Boogie House: A Rolson McKane Mystery

by T. Blake Braddy

  I thought of the way Van had been acting the last few days, talking incessantly at some points and then clamming up without any indication why. It certainly made sense that she might have been doing something to get herself in trouble.

  I said, “She was running. Maybe in looking behind her, she plowed into something she didn’t see coming.”

  “Maybe,” he said, “but I think it’s even worse than that. I haven’t any evidence, but man alive, I’ve been having these dreams.”

  My mind rolled over, but before I could start the process of formulating a question, he continued talking. “She mention Brickmeyer around you?”

  I thought about it. “She might have mentioned him a few times” - I was thinking specifically about our conversation regarding Jeffrey - “so, yeah, I guess she did.”

  Something about the way he looked at me confirmed my silent suspicion, that, were this not an accident, that the Brickmeyer family had had something to do with her death.

  However, I didn’t want to step too far, to speculate too much. D.L. - God bless him - was not in a state to think clearly. If she’d been held down and pumped full of drugs, fine, but I wasn’t about to gloss over the possibility that her demons had gotten the better of her.

  “She made some curious explanations for herself when she came to stay with us those nights. Had a lot of questions about that murder, about the dead Laveau boy, and about you. Laid on the couch and chewed her fingers, asking all sorts of things that wouldn’t naturally have occurred to her.”

  “And so you think the Brickmeyers approached her, maybe promised to hook her up, if she snooped around the case?”

  “It’s a cynical view, Rolson, but I just got to believe it’s the case.” He paused. “I know you ain’t got to believe it, and you probably think I’ve gone loony, but every time the wheel comes around on this, something else clicks into place.”

  “I don’t think you’re crazy, D.L.,” I said.

  “And it doesn’t make a difference to me what people think, or are going to think, because I saw the look in her eyes when she came back home. She was different, more like the little girl I remembered, rather than the monster she had become, and so I can only believe she’d changed. Whether or not it was the truth, I’ll never know. She never got a chance to prove that to all of us. But I think I had it right.”

  D.L. wavered, eyes glossy with tears, and he pressed both hands against his face. Covering himself. Hiding from his true feelings. Trying to push them back down.

  Once he’d caught himself, he continued. “How about her boyfriend? She ever tell you about why she left him?"

  "He was killed. She didn’t feel safe, so she fled back home. It seemed right."

  "That ain't why she left him. Vanessa, God rest her soul, she had a lot of problems, and maybe this last thing sent her over the edge. Maybe she couldn't atone for it, but she stole that poor sumbitch’s money. Well, I shouldn't say that. It wasn't his money at all. Was an organization's money, if you catch my drift."

  I was having trouble making the connection. If Brickmeyer was going quid pro quo with her, then there was no need for a transfer of money. She would be given drugs for information. Push the right button and receive a pill. That sort of deal.

  But if she had stolen money, then that added a whole new wrinkle for what she was trying to hide and who she was trying to hide from. That I hadn’t noticed any strangers lingering around town didn’t mean they weren’t here and weren’t looking for her.

  Or maybe they had just only made it down to Lumber Junction now.

  “Maybe this was their payback,” I said. “The drug ring’s. What if it wasn’t Brickmeyer at all?”

  He looked impressed." You might've made a good cop, someday, if you had gotten all them cobwebs out of your head."

  I still didn’t buy it entirely, because I figured they would have come around the house looking for her before now. I would have noticed some heavies asking around town about Vanessa, and usually the guys tracking down money aren’t too subtle with the locals.

  Suddenly, the memory of that truck riding away, seemingly for no reason that night, popped into my head. Explained some things. Maybe.

  And thinking about it left me with an unsavory conclusion. "So she didn’t come back because she wanted to.”

  “I'm sure some of it was because she loved you, so don’t get the impression she was using you. That’s where some belief has to come in, even if it is delusional. Some of it was earnest. But she was a sick girl. She had a lot of problems."

  We sat silently for a long time in shared grief. Finally, D.L. said, “I need to be alone now, son. Don’t forget to say goodbye to Paula on your way out.”

  Over my shoulder, opening the door, I said, “I’ll make sure I find out what really happened, D.L. Whatever will put you at peace.”

  I left without telling him about finding all those bodies in the pond back in the woods. He’d had all the death he could handle for the day.

  * * *

  D.L. and his wife lived in a neighborhood just outside town, so I left them and walked into the city. Walking kept my mind moving.

  Walking away, the embarrassment began to sink in. What had I thought I was going to do? What had been so important that I not go see about family first? Like it or not, D.L. and Paula were family, and running off to confront my own tenuous desires only exposed how little I had grown.

  Dropping by Deuce’s office got me nothing. He wasn’t around, and though I knocked for several minutes, he never appeared. I stood on the corner and thought about it for a time before heading on, not quite sure where to go next. The bar wasn’t an option and the Laveaus lived well out of town. Also, I had no friends, so I had no choice but to walk along the edge of the road.

  I found myself on the doorstep at Nana's soon after.

  "You look like the walking wounded, Rolson McKane," the woman behind the counter said, as I approached. The room was filled with the penetrating aroma of fried things, of chicken dipped in eggs and flour and dropped into too-hot grease, of greens simmering in a silver pot with salt-cured pork, and of hot, sweet cornbread cooking in the oven. “You hungry?”

  “Not really,” I said. “Right now, I don’t feel like I want to eat ever again.”

  “Nonsense,” she replied. “You ended up here for a reason, and lord knows I’m a believer in fate.”

  “I think I just need some company for a minute. I need to get my head together before I move on down the road.”

  Her eyes caught the bandage on the back of my head. “Looks like somebody tried to take your head apart for you.”

  “Job hazard,” I said.

  “For somebody’s unemployed?” She cocked a smile. “Tell you what. I’ll make you a plate of food, and you don’t want to eat it, you don’t have to.”

  “No, honestly. But thank you.”

  “Can’t stop me from doing something at my own restaurant.”

  I shrugged, and she grabbed a plate from beside her.

  Nana had bought the restaurant after Herman's death, as a way to control the way the years rolled by on her. It didn't keep her from aging, of course, but she didn’t waste away like the town’s other widows. And it wasn’t just a time waster, either. Nana's Kitchen was popular enough to be written up in local and regional magazines, starting a few years back.

  "There's a gossip rag's worth of talk going around about you, son," she said, pulling back lids and dumping gobs of food onto the plate, more than was customary for a normal serving.

  "It's probably all true," I said.

  "Let's hope not. People can't figure out the angle on you, or else it'd just be one rumor going around. They figure you ain't extorting money from Brickmeyer, but plenty of people still believe that, what with your recent run-ins with the authorities and all."

  "I'm not trying to skim money."

  "You know how the clothesline talk is in this town, though.”

  “People believe what they want to believe.”<
br />
  “Well, then, that means you actually want him pinned up for having that young black man killed. Good luck with that, because I see it sticking to him like I see my chances for winning the lottery improving."

  I sniffed. "You've heard about Vanessa?"

  She nodded, avoiding eye contact.

  I said, "How much do I owe you?"

  She slid the plate across the counter and sighed. "When I first started up the shop, little Leland's aunt had a restaurant of her own. Remember that?"

  I nodded. Of course I did.

  "Wasn't too good, was it? No, it wasn't. But people went over there because the woman serving the food was kin to the right people. It was more like communion than anything else, but when I opened up, people slowly started jumping ship, because the food was better. That old haint tried to get her nephew to force us out of business."

  The way she was looking at me made me smile, despite myself. "You want to see the Brickmeyers punished for that?"

  "You damn right I do. I don't see anything morally wrong with that. ‘God, smite my enemies’ is in Psalms, I think. I don't see wrong in somebody getting what's coming to him, and Leland Brickmeyer has plenty on the way."

  "That so?"

  "There ain't an ethical bone in his body. Every good thing he's done is for show, and everybody kisses his ass so he doesn't turn on them. Even though his aunt’s place has been out of business for a few years, there's still people who won't come in here and eat because they're afraid Leland Brickmeyer might see them. Hell, he hasn't once stepped foot into my place, not even to taunt me, and I consider myself lucky for that. You go on and eat."

  I smiled and nodded at the plate of food and took it over to the table over by the front window, and Nana followed me, her hands clasped in front of her ample belly. I stared at the print of her dress as she sat down across from me. The chair seemed to grunt under her.

  The food was wonderful, salty and fatty and so hot it scorched my mouth. I ate voraciously, shoveling spoonfuls of creamed corn and lima beans into my mouth. I hadn’t realized I was hungry at all, let alone how hungry I was. She had also given me mustard greens, and I ate them without dousing them in hot vinegar, dipping my fried pork chop in what remained on the plate.

  Nana waited until I was nearly done and said, "I'm not so bitter about the world, Rolson. Not really at all. When you get as old as I do, things either run off your back or embed in you and work around until you’re nearly gutted. After my husband died, I thought people'd pretty much leave me alone, let me have my own corner of the world.

  "And they didn't. Leland Brickmeyer didn't want to let me have the one thing I wanted, and I came to hate him for it. I can imagine you feeling something similar. That poor dead young man didn't ask for what happened to him, and yet here's somebody covering it up. I know that's got to sting. But you've got to keep your head on straight. He's got practice at this. He's used to letting people hang themselves on their own rope. I imagine that's what he's doing to you right now, letting you tighten the knot below your Adam's apple. He's able to keep his distance from you because he can, and that's his power."

  That's when I had an idea. "I know you just gave me an entire plate of food and all, and I appreciate it, but can I also use your phone to call for somebody to come pick me up?

  "You aren’t drunk right now, are you?"

  "No, ma'am. I just don’t have a vehicle to speak of. My last one was...confiscated."

  "Well, I'll tell you," she said, fiddling with nonexistent lint on the cuff of her dress, "I've got Herman's old junker of a motorcycle in a shed right out back. Some of his old stuff I’ve been meaning to get rid of.”

  “I see where you’re going, and I’ve got to say no. I can’t-”

  “You can’t afford to say no to me right now,” she said. “You’re in my debt. Herman’s been gone some time, and though there’s some things I’d never let anybody touch, let alone take. There’s some things of his I just have never got around to selling off or trashing. That motorcycle of his, he nearly killed his old self on that horror, and I can’t stand the sight of the damned thing.”

  She waited for something, maybe some kind of refusal, but I kept quiet, so she continued talking. “I reckon if you promise not to wrap it around a light pole, you can borrow it. For today. Until you get your car back, that is. If it can crank, you can drive it."

  "Really?”

  “Some people run through women because they don’t know how to handle them. That seems like you, except with cars.”

  “I have no idea how to repay you."

  She smiled, and this wasn’t the look of a sweet old lady. "Make Leland Brickmeyer sweat. Make him grovel. Make him lose something he really wanted, a business deal or something. Hell, end his political career. I'd love to see that."

  "I'll try my best," I said.

  * * *

  All in all, the process took half an hour. I siphoned out the old gasoline and replaced it with a fresh half gallon from one of Nana’s red cans in the shack’s front corner. I fiddled with several other things not worth mentioning.

  Finally, it cranked, and once I got my bearings, I dropped the keys back off with Nana. I couldn’t believe she’d let me use her dead husband’s junker motorcycle, but then again, I couldn’t question providence.

  Since my cell phone was more than useless, Nana let me make a quick phone call. I left Deuce a voicemail, telling him to meet me at my house in a few hours, and then sped towards the country.

  * * *

  My hope to see my borrowed Olds in the Laveau driveway was dashed the moment I rounded that last corner. The yard was empty and the door wide open, a pervading darkness inside.

  I rolled to a stop and propped the bike on its kickstand before heading cautiously for the house. I had no gun and the hairs on my neck were doing handstands.

  Inside, pictures and magazines and other detritus covered the floor. Somebody had dumped the place. I wanted to call out for Janita or Uncle K but my mouth couldn't make the right sounds.

  A series of pronounced footsteps resounded from the back room - Emmitt's room - and my heart did a swan dive. "Hello?" the voice asked.

  I breathed a sigh of relief. "Jeffrey, what in the hell are you doing here?"

  He appeared at the end of the hallway, wearing a hangdog expression. "I could ask you the same thing, sport. I came here to talk to Janita."

  "About what?"

  There was a sheet of paper in his right hand. He gestured toward Emmitt's room. "Him. Us. Everything. It was time I did right by him."

  "Mmm-hmm," I said, watching the way his eyes shifted.

  "Thanks to you,” he said. It should have sounded angrier than it did. “By disgracing my entire family, you inadvertently set me free."

  I wanted to get the hell out of there. Something about the way he was looking at me put me on edge. "What's that in your hand?"

  He jerked as if being shaken out of a dream, bringing the slip of torn paper up in front of him. "Oh my God, that's right. The note."

  His hand was shaking when he handed it over. I read it twice carefully before returning my attention to Jeffrey. MEET ME AT THE NIGGER JOINT ASAP. I WILL KILL YOUR NIECE IF YOU BRING ANY COPS.

  "The Bullens," he said.

  "Yup," I said, pretending to scan the note. "What do you think?"

  His expression didn’t reveal anything more than his style of nervous energy. He looked more haggard than ever.

  "What do I think? I think we need to go get that maniac. It's about time he stop terrorizing the city.”

  I folded the note and slipped it in my pocket. Jeffrey stared. "Evidence," I said. I brought my hands to my hips and surveyed the living room. It was destroyed. "I'm going to make a call."

  "Not the cops, I hope. That won’t do any good. My dad, he - I don’t think he’s taking this too well.”

  "I'm out of the secrets business, Jeff."

  "He'll kill her. He'll kill her, and then he'll go for my father. He’s crazy
. Certainly you’ve learned that by now."

  I didn’t trust it, but I didn’t let on with Jeffrey that I didn’t trust it. Instead, I nodded to mollify him. I couldn’t tell if he really thought the Bullens would go after Janita Laveau before his father.

  "I’ll check in with the detective. He'll think something's up if I don't."

  It was a lie, but I maintained a placid, calm demeanor. He sighed, scratching the back of his head. "Sure, I guess, but don't tell him where we're going. Just say, I don't know, that you're not sure of what's going on."

  "Of course," I said, and turned away.

  * * *

  I prayed for my cell phone to turn on one last time. I just needed to make two phone calls. After that, I could retire the damned hunk of plastic forever. The tip of my thumb throbbed from the pressure of pressing down on the power button. But the phone's screen remained dead and blank.

  Glancing back in the house, I saw Jeffrey just kind of standing there in the living room. He was obviously frazzled. He paid me no attention but occasionally walked nervously around the house.

  I heard a weak beep. The phone. I flicked my eyes toward the screen just in time to see it light up. The damn thing was working! It dragged through various booting screens and made it all the way to the halfway point in my contacts before it died again. I wanted to scream.

  "Phone goofing on you?"

  Jeffrey had a slightly malevolent grin. He was leaning against the doorway. I felt a sudden and inconsolable rage rise up within me, but I managed to shove it back down. "Got a little rain on it."

  "Phones are fragile things. That's too bad." He looked up, taking inventory of the sky. "At least it's cleared up. Riding that motorcycle would have been hell in the weather we were having earlier."

  I began to panic. If the phone didn't turn back on, I couldn't call anyone. If I couldn't call anyone, no one would know my whereabouts. Just Jeffrey Brickmeyer. A fact that was very unsettling to me.

  "Let's hope I can get it up and running, right?" I made sure to look him in the eyes. "Otherwise, I might have to use yours, eh?"