Butcher's Knife_a Hewitt Fairfax Mystery_A brief retirement

by R. E. Ellis

  He gave MaryLee the story of his evening, while she gasped in disbelief.

  "Is your head okay?"

  He touched it gently, then looked at his fingers. "No blood, but a considerable goose egg."

  "I'm coming over," she said.

  "You really don't have to do–" he said, but it was too late. She had hung up, and he still hadn't gotten around to asking about the soup.

  He was pulling into his driveway for the second time that night when it hit him—what was missing from the restaurant. The ledger, where he kept all the accounts. He'd put out the fire with an old ledger, but the new one was not where it was supposed to be, on the shelf right next to it. Had it burned completely up?

  Could it have?

  He was stomping into the house, a log under each arm, when he heard the soft purr of an engine behind him. He turned. MaryLee and her delivery van were chugging down the driveway.

  He was actually happy to see her.

  Chapter Five

  MaryLee bustled around Fairfax's cabin, rinsing off some dusty wine glasses and digging through his junk drawer for a corkscrew. She was pretty, he noticed, though not for the first time. She was not tall but quite curvy, and she wore bright red lipstick and cats'-eye-glasses. She liked to wear colorful clothes, like the lime green sweater and checkerboard leggings she had on tonight.

  "I hope you like Malbec," she said. "It was the only bottle I had and everywhere's closed already."

  "I'm more of a whiskey type," he said. "But I'll drink anything."

  "Anything?" she teased.

  He paused, pretending to think about it. "Yep. Anything."

  "One day I'll bring you some absinthe," she said. "The French poets used to drink it. It gave them hallucinations." She handed him a glass of the deep ruby-red wine. He took a sip. It was actually good, not sweet, not sour, but earthy and astringent.

  "What's in the box?" he asked, glancing at a mysterious white pastry box tied with string.

  "Just a little something I thought we could share."

  "So... you came all this way to give me wine and dessert?"

  "Can you think of a better reason?"

  Actually, he couldn't.

  "There is something I wanted to talk about."

  "Uh-oh," said Fairfax.

  MaryLee sat down on the leather sofa across from him, crossing her chubby legs at the knee. "So I dropped that soup off at Guadalupe's."

  "Oh, yeah, great, I meant to thank you for–"

  She waved her hand dismissively. "She told me to thank you. You owe me fifteen bucks."

  Fairfax reached for his wallet. "I'm kidding!" she cried. Fairfax tossed three fives at her anyway. MaryLee gathered them up, folded them, and tucked them into her bra.

  "Don't give me that look," she told him. "Ladies' clothes don't have pockets. It's a scandal, it really is." She took a long gulp of wine. "Anyway, what I wanted to tell you is that Guadalupe thinks Pete Kroll has something to do with Julio's murder."

  Fairfax swirled wine in his glass, frowning. "Is this just a 'feeling,' or does she have any actual reason for thinking this?"

  "Apparently, they pretty much hated each other. Guadalupe said Pete threatened Julio once."

  "Strange she didn't say anything to me."

  MaryLee shrugged. "Maybe you intimidate her? I don't know, Hew."

  "What do you think?"

  "Me?" said MaryLee. "Why should I know anything?"

  "Sometimes people from outside can sense things that you can't when you're, I don't know, enmeshed in a situation."

  She poured them each some more wine. "There was definitely a vibe in that kitchen when Pete and Julio were both there."

  "That's what I'm talking about. I never noticed anything like that."

  "I doubt Pete did anything, though."

  "Yeah?" said Fairfax. "Why do you say that?"

  She pushed her hair back with one hand. "If you hate a coworker, you don't just murder them. You quit, or you get in a fistfight, or you complain to your boss. It's just not enough of a motive, you know?"

  "Listen to you," said Fairfax. "You're talking like a detective."

  MaryLee smiled. "Well, obviously, I'm just speculating. Maybe Guadalupe's right. She says that Pete once said, 'Watch your step, Mexican boy.'"

  "Well, that's not very nice. But does it mean he wanted to kill Julio? I don't know."

  They didn't talk for a minute, listening to the fire crackle in the stove, the metal chimney ticking as it expanded in the heat.

  "It's so nice and quiet here," said MaryLee.

  Fairfax nodded in silent agreement. His head was feeling a little better. It was as if the wine had smoothed out the contents of his skull.

  "But if not Pete," said MaryLee slowly, tapping her nails against her glass, "then, who?"

  "Roxane," said Fairfax.

  MaryLee almost choked on her wine. She coughed several times.

  "You all right?"

  "I'm fine, but Roxane? The nice cupcake lady?"

  "She's not so nice. She has a real mean streak. She already tried to convince me that Chantal's involved. She said Julio and Chantal had been dating, that Julio dumped her. Thus, a motive."

  "Chantal?" said MaryLee. "I don't see her as a killer. She's the size of a sparrow. Could she even lift a chef knife, let alone sink one?"

  "Maybe she had an accomplice. Maybe a new boyfriend. Or an old one."

  Fairfax and MaryLee looked at each other.

  "Didn't I see Chantal and Pete together recently? Hm." asked Fairfax.

  "You probably need more to go on than just seeing them together. I mean, they work together," said MaryLee. She went into the kitchen and got two forks and the white pastry box.

  "At last!" said Fairfax.

  It was a thick slice of chocolaty red velvet cake with fresh raspberries. They took turns forking up bites. After a few, MaryLee said, "You have the rest. I'm too fat."

  "You're not, but whatever. More for me."

  Fairfax pretty much wolfed it down.

  "Did you even eat dinner?" asked MaryLee.

  Fairfax thought about it, licking crumbs off his lips. "That would be a no," he said.

  MaryLee tsked and shook her head. "Such a bachelor."

  "Actually," he said, "I'm a widower."

  MaryLee blushed bright red. "I'm so sorry. I didn't forget about your wife. I just—I'm sorry. What a fool I am." She looked like she was going to cry.

  Now it was Fairfax's turn to feel bad. "I shouldn't have said anything. Come here."

  She sat next to him on the couch and he put his arm a little awkwardly around her. She leaned into him, putting her head on his shoulder. "Tell me about Angela," she said.

  "What do you want to know?"

  "How you met," said MaryLee.

  So Fairfax told her. It wasn't an exciting story: He was at the police academy in Rochester, and she was a waitress at a pancake house. He met with some other police cadets every morning for coffee and breakfast before classes started, and Angela became their favorite waitress. They all liked her, but it was soon clear that she had eyes only for Fairfax. Of course, they teased him about this.

  "Men are terrible," said MaryLee.

  "Yes they are," said Fairfax.

  He asked her out on a date. He didn't want to take her to a restaurant, because he thought that would be too much like her work (she loved restaurants, actually, but he didn't find that out until later) so he took her to the movies. Well, that turned out to be a bad decision. He kept worrying about whether she liked it, so much so that he couldn't even follow the plot, and then the film projector suddenly stopped. The audience sat and watched the movie screen as the stuck frame of film, magnified a thousand times, slowly warped due to the hot light behind it. The figure on the screen, a man holding a knife, wrinkled up and disappeared as the film melted. Then the film began sizzling and popping and then it turned black. Then the house lights came on and everyone went home. Since it was so close to the end, no one go
t their ticket money back.

  "That was your first date?" asked MaryLee, incredulous.

  "There was a little more." Fairfax then drove Angela up towards the lake, where there was an amusement park. They sat in the car outside the park and watched the ferris wheel, the roller coaster, the swings, all bright lights and the roaring whoosh of machinery and the happy screams of young people on the rides.

  "You didn't go in, you just watched?"

  "Yep. Neither of us was the amusement park type. But it was nice to look at."

  "Romantic," said MaryLee.

  "I guess so." Then, after a few moments in which they heard the wind pick up and begin to howl around the house, he asked, "Do you want to go lie down on my bed? No funny business. Just, you know. Rest."

  "I should really go," she said, not going.

  "Come lie down with me. My head hurts."

  So she did.

  Chapter Six

  Fairfax woke to the sound of MaryLee running water in the bathroom. It was still dark. His phone showed that it was 4:10 in the morning. He groaned.

  MaryLee came out of the bathroom and tiptoed past the bed. "What in the name of hell," said Fairfax, his voice muffled in his pillow, "are you doing up at this ungodly hour?"

  "Cupcakes need baking," she whispered. "Pastry needs rolling out. I think I have to get a pork butt in the oven, too. So many things."

  "Pork butt," mumbled Fairfax, half dreaming.

  A few minutes later, he felt her hand on his back. Her lips brushed his temple. "See you later, Hew," she said, her breath warm in his ear.

  "Don't go."

  "I have to." Another soft kiss, and she was gone.

  Some hours later, a bleary Fairfax stumbled into the bathroom and took a look at the face in the mirror. A grim visage, indeed. The area under his eyes was bluish and swollen and his cheeks were somehow both sunken and drooping. A few shaveless days had turned his lower face into a grizzled landscape. His hair—less said the better. He had been "growing it out," thinking longer hair could be a good look for chef, but this morning he resembled that crazed bomber whom the authorities found living in a cabin in the Montana woods. Or as his mother used to say, he looked as if he'd cut his hair with a knife and fork.

  He sighed. Into the shower with him.

  When he emerged, he felt somewhat restored. A vigorous shave, a battle with the hairbrush, a nose-hair or two snipped back, and he could pass for human. In the kitchen, he got the coffee going. Was there a better smell on earth? He sucked the aroma into his lungs. Even just the coffee-scented air seemed to ease the gentle throb in his head, which must have been some combination of wine hangover and mild concussion. He chased his first mug of joe with a handful of aspirin, then followed that with more coffee. Breakfast of champions, he told himself, cracking his knuckles.

  Julio's service wasn't until the next day, and the restaurant was still closed, so Fairfax had another day with relatively little to do. The thought made him antsy. He decided to call the police station and see what was going on with Julio's case.

  "Well," said Chief Peabody. "We're waiting on a tox screen. Also seeing if we can match up any fingerprints on the knife, of course."

  "Mine'll be all over it."

  "Yeah, well, yours are in the system, so we'll rule out those and Julio's right away. Unless there aren't any others."

  "The killer was probably wearing gloves, you know."

  There was silence on the other end. The Chief cleared her throat and made some paper-shuffling noises.

  "I mean," added Fairfax, "it's March, and it's pretty cold."

  "Listen, Hew, you don't have to tell us how to do our jobs. I know it's tempting. But you're too close to this situation, and I'll be frank with you. I think you should back off."

  Well, that stung.

  "I'm close to it because I have a stake here, Chief. Julio was my–" and here a sudden and surprising wave of emotion caused his voice to break, "– my friend."

  "Even more reason not to get involved, if I may say so."

  His phone pressed to his ear, Fairfax looked out his cabin window. It was white and gray, as it had been for months. Bare branches waved in the restless breeze. But there was something new out there: a robin. It sat on a limb of the apple tree that grew next to his back patio. The bird's bright orange breast was small hint of all the color that would arrive with the spring—not so very far in the future now. But at the moment it was chilly, and the robin was puffed up and clearly unhappy with its decision to fly north.

  It seemed like a sign, but a sign of what?

  Fairfax said goodbye to the Chief and slipped his phone into his pocket, frowning. He couldn't back off this. He could almost see how this whole thing was going to roll out: the cops would bring in one of the usual suspects, get some jailbird to claim he had the goods on that suspect, draw up some charges, only to have the whole thing thrown out in the end. There'd be a few weeks of the good citizens of Finley City being up in arms about the "thugs from the city" ruining property values or whatnot, then it would all be forgotten. Except for his family, Julio would be forgotten too. How many times had he seen the same cascade of events?

  The impossibility of justice—or the near impossibility—was one of the things that drove him out of the profession. You had to be able to let things go, and Fairfax could never let things go.

  He opened and shut a kitchen drawer, and then another. In the third he found a pencil, and in the fourth a notebook. He emptied the coffee pot into his mug, then he sat down and made a list of suspects.

  First on his list was the dishwasher, Leo Simons. There was something weird about the guy, for sure—and somehow the police had talked to him even before they talked to Fairfax. Why? It was odd.

  It's not that Fairfax didn't like Leo. He did—he liked all his employees, with the possible exception of Roxane—or he wouldn't have hired them. Leo had a strange sense of humor and displayed a good attitude about his job, even though it was the bottom of the totem pole in terms of prestige. He worked hard and laughed a lot. You couldn't ask more out of a person, really. It's just that Fairfax couldn't quite tell where he was coming from. If Leo had killed Julio, well, it would be surprising. But maybe not that surprising. Did he have a motivation? Who knew? All Fairfax could do was ask. So he picked up the phone.

  Leo's apartment was on the top floor of an industrial building in a sketchy part of town. At one time these buildings were furniture warehouses or clock factories or something similar—Finley Clocks were still a big deal with collectors—but now they housed yoga studios, day programs for addicts, dog grooming parlors, some dubious non-profits, vape shops. Fairfax climbed what was essentially a fire escape up to Leo's place. It did not seem sturdy enough for any full-grown person, let alone a person of Fairfax's height and girth. He held tight to the railings. He had a bit of a thing about heights, which he managed by not looking. The door opened before he had a chance to knock.

  It was mid-afternoon, and light flooded the space through large, warehouse-style windows. It was a huge room, with high ceilings and unfinished wood floors, and the first thing that Fairfax thought was that this was some kind of art studio. There was almost no furniture: a mass of rumpled bedding in one corner, a cupboard with a mini-fridge and a coffee maker in another. And all over the bare-brick warehouse walls—hanging from wires or leaning two or three thick on the floor—were canvases. The colors were so dazzling that, at first, Fairfax couldn't tell what the paintings were supposed to be of. They varied in size from a foot or so square to as tall as a man.

  "Jesus," said Fairfax. "You made all these?"

  "Yeah," said Leo. He was dressed in sweatpants with holes in them and a stained tee-shirt. His hair was obviously uncombed and his face was bristled. His eyes, as usual, were pink and bleary. "You like?"

  Now that Fairfax had a minute to look, he realized that the paintings were of flowers: gigantic, impressionistic tulips; masses of pink and blue blossoms in a field; delicate, neurotic-l
ooking orchids; stubby marigolds in a coffee can. Fairfax had been expecting Leo's place to be an alcoholic flophouse or worse. It was taking time for him to absorb the fact that Leo lived what appeared to be an artist's life.

  Could a man who made such colorful, riotous paintings—Fairfax couldn't tell if they were good, and he didn't care—also kill someone? The world was full of strange things. He guessed artists could also be murderers. It just didn't fit what he knew. But what did he know?

  "Let me give you a tour," said Leo.

  Well, it wasn't much of a tour. Leo lived in one room. It was a big room: maybe a third of a factory floor, from one wall to the other, cut across with a new gypsum-board wall. The huge, 12-paned windows looked out on the industrial waste of Finley City, which was both grimy and beautiful: smoke stacks, weedy empty lots, a big, beautiful sycamore tree that seemed to be thriving amidst the broken concrete and fallen bricks. Leo had pots and cans of plants and flowers in every window sill. Fairfax recognized some from the paintings.

  "So—you live here?" he asked.

  Leo nodded.

  "Where do you...shower and piss and whatnot?"

  "Over here."

  Leo led him around a corner to a narrow door. Behind it was a toilet, a sink, and a shower stall, all as new as if they had just come straight from the building supply store, lit by a single, dangling, yellowish bulb.

  "Well, it works," said Fairfax.

  "Hell yeah," said Leo.

  Leo gave him a glass of slightly cloudy water and led Fairfax to the corner where his bed was. Fairfax felt squeamish about sitting on the guy's actual mattress, so he shifted aside some geraniums and sat on the window sill, holding his water. Leo stretched out on the bed like, well, a lion.

  "I guess you're here to ask me about what happened to Julio," said Leo.

  "Um. Yes."

  "I'm gonna tell you the truth: I don't know. I got involved early because of this woman."

  "What?"

  "Pamelia. She works dispatch."

  "Nine one one, you mean?"