by Leslie Leigh
Perhaps Ben was right. Perhaps she needed to stop being Allie Griffin for a while. If that was the case, Dougie's Bar & Grill was the perfect place in which to do so.
When she pulled into the parking lot, Allie was shocked to see that the name had changed. It was no longer Dougie's Bar & Grill, but a place called The Rook's Nest. Gone was the kitschy neon sign that buzzed like a swarm of yellow jackets. Replacing it was a respectable white sign with Old English black lettering.
She put the car in park. This was worth investigating.
The interior of The Rook's Nest was more or less the same, but something had changed. The odd décor had transformed into something that made a bit more sense. Gone were the flamingoes and postcard photos of Miami, gone were the ambered photos of baseball players and boxers. Now there were shiny new dartboards and metal signs advertising all things British and archaic. It looked like someone's idea of England after seeing My Fair Lady one too many times.
There, behind the bar, like he'd been cemented to the spot, stood Dougie the bartender.
But this was no longer the Dougie Allie had come to know and love. This was a pod person. Some alien had taken the real Dougie and put this one in his place, thinking they could fool humans. He was clean shaven, for starters. He wore a plaid vest over a white shirt and a red plaid bowtie. On his lower expanse of belly hung a gold watch chain. On his clean-shaven face was the expression of a child forced to stand against his will for picture day. Allie's heart went out to him.
"Dougie?"
"Oh God," he said when he saw her.
"Dougie...what happened? The Rook's Nest?"
"Aw jeez, Allie. Why'd you have to come in here?"
"Dougie!" She felt her shoulders drop and her head fall to one side.
"The wife's uncle. He was an accountant. I never liked him. One of those guys who's smarter than everybody and lets you know it. He comes over one day and starts yammering about how he never sees her and how she was his favorite niece and so forth. That was about ten years ago."
"Ok," said Allie.
"So I never liked the guy so I didn’t bother going to all the family to-dos whenever he was going to be there. What I didn’t know was that he was hounding her about my bar. Always telling her I could do better. I should close down and open somewhere else, get all trendy and stuff, cater to those yuppie types that come in and talk stock figures. I never knew he was saying this. I found out later. Anyway, he's been a bachelor for about five or six years. His wife died of tuberculosis. Don’t ask me how she got tuberculosis in this day and age, but she got it. Anyway, he figures she's been dead six years so why not, you know, start playing the field again. Well, he uses one of those dating services and he lists what he does, says he's an accountant. Says one of his clients is Gucci, like the pocket books?"
"Yeah, I know Gucci."
"Yeah, well, that's an expensive account. It's a good account. I had no idea the guy was so well off. Anyway, he uses it to make himself look good in the ads 'cause, you know, he ain't exactly Brad Pitt. Take Brad Pitt and run him through a hay bailer. Then shave the top of his head, put a pair of glasses on him, and give him the look of a bulldog with a stomach flu, that's my wife's uncle. So he gets this girl a third of his age. This little hoochie mama, right? Is that what they call them?"
"I would say that's probably the term."
"Yeah, well, this hoochie mama is obviously with him for his money, but he don’t care. He's happy to be dragging this poor girl around. This little troll is taking her everywhere and he feels like he's eighteen again. Well, he's not eighteen. He's sixty-four and has gallstones. He takes her to the carnival, when was it, six months ago they come through here?"
"I guess. I don’t remember."
"Yeah, well, the carnival. He takes her there and they're eating funnel cakes and all this horrible stuff. And he takes her on the tilt-a-whirl because he figures why not? he's already acting like an idiot. Anyway, he's on there and it's not the tilt-a-whirl. It's a new ride they got called the Sickmaker. They put you inside this big round globe, strap you in, and hurl you along a track and then into a big bowl like what those kids on the skateboards like to ride on. So you roll around there in every direction. The Sickmaker. So he dies."
"What?" Allie exclaimed.
"Yeah, he has a heart attack right inside the thing. No one knew it until everyone got off, including the hoochie mama who ran off with some young guy with one of those haircuts that's shaved above the ears and he's got the tattoos and the pants around his ankles."
"Oh my."
"Yeah, and the other folks get loaded up into the Sickmaker and one of them says there's a dead guy in there. So that's that. So he left my wife some money in his will. A lot. Like enough to buy two of these bars. And he says she's gotta close this bar and buy a new one. That's the stipulation of the will. Now my wife has a good heart. It's like living with Attila the Hun, but she has a good heart. And she's got herself a pretty good lawyer. You know, one of those real good ones that advertises on TV. And she tells him her husband don't want to close his bar. And this hotshot lawyer looks at the paperwork and finds, whatdya call it, a loophole. Says she can use the money to improve my bar. So she comes in here, looks around, says I need to come up with a theme. She spends about three days watching those TV shows where some British guy goes into a dump and yells at the owner and then fixes it up and hugs everyone. And she gets this idea for a British pub. Says 'Dougie's' ain't British enough. So she renames it The Rook's Nest. And she wants it redone inside and she wants all the employees wearing uniforms like this clown suit I'm wearing. So I don’t wanna hear another word about it."
"Oh Douglas," Allie said, trying harder than she's ever tried in her life to suppress laughter. "Doesn't she know about your clientele? This is a blue collar bar through and through."
"Don’t I know it? She don’t want to hear it. She's, you know, got a bowling ball for a skull."
"But you did try and fight it at least?"
"You try to fight with this woman. It can’t be done. She's like Mike Tyson in a housecoat."
"Oh, Douglas," was all Allie could say.
"Yeah yeah. Now I got fish 'n' chips and eel pie on the menu. I ain't never served anything other than peanuts in this joint and now she goes and puts a fryer and a cook in back."
"Eel pie?"
"She said it's British. Oh, and no more Fresca."
"Oh, Douglas."
"I know, I know. I told her."
"But you invented a drink with it. The Rockhammer."
"Yep. I know. I told her. She didn’t want nothing from the old place."
"Well, Douglas, all I have to say is I'm sorry from the bottom of my heart."
"You're sorry? Look at me. I look like a doofus."
Finally Allie let go of her laughter. It came out in torrents that cut off the sound of her voice so that just her body shook violently. She put both hands over her face and doubled over.
"Aw jeez," said Dougie.
It was several minutes before she could compose herself. And when she looked up at him, it started all over again.
"I'm sorry," she managed to squeak out.
She thought it best just to leave the building altogether. And this she did, heaving with uncontrollable laughter, her face hot and teary.
She got into her car and caught her breath. She looked up at the sign. The Rook's Nest. She shook her head and drove off toward Sara's Bridge.
9.
The covered bridge was creaking in the wind, as if it needed a reason to be creepier.
This was Allie and Sgt. Beauchenne's secret place to talk. It had served them well in the past. Allie reasoned correctly that Beauchenne wouldn’t have batted an eye at the request to meet here tonight. Not at this point in their relationship. When she finished her statement and said the magic words, he closed his pad and walked off and that was that.
Now here he was, looming in the distance, silhouetted. He was an awesome sight, she thought, all black t
rench coat turned up at the collar, and then coming into the moonlight with the salt in his hair glistening. His face was chiseled and tough, but there was sensitivity in his eyes that revealed a tremendous capacity for feeling hidden just below the hardened cop exterior.
Romance aside, Allie knew there was work to be done here.
"Did they find the rope?" she asked.
"As a matter of fact, they did. It was stashed away in a trunk with other ropes of the same kind."
"Good. I want to see a picture of it. Can you text one to me tomorrow morning?"
"I— I suppose so. You won’t take no for an answer, so there's no point in—"
"Have they found out the killer was left-handed yet?"
He stared at her. "Now how the hell—?"
"Just tell me if I'm right."
"You are, but—"
"The rope was twisted in that direction, right? Clockwise? The opposite of the way a right-handed person would've done it?"
"Yes, but how—?"
"The wig heads."
He shook his head. "The what?"
"The wigs on their Styrofoam heads. They were lined up on the makeup table. Styrofoam isn’t exactly the heaviest substance on the face of the earth. The position of the body in the chair made it impossible for a right-handed person to have hastily removed that rope from her neck without hitting the wig stands with his right elbow. I myself knocked one over just by brushing lightly against it."
Beauchenne sighed. "Tomlin was wondering about that wig."
"Oh he is observant, isn’t he?"
"It's little stunts like this that can land you in jail, you realize this, don’t you?"
"So I suppose getting a piece of fiber from the rope was a bad idea too?"
The sergeant's eyes widened until the whites glowed in the moonlight. "You know something? I oughta arrest you right now."
"Please," said Allie.
"Please nothing. Don’t start pulling the tough little citizen sleuth bit with me, Allie Griffin. You could be in jail right now if anyone found out you removed evidence from the scene. You should be in jail! How dare you impede the progress of the police!"
Allie felt her face flush with anger. She bit the inside of her lip while Beauchenne stood silent, chuffing thick steam from his mouth in the chilly night.
"I'm sorry," Allie said.
He caught his breath, and then said, "I'm sorry I yelled like that. But you don’t realize how serious your actions are and that bothers me a great deal. It's like when you broke into Tori Cardinal's house. Don’t think I don’t know that was you. I knew it then and I know it now. Never mind the fact that you evaded the home security system—which, by the way, is something I still absolutely do not want to think about—but you were committing a serious offense by doing that. And the worst part of it is that you think it's all a game."
"Oh come on."
"No, I'm right. You know I'm right. You're red as a robin's belly."
"Not for nothing," said Allie after a moment, "but there were other fibers on Sally's neck. I only took one."
"Well, it doesn’t matter anyway, we found the rope."
"Do you have pictures?"
"Allie..."
"You know your butterball detective doesn't have the brains to figure this out on his own. I know how that frustrates you."
"You do, huh?"
"You're here now, aren’t you?"
He smiled slightly. "Yes. Yes, I am."
"That means you must have a little faith in me."
"Very little."
"Oh, you're cute when you lie. So you want to know the rest of the story or don’t you?"
He took a frustrated breath. "Talk to me."
"Did Tad Mills' statement say anything about a series of phone calls?"
He answered in the negative.
So she told him about Tad Mills. About the phone calls. About the fact that Tad thought it was Angus, only Angus wasn't on his phone when Tad got the latest call. Most importantly, that Sally Kane's body was discovered at the exact time the last call came through.
When she was finished, she looked at Beauchenne. She heard the sandpaper sound as he stroked his graying stubble.
"That last part, I think it was a coincidence."
"Why?"
"Because they happen. Because a day without any coincidences whatsoever would be a strange day indeed. The rest of the story, though, that's something we need to look into."
"Will this get Tad in trouble?" she asked.
"Why?"
"Because I like him, and I think he's innocent."
"And why do you say that?" There was a tone to the sergeant's voice that wasn't his sterile cop voice, nor was it his casual Frank Beauchenne voice. This tone was something different, and it was off-putting.
"I say he's innocent because...because I have a feeling."
"Well," said Beauchenne, the tone still coloring his words a murky black, "to answer your question, no, that probably won’t get him in any trouble."
"Ok," Allie said cautiously.
He paused, as if he was trying to gauge the level of her confidence. "That won’t, but the fact that he's left-handed might."
PART II: Slow Build
1.
The show was off. That much was obvious. Allie knew Del was working at the theater today, helping to clean up. Angus had taken a bereavement day for himself.
That morning she'd gotten a text. It was a picture Beauchenne had snapped of the piece of rope they'd found. It was a crystal clear snapshot in full color and very detailed. Her heart melted a little for the kindness that Frank Beauchenne never failed to show her.
She saw her friend pushing a clunky piece of scenery off to the side of the stage.
"Well, hello there," Del said, wiping sweat from her forehead.
"Sorry to interrupt. Listen, stage techs use ropes, don’t they?"
"Ah ha. I was wondering how long it would take before you asked that question. Yes they do. All kinds."
"Black ones? Or dark blue?"
"Both."
"Good, I want to see where they keep them."
Allie climbed up onto the stage and Del led her over to a trunk underneath what she called a pin rail, the main board that served as a mooring point for every rope that was tied to something in the house.
"Here you are."
"No lock on this thing?"
"Not that I know of. Maybe before we leave it's locked. But it's kept open during hours of operation. It has to be. Stagehands are a busy lot."
"May I, Watson?"
"Be my guest, Sherlock."
Allie bent down and lifted the trunk open. It looked as though there were an infinite number of ropes in there. Hinged onto the inside lid of the trunk was an expanding and contracting shelf with compartments covered by a Plexiglas protective cover. The compartments housed every type of clip and pin and winch imaginable, plus some Allie would never have been able to imagine. What went on behind the scenes in order to make the action onstage as flawless as could be—and still be invisible and inaudible as it happened—was always impressive to Allie, especially after hearing Del's war stories all these years. But nothing drove the point home more than seeing this tiny, specialized section of artistry. If this was what it took to rig scenery and keep the theater physically afloat, imagine what it took to run everything else. She found a new respect for the theater blossoming in her.
But back to the ropes, she thought.
"Is there anyone here who can tell me about these?"
"Yeah," said Del. "Ernie is here. He's an old stagehand. He's been doing it for years."
"Where's Ernie?"
"I'll get him."
A stout man with graying hair, wearing a heavy leather utility belt that had many pockets with just as many tools crammed inside them, walked over with Del as escort.
"Ernie Banks, Allie Griffin. Allie Griffin, Ernie Banks."
Ernie Banks towered over Allie. He had forearms like Popeye, she thought.
"How do you do?" For a big, scary man, he was incredibly polite. Dainty almost, in the way he bowed and took Allie's hand as if he were holding a baby bird.
"Very well," said Allie, "thank you. So, I have a question. Would any of these ropes keep their shape once they’ve been twisted up?"
"They're called kernmantle ropes, designed to take a beatin'. But they're made of nylon, so no, they aren’t as strong as other kinds of material. But it also depends on the braid. To answer your question, any rope will get twisted up if enough tension is put on it. Some will milk on you."
"Pardon? Did you say milk?"
"Yeah." He picked up a specimen of rope and held it before her, pointing out things as he spoke of them. "Each one of these has a core. The rope on the outside is a sheath that gets wrapped around it. You put enough tension on the rope, and the core separates from the sheath. You call that milking. Then it bunches up. You get kinks in it. Not good for certain kinds of rigging, like when you need a clip to slide over a certain area. If there's kinks, the clip'll get stuck."
"Interesting. So you can tell probably how old a rope is or how much it's been used by its condition?"
"Listen I've been doing this for so long I can tell you different kinds of rope with my eyes closed."
Allie brought out her phone and showed Ernie the photo of the evidential piece of rope Beauchenne had gotten for her. "This, for example."
He took the phone in his meaty hands and studied the photo closely. "Yeah, this one's been through the wringer."
Allie winced at his unknowing choice of words. She leaned in and looked at the photo with him. "Interesting. How would you tie a rope like this?"
"Depends on what you need it for."
"Say I needed it to stay tied."
"That would be a bowline. It's the most widely used knot. Here." He handed her phone back to her, then took the piece of rope he'd been holding and tied the knot for her like he'd been doing it since birth. "That's a bowline. That will stay tied no matter what."
