Act Two

by Denise Grover Swank

  I needed her car tonight. I had a date with Walter Frey.

  Chapter 3

  When Momma came home, nothing was said about the way I’d stormed out that morning, but I did tell her about my new job. She merely nodded and told me she thought it was a good idea since it was obvious I couldn’t cook to save my life. The business end was probably what I needed to know anyway, and it would be good for me to spend some time in the public eye in a harmless setting.

  I hadn’t considered that part of it.

  Then she went up to bed. She’d worn herself out in the catering kitchen, presumably remaking all those shrimp puffs.

  The thought gave me a pang of guilt, but it did make borrowing the car easier; she’d never even know I’d left.

  My stomach was knotted into a tight ball as I drove to the Embassy bar. I’d hoped to have more time to prepare my questions for Mr. Frey, but I decided I’d had fourteen years to prepare. I knew what I wanted to ask him. I just had to make sure I wasn’t so antagonistic he’d up and leave.

  The day-long rain had let up, but the streets were still wet. The parking lot was full for a weekday night, but I found a space and crossed the parking lot toward the entrance.

  I’d never been in the Embassy bar, but I’d always admired the outside décor when I was a kid. The outside reminded me of one of those old 1950s nightclubs. In my head, I’d envisioned moody, romantic scenes filled with men in black suits and women in low-cut, slinky dresses. What I found wasn’t anywhere close. The lights were dim and the place reeked of smoke. Several middle-aged men leaned on the bar, nursing their drinks, and a few middle-aged couples were scattered around the room. An older guy stood on a makeshift stage about a foot off the ground, strumming his guitar and singing a Johnny Cash song. But it was obvious I’d gotten there before Walter Frey.

  At least I hoped he was coming.

  I walked up to the bar, and the bartender—a thirty-something guy with a name tag that said Chuck—came over and shot me a grin. “The gentleman at the end of the bar would like to buy you a drink.”

  Shrugging off my jacket, I glanced down at the group of men. An older man lifted his beer bottle and graced me with a semi-toothless grin.

  “Yeah,” I said. “Tell Snaggletooth no thanks.”

  He laughed. “Snaggletooth. For that, I’ll give you one on the house. What’ll it be?”

  “A Guinness.”

  He wandered off to get my drink, and I turned around on my seat to scan the room and make sure I hadn’t missed Mr. Frey. Given how empty the place was, it didn’t take long to verify he wasn’t here.

  Chuck returned, his grin even bigger. “Now Snaggletooth’s friend wants to buy you a drink.” He pointed to a bald guy next to the toothless guy.

  The bald guy flashed me a big grin.

  I picked up the beer and took a sip. Lord knew I might need more than one to get me through this night. “What is he? About seventy?”

  “Eighty-two. He’s excited because, besides me, you’re the youngest person to walk in here in about six months.”

  I laughed. “Lucky you.”

  He leaned forward on his elbow, and a devilish grin lit up his face. “So what do I tell him?”

  Shaking my head, I let out a sigh. “Tell him no. I’m not sure I’ll be here long enough to drink another. I’m waiting for a guy, and he hasn’t shown yet.”

  Chuck gave me an appraising look. “He must be in the hospital with a coma. That’s the only reason I can come up with for a guy standing you up.”

  I resisted the urge to roll my eyes. “It’s not a date. It’s more of a . . . business meeting.”

  “What’s he look like? There’s a guy who came in ten minutes ago and immediately went back to the restroom. If it’s a business meeting, it might be your guy. Otherwise, no way.”

  “Middle-aged guy, I think in his fifties. About my height with thinning light brown, graying hair. He has a sagging chin and a bit of a belly. He was wearing a white shirt and brown pants when I saw him earlier today.”

  “Sounds like quite a catch.”

  “I told you, it’s business. Not that it’s any of your business.” I added a bit of a sting to the last sentence, but Chuck only laughed.

  “If it’s none of my business, then maybe I shouldn’t tell you that you’ve just described the guy who went back there.”

  “Are you just shitting me?” I asked, skeptical.

  He held up his fingers in the shape of a V. “Scout’s honor.”

  “That’s the Vulcan sign for—never mind.” I set my purse on the counter and hopped off my stool, pointing to the hall. “That way, you say?”

  He laughed. “You going to take your meeting in the bathroom?”

  Ten minutes in the bathroom was a pretty long time for a guy. Maybe he’d gotten cold feet and needed a little encouragement. I took one more gulp of the beer. “If that’s what it takes.”

  “I’ll keep an eye on your bag,” he said with a wink. He was grinning from ear to ear as I headed down the hall.

  There were three doors on the same wall. The first two were marked as the ladies’ and the men’s restrooms, so the third one probably led to a storage room. The door at the end of the hall was marked exit. I debated what to do, but I had to know if Mr. Frey was even there.

  I knocked on the door of the men’s room and called out, “Mr. Frey?” After he didn’t answer for several seconds, I knocked harder and said louder, “Mr. Frey? Are you in there?”

  The door opened and an older man walked out. Looking me up and down, he said, “I’m not Mr. Frey, but I’d be happy to fill in for him.”

  Ew. Gross. I forced a smile. “I’m looking for the actual Mr. Frey. Did you see anyone in there?”

  “Sorry, sugar.”

  Now what? I cast a glance at the door at the end of the hall. The words painted on it—emergency exit—seemed to mock me. I suspected Walter Frey had taken Door #4 and escaped. He’d ditched me.

  But why? Why show up just to leave?

  Oh shit. Something had scared him.

  I pushed the back door open and looked around the nearly empty parking lot. The only two vehicles back there were a pickup truck and a dark sedan parked several spaces apart. But then something to my left captured my attention. Walter Frey lay flat on his back, his eyes closed and his jacket partially open to reveal his white shirt.

  “Mr. Frey?”

  He didn’t answer.

  The hair on my arms stood on end as I walked around the door and called out his name again. The sky was spitting a light drizzle, and I shivered as I moved closer, dread making my stomach clench.

  “Mr. Frey, are you okay?”

  I knew something was wrong with him, but while the last man I’d found flat on his back, Max Goodwin, had been stabbed in the chest, Walter Frey looked like he’d fallen asleep on the grass.

  But as I crept closer, slowly inching my way around his side, the small hole in his left temple and the blood pooling on the rain-soaked ground told me I was wrong.

  Walter Frey was dead.

  The back door opened, and Chuck peeked his head around the corner. “Hey, Pete said he saw you go out the back door . . .”

  I glanced over at him, and his eyes widened when he saw the figure splayed beneath me.

  “Oh shit. Looks like you found him,” he said, his voice shaking. He looked liable to drop my bag, which he’d brought from the front. It was obvious finding dead guys behind his bar wasn’t a common occurrence for him. “Is he alive?”

  “I don’t know. I didn’t check.” I dropped to my knees, sinking into the soggy grass, then placed a trembling finger on his neck as I searched for a pulse.

  “So? Is he alive?” he repeated.

  I shook my head, my stomach roiling as I stared at the blood still trickling from his head. I felt dangerously close to throwing up, but Detective Holden’s voice echoed in my head. He’d been pissed because Amy and I had almost vomited at the scene of Max Goodwin’s murder.

/>   Detective Holden had been eager to pin the last murder victim I’d found on me. What if he did the same this time?

  “Oh, my God,” Chuck said in a shaky voice. “What if the killer’s still out here?”

  His panic was infectious, but logic told me that whoever had done this was long gone. Otherwise, I was fairly certain I’d already be dead.

  I took several deep breaths, pushing back my panic and trying to figure out what to do. “I need my phone,” I said, settling my butt back on my heels. I felt too lightheaded to stand. This couldn’t be happening. Not again.

  My memories of the murder I’d witnessed ten years ago, on the night of my college graduation, had only surfaced a few weeks ago—dredged up by my return to Franklin and the sight of Max Goodwin’s bloody body. Up until then, the only thing I’d remembered about that night was a sense of dread so strong it had set me running all the way to New York.

  “What?”

  I held out my hand for the phone. Chuck’s reaction confirmed that he, at least, did not have a habit of stumbling upon dead bodies. “My phone. It’s in my purse. Pull it out.”

  “Who are you going to call?” he asked, sounding nervous.

  “The police.”

  He grabbed my phone and handed it to me, still holding on to my purse. As I started to unlock the screen, I noticed that I had a text message from a blocked number.

  If you’re digging into the past, be careful what you reveal.

  I gasped and looked down at the bloodied man in front of me. Had he sent the message?

  “Are you gonna call?” Chuck asked, sounding freaked out.

  Of course, this wasn’t the first cryptic message I’d received since my return to Franklin. At first I’d assumed they were a practical joke, but then my memories of that night had returned. Now I knew they were something more—warnings from the long-ago murderer who’d chased me out of town. And he hadn’t just left texts . . .

  I gave myself a mental shake. I’d figure out who had sent the text later. I needed to deal with this first.

  “Yeah.” I pulled up my contacts and started scrolling, thankful I didn’t have to scroll very far. When he answered, I nearly cried with relief. “Brady?”

  “Maggie?”

  “I need your help.”

  “Where are you?” His voice became stern and professional—very cop-like. “What’s happened?”

  I glanced up at Chuck. Would my alibi be enough? I wasn’t quite sure I could trust Brady. A few weeks ago, I’d gone to the Franklin police station to report what I’d remembered about the night of my high school graduation. They had assigned Brady to talk to me. I’d realized it was a huge mistake before I started talking. They’d think I was crazy, plain and simple, and I had no concrete information to give them. There was no body, no open case, and any evidence had gone cold a decade ago. Besides, the murderer had threatened my family, and the texts I’d received since returning to town were proof he was watching me.

  Brady had insisted on taking a walk with me—as my friend, not as a police detective—and I’d foolishly let my guard down. The problem was that he hadn’t realized my connection to the Goodwin case. Once he did, he told his partner all of the things I’d shared with them—things that made me look guilty of Max Goodwin’s murder. It had caused me a good bit of trouble, and while Brady hadn’t had much choice in the matter, I couldn’t help but see it as a betrayal.

  What if he betrayed me again?

  “Maggie?”

  It was the worry in his voice that worked my tongue loose. “I’m okay, but there’s a man behind the Embassy bar. I think he’s dead.”

  “Is there anyone else around? Are you in immediate danger?”

  Was I? I glanced up at Chuck. “No. It’s just me and the bartender. He walked out right after I found him.”

  “Keep everyone away and don’t touch anything. I’m less than ten minutes away.”

  “Okay. Thanks.” My voice shook on the last word.

  “You okay?” he asked quietly.

  “No,” I said past the lump in my throat. Now that I’d passed over the mantel of responsibility to a professional, I was close to breaking into tears.

  “I hate to ask you this,” he said softly, “but I need you to watch over the body and make sure no one disturbs the crime scene.”

  “Yeah, of course,” I said, feeling close to vomiting again as I stared at the hole in Walter Frey’s head. “I’ll stay.”

  “If it’s too gruesome, you can turn your back.” I was surprised to hear guilt in his voice.

  “No,” I said. “I can do it.” I felt like I owed at least that much to the dead man in front of me.

  Walter Frey was dead, and I was a hundred percent sure it was my fault.

  Chapter 4

  I stuffed my phone into my pocket and looked over at the poor bartender who was still standing in the doorway. “The police are on the way,” I said. “He said to try to keep people away from the crime scene.”

  “That didn’t sound like a 911 call.”

  “It wasn’t. I know a Franklin police detective. He’s on his way.” I suddenly wondered why I had called Brady instead of 911. Did I expect him to protect me? Because he hadn’t really followed through with protecting me in the past.

  Chuck looked dubious. “Maybe I should call 911 anyway.”

  I wasn’t sure if that was a good idea or not, but I preferred to let Brady make that decision. “He’ll be here in a few minutes. Do you want to stay out here with me?”

  He shook his head and cast a glance inside. “I need to get back in there. I guess I better tell my manager. He’s gonna want to know.”

  “I know you have to tell your boss, but can you keep it from everyone else until Brady shows up?” I’d worked enough hospitality jobs to know that customers loved gossip and drama. The last thing we needed was for everyone in the bar to rush out here like poor Walter Frey’s fate was reality show fodder.

  “Yeah, yeah. I won’t tell anyone,” he grumbled as he went back inside, leaving me alone with the dead body and the drizzle. I’d found two dead men within a very short period of time. I had no idea how high the odds were of something like that happening, but I suspected most people had a better chance of winning the Powerball lottery.

  Lucky me.

  But this was different. My involvement in the Max Goodwin investigation had been an accident; Mr. Frey had been murdered outside the bar where we’d agreed to meet to discuss the night of my father’s disappearance. If the police had tried to blame Goodwin’s death on me, what would they do now?

  I leaned over his body, trying to see if there was anything lying around to potentially incriminate me, but common sense told me to get up and back away. Brady would be here any minute, and while he was arguably the least threatening person in the Franklin Police Department, that didn’t mean he would grant me any favors. He might—rightfully—think it was suspicious that Walter Frey had been murdered at the site of our secret meeting.

  It only took a few seconds to figure out that the only thing around the body was a bloody puddle and trampled grass.

  Trampled grass. The grass behind Mr. Frey’s head was flattened, and I was fairly certain I could make out a set of footprints leading to the parking lot. That had to be in my favor.

  I sat back on my heel, about to call it good, when something caught my eye. Mr. Frey still held his cell phone in his fisted hand, but sticking up behind it was a folded piece of white paper, like a piece of typing paper folded multiple times. Scribbled across the exposed part were three lines of writing, partially blurred from the ink running on the damp paper: Gerry Lopez, —rritt, and —ogers. I guessed the last two lines to be names, but they were too obscured for me to be sure.

  The sound of car tires splashing through water caught my attention before the headlights spotlighted me. The car came to a stop in the middle of the parking lot, pointed toward me. The rhythmic sound of windshield wipers set my nerves on edge. When the car door opened a
nd Brady got out, I tried to tell myself everything was going to be okay. While he’d turned me in to his partner in connection with the Goodwin case, I truly believed he hadn’t done it to hurt me. If he’d held back information, it would have made things worse for both of us in the long run.

  Which meant he might arrest me now if he deemed it necessary.

  He started across the pavement toward me, the car’s headlights still focused on the body and me. He glanced down at the trampled grass and then back up at me.

  “Maggie, you okay?”

  I nodded, suddenly dangerously close to tears. “Yeah.”

  “I’m coming around behind you. Just stay put, okay?”

  I nodded and put my hands in my now-wet lap, then started to shiver.

  “Where’s your coat?” he asked as he walked around the curbed patch of grass.

  “Inside. I hadn’t planned on coming outside.”

  “Did you hear something?” He’d made it over to the sidewalk leading to the back door.

  “No,” I said, then took a breath. Brady seemed like the kind of guy who respected the truth, and I hadn’t done anything wrong. I’d be better off trusting him. “I was supposed to meet him here, and the bartender said he’d headed to the restroom about ten minutes earlier. So I went to check on him. I found him out here.”

  “You know who he is?” he asked as he walked through the grass toward me.

  “Walter Frey. He’s a real estate attorney here in Franklin.”

  He reached out for me, and I grasped his hand, letting him help me to my feet. “Did you touch or disturb anything?”

  “No. I just knelt next to him to check for a pulse. Chuck the bartender came out less than a minute after me. He thought I was leaving and brought me my purse. As soon as I realized Mr. Frey was dead, I called you.”

  “You didn’t have to stay right next to him. You could have stood by the door.” He shrugged off his jacket and set it on my shoulders.

  I pointed to the grass. “I saw the footprints. I was afraid to get up and disturb anything.”