by Lou Fletcher
Herb B. cracked the door, giving me enough leverage to push our way in. Between us, Tippi and I grappled with Perry’s limp body until we managed to hoist it onto the couch and took off.
“Whadda you two think you’re doing?” Herb B. yelled after us. “Why’s Klump passed out on my couch? Whadya do to ’im?”
“You’re the man, Robin,” Tippi called over her shoulder. “Deal with it.”
We went back to the ceramics room, where Applebee was sitting at the table. The door to the kiln was open and crumpled sheets of paper were spread out around the empty bottle of Grey Goose. But what really made me gasp was the other object lying there—Gus’ s cane.
TWENTY-TWO
“I noticed the kiln door was ajar again and when I went to shut it, I saw this inside.” Applebee’s hand swept over the collection.
Along with the cane were the spreadsheets Gus had been working on when the storm broke.
We were interrupted when the door opened and Guenther stepped in.
“Sorry.” He stared at the table, pausing before he looked back at us. “Um,” he cleared his throat, “I thought Perry was in here.”
“In Herb B.’s office,” Tippi answered. “They’re bonding.”
Guenther gave us a mock salute and backed out of the room.
Another knock on the door was followed by Violet poking her head in. “Gus is asking for you guys.”
I filed away the questions rattling around in my head. Not only was there the question of Alice’s murder, there was Applebee’s accident, and now the business with Gus. As if those weren’t enough, how did Gus’s cane and the missing papers wind up in the kiln?
First things, first, Hank. What had caused Gus to leave the safety of the center and go out into the worst storm in Goose Down history? I never thought of Gus as a risk taker—just the opposite. He fit my idea of an accountant right down to the white shirt and dark tie he wore every day. His only extravagance was his season tickets to the Cincinnati Reds every year. He and Edna had terrible rows about it, he once confided to me, but it was one area, probably the only one, where his wife didn’t get her way.
I picked up the cane. Applebee folded up the papers and tucked them under the cushion on his seat. Tippi secured the kiln door and we headed to the lounge.
Gus was propped up on the couch, surrounded by pillows. Hazel and the Schmidts vied for the opportunity to straighten his covers or spoon-feed him steaming liquid from a soup bowl. Marcy and Frenchie lay sleeping, their heads together on the old man’s lap. I was relieved to see the color had returned to his face. He also appeared to be regaining some of his strength—he grabbed the spoon in Hazel’s hand as she aimed it toward his mouth. At least someone had had the decency to remove the Santa hat.
“I’ll check on your clothes later. They should be dried out,” I said. “Unless the Santa gig is working for you?”
He shook his head and winced. “Ow, that hurts. I’ve got a killer headache.” He rubbed his temples. “Ladies,” he said slowly, turning to the three women hovering around him. “I need to speak with these characters alone for a few minutes.”
Mary cautioned me not to stay long, and Violet shot me a menacing look as she put her finger to her lips on her way out.
Gus laughed and tucked the covers around Marcy and the puppy. “My protectors,” he said. “I’m being killed with kindness.” His eyes were moist.
Tippi lifted Gus’s feet onto her lap as she squeezed onto the couch. Mr. Wittekind joined us, and I pulled up a seat next to Gus’s head so we could talk with some privacy. Applebee leaned in so the four of us spoke in whispers. The rest of the room had gone suddenly quiet, and I could imagine the sounds of hearing aids being cranked up to full volume.
I spoke first, gingerly approaching the question we all wanted to ask. “You gave us a helluva scare, Gus.”
“You’re looking a lot better than you did,” Tippi added.
“What time is it?” Gus asked. “I must have lost my watch in the snow.”
“It’s one o’clock,” I said.
“One a.m.?”
“No, Gus. It’s one p.m., Saturday.
“I was out there all night?” He seemed shocked.
“You’re a tough old bird,” Applebee said.
Tippi patted Gus’s knee.
“Do you remember what happened?” I prodded.
“I’ve been asking myself the same thing. I honestly don’t know. The last thing I remember is waking up with my car in a ditch, surrounded by trees and snow up to the windows. I was colder than I’ve ever been in my life,” he remembered. “I must have knocked my head on the headrest because I can feel a knot. Maybe the force of the airbag knocking me backwards?” He rubbed his head.
I hadn’t noticed before but now I could clearly see a large lump on the back of his head. The Santa hat must have covered it up.
“Another thing,” he said. “I wasn’t wearing my seat belt when I came to.”
That was definitely out of character for Gus. I thought of the times I’d ridden with him, and he wouldn’t even put the car into drive until everybody was buckled up.
“I know I had almost a full tank of gas...”
We all laughed, knowing Gus never let the tank go below the three-quarter mark without topping off.
“When I came to, I was down to less than a quarter of a tank.”
“How...?” I asked.
“I guess I was out for a while and it just ran down.”
“You must have been out a heck of a while,” Mr. Wittekind said, shaking his head.
“I decided to run the car for twenty minutes, then turn it off for ten, thinking a plow or somebody would eventually find me. I kept it up until I fell asleep or passed out. It was barely light out when I came to. I thought I’d only been out a few minutes. I tried to start the car up but it was dead. I realized I had to get out of the car or risk freezing to death. Even then, I figured my chances of making it back here were slim to none.”
“How did you get out of the car?” I was picturing the scene.
“I tried to put the windows down but since the battery was dead, it was hopeless. It’s like they say, without bad luck, I’d have no luck at all. Then I remembered the ball-peen hammer I keep in the glove compartment for an emergency.”
“Like the ones you gave all of us for Christmas last year in case we crashed into a river and had to break a window to get out?” Tippi said.
“Right. You all thought it was dumb,” he said, looking at me.
“We’re not laughing now, Gus,” Applebee said.
“So you used the hammer to break the window?” I asked.
“I had to use it on the sunroof. The snow was half way up the side windows, and I was afraid I’d be buried alive if I tried to get out that way.”
“So you busted out the sunroof?” Wittekind said.
“Yes, I squeezed out onto the roof and just rolled off. Lucky for me the snow broke my fall.”
“Jeez,” was all I could say.
“I thought I’d never make it out of the damn ditch...sorry Tippi.” He blushed. “I’d almost make it to the road, then I’d slide right back down the hill and have to start over. Once I even made it onto the road and a snowplow went right past me. I was as close to it as I am to you, Hank. I screamed bloody murder but he kept right on going. It was really a low point for me. I was sure I was a goner.”
The area Gus was referring to is less than three hundred feet from the drive leading up the hill to the center. The road runs past Paddy’s Creek and winds around some dangerous curves with moderate hills flanked by steep drop-offs on both sides. Accidents along that stretch are not uncommon even in good weather. More than once a car has slid off the road there and not been discovered for hours.
Tippi took his hand and held on. “You must have been scared to death.”
He shook his head. “I wasn’t scared but I was angry as hell. Oops, sorry again.”
“I can take it,” Tippi grinned.
>
“I was mad at myself for being so stupid and getting into this mess in the first place. I started cussing myself out. I called myself every name in the book and every time I yelled, I pushed forward. By the time I’d run out of breath and out of swear words, I discovered I’d clawed myself up onto the road. Once I reached the drive, it at least was plowed. It was ice covered which made it slow going but I knew if I could keep moving, I might make it back.”
“Man, what a story,” Applebee said.
For a change, nobody knew what else to say.
Gus noticed his cane leaning against my chair for the first time. “Where’d you find my cane?” he asked. “I looked all over for it when I came to but I couldn’t find it. I know I had it when I went out to the car.”
“It was here,” I said. Tippi gave me a questioning glance but I didn’t want to say more, hoping Gus would explain.
“Why did you go out?” I probed. I was hoping something would jog his memory and give me a clue as to his irrational behavior.
He looked sheepish. “I wanted to clean the snow off the car. I thought if I went out every hour, I could stay on top of it. I also wanted to make sure it would start since my battery will be two years old in January.”
In spite of myself, I had to laugh.
He continued, saying, “I know. Not the smartest thing I’ve ever done but there you have it. The last thing I remember is getting in the car.”
Wittekind grunted and I was wondering what to ask next when Gus said, “But I know I went out with my cane. I don’t go anywhere without it.”
I didn’t know what to say. There was something wrong with Gus’s story but before I could figure out what it was, a commotion down the hall interrupted us. Doors slammed and angry voices turned into shouts. Something crashed and a woman screamed so I took off with Tippi right behind me. This blizzard can’t end soon enough, I thought. What had started out as an adventure had turned into the worst kind of nightmare, and I wasn’t exactly dying to find out how it would end.
We followed the shouts to the women’s restroom. I thought I’d seen it all but the scene in front of me proved me wrong—again. Hazel, dressed only in her slip, was standing over the prostrate body of Perry who laid face down, wriggling under the force of her foot on his neck.
“The perv walked in on me,” Hazel shouted, pressing her foot harder on Perry’s neck. “He barged in.” She was furious.
Tippi pried Hazel’s foot off Perry and I hoisted the dazed man to his feet. He was still wobbly from the Grey Goose, so I leaned him against the wall for support.
“I’m gonna vomit,” he said, looking around for the toilet. He took another hard look at Hazel and threw up in the sink.
“Oh, my God,” Hazel said, making gagging noises. “I’m gonna throw up, too.”
Tippi moved out of the way but I was caught in the crossfire. Between Perry and Hazel, I managed to catch spray all over my pants. Hope Gus is through with the Santa suit—I’m gonna need it.
I hauled Perry into the men’s room to clean both of us up as best I could. Tippi did the same with Hazel in the women’s restroom, and we all met a little more sober and calmer in Herb B.’s office. He had come out to see what was going on and mistakenly left his door open.
I sat behind the desk and instructed Perry and Hazel to take seats on the couch. Tippi squeezed in between them just in case Hazel followed through with her threat to “punch Perry’s lights out.”
“What exactly happened? Hazel, you go first,” I said as they both started to speak.
“I was freshening up in the ladies’ room,” Hazel said. “Really, I think we all could wash up some, it’s getting pretty rank around here and…”
“Hazel?” I interrupted.
She glared at Perry. “As I said, I was washing up when all of a sudden this,” she sputtered searching for the right word, “this big, fat, drunken pervert comes busting through the door.” She leaned across Tippi, shaking a bony finger in Perry’s face. “I always knew there was something off about you.”
“And?” I prompted.
“He got an eyeful and I could tell by the way he was leering at me, he wanted to do more than just look so I screamed,” she huffed, crossing her arms.
I glanced at Perry who sat, openmouthed and obviously stunned at the accusation. I admit I felt a little sorry for the guy who, although he was no George Clooney, wasn’t repulsive by any means. He had been considered something of a “catch” by some of the ladies who only knew him as The One Man Band. Martha Mosely once told me it’s because of the uniform he wears when he performs.
“Women,” she’d said, “just love the saddle shoes and the hat. So sexy.” Of course at the time I’d chalked it up to the source, since Martha had, shall we say, a reputation at the center.
For Perry’s part, he seemed not to notice the attention he got from the women and usually just did his show and left. I couldn’t recall ever seeing him even talking with a woman after a performance; he was always in a hurry to pack up his instruments and leave.
I was beginning to think the entire incident was the result of Perry’s inebriated state and wishful thinking on Hazel’s part.
Herb B., who had been observing the proceedings from the doorway, offered to look into the matter after Perry sobered up and Hazel calmed down. Hazel, once she’d had her say, was calm and seemed embarrassed. She suggested we drop the whole thing and pointed out we were all getting edgy since we’d been confined for nearly forty-eight hours. She offered Perry her hand in truce and left to finish her ablutions. Herb B. took a seat on the edge of his desk.
“What now, Hank?” Herb B. said, his mottled face twisting in scorn. “Get out of my office.”
“Not yet. We need to clear up a couple of items.”
“I’ll leave …” Perry said, standing.
“No,” I said. “Tippi, will you ask Applebee to come in here?” I directed my attention back to Perry. “There are a few questions I’d like to ask you.” I needed to find out what he knew about Gus’s computer, his cane, and the papers I’d found stashed.
My experience taught me there were no such things as coincidences. On the other hand, I’d never seen Perry behave in any way that wasn’t—or at least didn’t appear to be—circumspect. He was arrogant and a bore but most of the time he kept to himself. At least until recently. Thinking about it now, though, I remember he’d been leaving with Guenther lately when he finished work for the day.
Tippi came back with Applebee and we settled ourselves around the room. Just out of spite, I remained in Herb B.’s chair behind the desk, forcing him to take the visitor’s chair in the corner.
The hum of the small generator was the only sound. I tried to think of how to begin and had second thoughts about opening up another can of worms. I wished for about the millionth time to see Sheriff Grange at the door. I had a real bad feeling and I couldn’t put my finger on what I might find out. One thing I did know—this was a job for the pros. But they weren’t here and I was.
TWENTY-THREE
Perry slouched on the couch next to Tippi. He covered his face with his hands; his fingers kneaded his cheeks like raw bread dough. I’d seen alcohol poisoning during my time in Vietnam but had no idea how it was treated. I hoped I wouldn’t have to find out.
This was all beyond my area of expertise. As an engineer, I was used to dealing with numbers, data, and hard facts. I knew what to do with those. Human nature—well, let’s just say there was a reason I went into engineering instead of psychology.
“How are you feeling, Perry? Do you need anything? Water, coffee?”
With his fingers, he moved his head from side to side.
“Are you going to be sick?”
“No.” His voice was thick and low. “I’m okay.”
“Can I ask you a few questions?”
He raised his shoulders for what I took as a “yes.”
I was feeling my way now. I started with the easy stuff. Build a rapport. Think of how
the TV cop shows interrogate suspects. Hold on. Suspects? Perry, Joe? Somebody else? My gut was in a struggle with my brain. Perry just didn’t fit my idea of a bad guy. Of course, that’s what they said about Ted Bundy. Get a grip, I warned myself. Despite what Tippi says, this isn’t Law and Order, or a James Patterson novel. Then I thought about Applebee’s so-called accident that wasn’t accidental at all.
Take a deep breath, stick to the facts, you’ll be fine.
The others watched me and waited.
I cleared my throat and forged ahead. “Perry.” I doodled on a scrap of paper in front of me, to buy time. “Applebee told me at Alice’s wake you’d been sober for twenty-some years, right?”
“Yeah, so what? It’s none of your damn business, Hank. Or any of you.” He dropped his hands and glared at his brother, then each of us in turn. “You all think you’re so high and mighty. Treat me like a big joke.”
“I’m—I mean, we—are really sorry, Perry.” I looked around the room as heads nodded in agreement. I tried another approach. “This has been a tough few days and there’s been some weird stuff happening. What with Alice, Applebee’s, um, accident, the storm, and now this scare with Gus. We each handle stress in our own way.”
“Look, I fell off the wagon.” Perry’s voice was low and filled with grief. “Nobody is sorrier than I am about it. Twenty-three years sober, gone.” He covered his face with his hands.
“Where’d you get the booze?” Applebee asked, more fear than anger in his voice.
Perry shook his head. “It doesn’t matter. Nobody poured it down my throat. I drank it all by myself. Me. Nobody else.”
Applebee’s face caved in, tears streamed down his cheeks. “Perry, you’re my brother.”
“Brother, hah!” Perry looked up. “I was never really your brother. Just the foster kid you all took turns teasing, playing the fool. I wish I’d never met any of you.” His body was rigid; he clenched both fists and shook them at Applebee, who shrank even further into his chair.
