill winds as I did, talking was a big part of my business, Blue Eyes. And despite what some of the keepers here might think, I’m still no slouch at it.” I gave her a level stare and smiled. “I can assure you, my ability to talk isn’t the issue. It’ll be your ability to listen.”
“That’s awesome. And besides, Gunnar, if it makes you feel any better, I’m being a little bit selfish. Who knows? With your permission, of course, I might be able to transform your memories into an extra credit paper when I return to school. You know, human interest, that sort of thing.”
I told her she had my permission. “I’ll even sign an official release form if you need me to,” I said with a chuckle. And since she assured me the drive into Everett was a quick one for her, I was persuaded the extra visit would be no real imposition.
Come Sunday the 22nd, I refused to go the string-tie route, but I did wear a new flannel shirt. She said she’d come by around mid-morning. My note tablet sat on my lap. I kept up a steady rat-a-tat-tat with my fingers on the old Sucrets tin in my pants pocket that held my stash of cloves. I’d already sucked on five since abo
ut 8:00 a.m.
The corridor still smelled of assembly line pancakes when Kirsti finally showed up. She stood in the doorway, tote bag in hand and arms akimbo. I received a merry little look and a sorry-I’m-late. I countered with a nonchalant expression and an I-wasn’t-going-anywhere-anyway. She wore a blue drawstring skirt that hugged her flanks and a white tank top that made her breasts look unusually abrupt.
“You’re wearing sandals,” I said as she went around behind me. “You paint your toes.”
“It’s nice out,” she said. “And I sure do.”
The distant sound of rattling dishes was dying down as she wheeled me through the corridor. My bumpy ride over the gravel and flagstone walk finally ended when we reached the outside courtyard.
She made chirping glad sounds as she parked my chariot and then planted herself on the wood bench facing me. Showing me her tote bag, she said, “Since you told me you like them, I made you a couple of pastrami sandwiches on rye for when you get hungry later.”
Deeply touched doesn’t begin to describe how that made me feel.
“I hope you don’t mind, but I’d like to tape our conversation,” she said, slamming a fresh cassette into the recorder she’d taken from the bag. “Just try to ignore the microphone and please be as candid as possible.”
I smiled and fetched another clove.
“I’m not squeamish,” she said, “and you should know by now I’m no prude.”
“It’s not as if I worked in a slaughterhouse, Blue Eyes.”
She smiled, but her bright eyes narrowed. “Come on, Gunnar. You know what I mean. You started to tell me something the other day but then you shut right up. I saw the sparkle in your eyes. You said something about a dead body that led you into rooster paradise. I want you to tell me about that.”
I looked from her to the mic she held in her hand.
“Like, what did you mean about the rooster thing?” she asked.
“You’re positive you’re not a prude?”
“For sure.”
“A couple of ground rules,” I said solemnly. “First off, I’m gonna need to take an occasional pee break.”
“I’ll wheel you over to the men’s room whenever you say so.”
“And second, I’m pretty sure I’ll be all talked out at some point. So, figure on me having to finish this story in another installment. Maybe two.”
“I think I can work with that,” she said good-naturedly.
“Keep in mind that when I was young, a woman who smoked and wore pedal pushers was liberated, and if you spoke of ‘feminism’ you meant soft, ladylike, and sometimes sexy.”
“Uh-huh.”
“And Blue Eyes, you have to understand I’ll be taking us back a ways to when being correct politically had to do with how you cast your ballot and not how you spoke.”
“I’m with you.”
I sighed.
“Kind of funny that it’s June, because what I’m about to tell you happened during one week in June, back in 1950. Telephones then weren’t like they are now, with all their beeps, hums, and tunes. Not hardly. No, most of them had a bell sound that was harsh and shrill. A call late at night, for instance—well, it was like a fireman’s summons.”
“Uh-huh,” she said, clicking on the mic. “I’m all set.”
I wasn’t sure I was. But what the heck.
Chapter 2
Seattle, Washington
Wednesday evening, June 7, 1950
My widowed landlady was an ex-fan dancer who wriggled and shimmied with the best of them. An exceptional talent, she always told me. Just past fifty, she was still a good-looking woman with a lithe pair of legs and most of her figure holding up. She was usually amiable and often on the flirtatious side. However, she regularly battled insomnia, and when she finally did drop off, there was blue hell to pay if she was yanked from slumberland. So at 11:30 p.m., when the walls began banging and the floors started thumping at my end of the boardinghouse, I sprang out of bed and pulled on my pants.
When the thumping reached my door, I opened it. Mrs. Berger stood there in a reddish-brown blanket looking like a frazzle-haired Geronimo at war council.
“Gunnar, if I don’t get my sleep, what do I lose?” she asked, in a tone suggesting I’d better know the right answer.
“You lose your joy in life, Mrs. Berger.”
“And when I lose my joy in life, what do those around me lose?” She was trembling, but not from cold.
“They also lose their joy.”
I’d passed her test. A note with a hand attached to it poked out of the blanket.
“Cops want you,” she growled.
I watched as the blanket-swathed form flounced down the hallway with just a hint of its onetime shimmy. I looked at the address scratched in pencil. Her handwriting was barely legible under normal conditions. What I saw resembled Sanskrit. Fortunately I’d grown up deciphering my grandfather’s scrawl.
A light shimmered off the hardwood below the door across the hall. Mrs. Berger’s thumping had awakened Walter Pangborn. His door opened.
“I couldn’t help but overhear,” Walter whispered. “Mind if I accompany you?”
“Come on.”
My Longines said 11:35 when I got under the wheel of my car. I was the original owner of a ’39 Chevy Coupe that had waited for me up on blocks till I returned from the war. The Chevy turned over as Walter hopped in next to me. He covered the right side of his face with a slouch hat with the practiced ease of an actor donning a familiar costume. Every piece of his outer ensemble was the color of a Hershey bar.
We headed for Ballard Avenue. Fifteenth Avenue and Market Street had robbed it of its commercial status during the Depression and then the war. Ballard Avenue had become a depressed neighborhood of thrift shops, taverns, cheap hotels and vacancies. It took us five minutes to get there.
A familiar white Lincoln-Zephyr approached as we neared our destination. The driver, clearly illuminated in the light of a street lamp, smiled and waved. Either she took me for a cop or recognized Walter. She was a local madam known as “Big Red,” cheeks rosy with her usual rainbow rouge and decked out in a flamboyant, low-cut dress of the same color. Ballard was Seattle’s Brooklyn, and Ballard Avenue was its tenderloin district.
I parked my Chevy thirty feet from a prowl car and an ambulance. Beams of light quivered in a passageway between two buildings. A small huddle of men examined a lumpy pile on the ground. Some distance beyond them, more flashlights bobbed and swayed as a search party spread out.
One of the uniformed cops spotted us and tapped the arm of a man lighting a cigarette. Detective Sergeant Frank Milland flagged me over with the first two fingers of his left hand. I approached and was met by expressions ranging from hostile to indifferent. Walter followed but held back a ways.
“Nice of you to join our little cotillion,” Milland said, looking at and past me, “but who invited the freak show?”
“I invited him. And don’t call him a freak.”
Milland made an animal noise of acceptance. “Just as long as he keeps his distance. The stiff had your card. Take a look-see and tell us who we’re looking at.”
I stepped into the circle of men hovered over the body. During the war, I’d seen more than my share of the dead—enough to become inured and detached. But one of the things that continued to jangle my nerves was seeing the corpse of someone I’d visited with just the day before.
This was a nerve-jangler.
In combat, bodies are strewn about like damaged puppets with their strings cut. Sometimes a face looks at peace with its surroundings. The face on the body at my feet gave me a gut-tightening twinge. The strings had been cut, but the face didn’t look at all peaceful.
“What’s the verdict, Gunnar? Anyone you know?” Milland demanded.
“Yeah. But we’d met only once. Last night.” I glanced at my Longines. It said 12:01. “Well, it’s Thursday now, so make that Tuesday night when I met her.”
Blood had run down
the wall of the building, marking the trail the body had made from its standing position to the pavement where it initially landed. A path of blood led farther into the alley where the body now lay. I took two cloves from my shirt pocket and slipped them in my mouth, sawing them in half with my teeth. I could see Walter flipping up the collar of his overcoat as he moved in closer, looking like a homogenized version of the Shadow and Phantom of the Opera.
Milland exhaled smoke and said, “So, you say you met this gal on Tuesday night. Tell us what else you know.”
I had a fair idea as to when to begin. My tongue played with pieces of clove as my mind struggled with the who, what and why particulars that didn’t make a whole lot of sense in the here and now.
“I can’t help but notice you’re a bit jittery. Are you in some kind of trouble?” I’d asked.
“Well, it’s certainly none of your business, buster,” the slim brunette had said sharply.
That first little tête-à-tête of ours took place in the Ballard Theatre after the second feature had ended. But I’d first spotted this jittery one earlier in the lobby. Since the theater was just down the street from my office, I’d arrived during the middle of a color cartoon, well before the first feature began. So I’d waltzed back to the lobby for some popcorn—the extra buttery kind.
While I nibbled on a few kernels and waited for my change, I noticed Miss Jittery. She entered the movie house throwing looks over her shoulder and ignoring the pimply-faced usher who tore her ticket and gave her an appreciative once-over. If lust were a high note that kid would have shattered crystal.
