Dead In Red

by L. L. Bartlett

  “It’s been years since I visited Ellicottville,” she said. “As I recall, it’s quite charming. Lots of cute little boutiques, restaurants, and bed and breakfasts.”

  “I’ve never been there.”

  “Then we’re both in for a treat.” Her lips turned up—a very pretty smile, and for the first time in three months, I felt the chill she’d been directing toward me warm. I smiled, too.

  The rest of the journey passed with Maggie humming along with the songs on the radio. She seemed glad for a day out of harness. My internal pressure intensified as I considered my mission. I’d be looking for a mailbox among the thousands lining the roads of this winter vacationland. Of course, without snow they’d be a lot more visible. But I wasn’t sure I’d recognize the right one even if I saw it.

  I slowed the car as we entered the village. Maggie’s eyes widened in delight as she took in the quaint little shops. I kept up with the rest of the traffic—a crawl. “Ooooh. Pretty,” Maggie cooed, craning her neck. “Did you see that gorgeous landscape in that little gallery’s window?”

  I braked. “No, I’m driving.”

  “We keep passing parking spots. Aren’t we going to stop?”

  “I hadn’t planned on it. At least not right away.” I glanced at her.

  Maggie’s brows had narrowed. “Why not?”

  “I came here to find something.”

  “What?”

  “A mailbox.”

  “What’s the big deal? Just go to the address.”

  “I don’t know the address.”

  She turned her head to stare straight ahead. The big chill was back.

  “Don’t worry. I’ll find it.”

  No reaction from Maggie. I was going to look like a real jerk if I didn’t find the damn thing.

  The charming storefronts diminished and I accelerated as we left the village behind us.

  For the next hour we drove slowly up and down the hillsides, trying to peer through the trees and foliage to see the expensive homes. Mostly we saw mailboxes and long narrow drives posted with “No Trespassing” signs. But that was okay; I was looking for a specific address. I just didn’t know what street it would be on.

  Maggie kept sighing restlessly, but I was too preoccupied to give her much notice. Probably not the way to win her heart.

  We drove up yet another steep road. The sequence of numbers on the mailboxes fell into line: 4517, 4527, 4537. “That’s it!”

  I jammed on the brakes. Maggie’s seatbelt locked as she lurched forward. “Hey!”

  Slamming the car into park, I yanked off my seatbelt and jumped out.

  Another car slowed, its driver staring at me as I ran my fingers over the freshly painted numbers on the rather battered old mailbox. Less visible were the faded letters of a name, probably painted decades before: T-GG-RT.

  Cynthia Lennox’s maiden name was Taggert.

  * * *

  Being a Saturday, of course the town hall was closed. I wondered if Ellicottville listed their tax information online. If not, then I’d have to return to the area. Still, the return trip would be worth it if it gave me the answers I wanted.

  Maggie’s stomach gurgled, and not for the first time.

  “How about lunch?” I asked.

  “Finally,” she muttered.

  One slice of Quiche Lorraine and a side salad later and Maggie was a charming human being once again. I made a note to self: Never let the woman go hungry and I might just stay in her good graces.

  We were the last of the quaint little bistro’s midday crowd. Maggie sipped her tea, studying me over the cup’s rim. “How did you know?”

  I gave her a blank stare. “Know what?”

  “Finding that mailbox made you very happy. But it means more to you than just some silly treasure hunt. Why? What’s its significance?”

  I shrugged, folding my napkin over the half liverwurst sandwich I hadn’t been able to finish. “I’m not sure. Yet. I have some suspicions, but I don’t have enough information to put it all together. I—”

  The heat from her gaze was enough to scorch. Apart from my initial reaction upon finding the mailbox, I thought I’d done a pretty good job at hiding what finding it meant to me. “How did you know finding it made me happy?”

  Maggie leaned back in her chair, her expression guarded.

  The air between us seemed to shimmer.

  My mouth went dry.

  She knew.

  She’d sensed what I’d felt.

  “Have you ever had a psychic experience before?” I asked her.

  Maggie looked even more uncomfortable. “No. I have not. But when I’m near you . . . I don’t know how to explain it. You do something weird to me. It’s awful and nice at the same time. I don’t think I like you very much, but . . . maybe I’m attracted to you because of it.”

  “Thanks. I think.”

  Her cheeks colored. “I’m sorry. That didn’t come out right. I’m afraid of you, and yet . . . oh, I don’t know.”

  “Why did you agree to come out with me today? To test it?”

  Her gaze wouldn’t meet mine. “Maybe.”

  I reached over, took her hand. Her head jerked up and she gasped, her mouth dropping open. Her fingers felt fever hot against mine. She was afraid and yet fascinated. “What do you feel, Maggie?”

  Her breaths were more like pants. “You.”

  I let go of her hand, remembering how my first experiences with this . . . whatever it was, had freaked me out. We’d briefly shared something similar once before—but I hadn’t given it much thought. Obviously she had. I wasn’t sure I liked it any better than she did. Then again, it was kind of a kick to know I connected with someone on more than just a physical level.

  “What do we do about . . . this?” she asked, her voice sounding small.

  “I don’t know. What do you want to do?”

  “I don’t think I can answer that. At least not today.” She gathered her purse and sweater. “Can we go home now?”

  “Yeah.” I signaled the waitress, who brought the check. I paid the bill and followed Maggie to the door.

  Maggie didn’t look at me during the long, quiet ride back to Buffalo. When I pulled up Richard’s driveway, she mumbled a “thanks for the lunch” and got out of my car. I watched as her car pulled away.

  She never looked back.

  # # #

  CHAPTER 6

  My weekend didn’t improve on Sunday. I awoke with the grumbling inside my head that always foretold a migraine. I took my medication and stayed in my darkened, quiet room until I absolutely had to get up to go to the bar for my shift.

  Tom was on the phone when I got there—ten minutes late—and waved me to take over out front. Several customers were already perched on stools, watching the golf pre-match commentary on the bar’s big-screen TV. I leaned against the backbar, massaging my temples, wondering if I could get away with wearing sunglasses in the darkened bar, and praying it would be a slow day.

  No such luck. Six leather- and denim-clad bikers barreled through the side entrance, grabbing a table near the big front window. Boisterous and full of energy, their voices clawed at my already ragged nerves. I had to force myself to approach the screaming white glare of the window. “What can I get you guys?”

  “A couple of pitchers of Coors,” said the one closest to me, a grizzled, bearded guy with a faded blue bandana tied around his head. Even seated he looked twice my size. His tattoos and leathers were Harley Davidson all the way and he was celebrating, pure joy bombarding my senses like a tsunami. Birth of a grandson? I wasn’t sure. But even pleasant emotions can overwhelm when they’re directed with battering force. I turned abruptly to get away from the mental assault.

  Filling the pitchers took an eternity, the smell of hops seemed overly strong for such a mainstream lager. I balanced them and six glasses on a tray and started for the table when my sneaker toe caught on the rubber mat behind the bar. Time shifted into slow motion and I watched, horror-struck, a
s the tray flew from my hands, the beer rising out of the pitchers like geysers. The glasses tumbled end over end and seemed to take a lot longer than me to hit the floor. The spectacular, shattering crash threatened to split my already aching skull. Thank God I shut my eyes as beer drenched me and glass shards peppered my face.

  Except for the drone of the TV commentators, the bar had gone silent. I lay on the floor, dripping with blood or beer—I wasn’t sure which—for what seemed like eons. Then the strongest arms in the world pulled me to my feet.

  “Hey, man, you okay?” The big biker leaned me against the bar, found a cloth and was gently mopping at my face. “Did you get glass in your eyes?”

  I shook my head—a definite mistake. “I’m okay.”

  “What the hell?” Suddenly Tom stood behind the biker. “What happened?”

  “I tripped.”

  “Good grief! It sounded like the end of the world. You okay?”

  “Yeah, yeah.” The biker pressed the cloth into my hand, and I mopped at my dripping arms and neck. “Sorry, Tom, I—”

  “Don’t worry about it. I’ll take care of the customers. Go in back and grab a T-shirt, then get the mop and broom out, willya?”

  “Sure thing.” I gave the biker a grateful smile. “Thanks.”

  “No problem,” he said and picked his way through the beer and glass to head back to his seat.

  Avoiding the gazes of the other patrons, I slunk off in back and peeled off my shirt to hose myself off in the slop sink. I returned a few minutes later in one of the bar’s give-away shirts, mop and broom in hand. My hands were shaking as I cleaned up the mess. Tom had the bikers laughing once again. He, too, was in a celebratory mood that even the mess behind the bar hadn’t doused.

  Sheepishly, I took my place by the taps, feeling the eyes of several customers upon me. My smile was forced—probably a grimace. Tom was still engaged in conversation with the bikers, who had resumed their rowdy revelry. I turned my back to the customers and closed my eyes as waves and waves of emotions engulfed me. Joy from the bikers; misery—a gambling debt?—and worry; someone’s wife was dangerously ill.

  The pounding in my head intensified, leaving me nauseous and shaky. Someone nudged my elbow. I turned. Tom.

  “Good news, Jeff. Your services are no longer required.”

  The pounding paused for half a second, then shifted into overdrive. Shit. I’d smashed some glassware and now he was firing me. My shock and disappointment must’ve registered: Tom laughed.

  “I mean looking into Walt’s death. The cops arrested someone last night. But you’re welcome to stay on at the bar, if you want.”

  I swallowed with relief. Then the red shoe image slammed my mind’s eye with the force of a jackhammer. “Tell me more about the arrest.”

  “Some homeless geek. Been hanging around Williamsville for the past couple of months. The dumb shit still had the murder weapon on him.”

  “A stiletto?”

  Tom nodded, smug.

  It didn’t feel right. Not only was I still getting flashes of insight, they’d led me to the mailbox in Ellicottville and possibly property owned by Cyn Lennox. While I couldn’t be sure without more information, my gut told me they had the wrong person. I pondered that thought for a second. Not man, not woman. Person. Yeah. I definitely needed more information.

  Tom frowned. “You don’t look so good.”

  I swallowed down the bile threatening to erupt. “Sorry, Tom. I want to keep the job here, but I don’t think I can put in my hours today.”

  The eyes that met mine were not judgmental. “I knew when I hired you that you had health problems. I won’t be a prick and make you stay when obviously you’re not up to it. Can you get home by yourself? Want me to call your family?”

  I shook my head and winced. “I can make it home.”

  “Don’t be stupid.” Tom placed a hand on my elbow, steered me to the back room and plunked me into a chair. It was all I could do not to throw up on his carpet. I heard his voice, couldn’t understand the words, then he was gone.

  I covered my eyes and bent over, concentrated on breathing. In out, in out. I was not going to puke. An eternity later, a tap on my shoulder alerted me to buff-colored Dockers at my side. Richard. “Let’s go home.”

  Too sick to be angry or even embarrassed—that would come later—I let him lead me out the bar’s back door. All too soon I felt the sensation of acceleration. I was in the passenger seat of my car with Richard at the wheel, and no memory of how I got there.

  “How’d—?”

  “Brenda’s driving my car back. What happened to your face?”

  I rolled down the window, hot air blasting my eyes. “Long story.” But I didn’t offer it, too busy trying to quell the urge to purge my stomach. I leaned back against the upholstery, concentrated on breathing only. A million years later, Richard braked and I saw the shimmering outline of his house out the driver’s side window beyond me. Richard got out, slammed the door with a deafening bang and seconds later hauled me out and was leading me up the steps and through the door. Half a minute later I was on my bed, head hanging over the edge. Richard grabbed my left hand, placed the wastebasket in it.

  “Just in case,” he said.

  I closed my eyes and his footsteps faded away. Time stopped for a couple of decades. I wasn’t truly asleep, but I wasn’t awake, either. Caught in a limbo that threatened but refused to deliver blessed oblivion, my mind kept recycling thoughts and images of the sparkling red shoe, glistening, scarlet-drenched hands, and a blood-drained Walt, his vacant eyes forever focused on an empty eternity.

  * * *

  The sun had been up at least three hours when I cracked my eyes open the next morning. I wasn’t sure how bad I felt—but I knew it was better than I’d been the day before. Before the thought of food or even coffee entered my mind, I needed to find out about the arrest Tom had told me about the day before.

  I sat on the edge of my bed, phone in hand, and punched in a number I’d memorized months before.

  “Newsroom. Sam Nielsen.”

  “The cops made an arrest?”

  “Jeff? I was going to call you. You need a cell phone.”

  I closed my eyes against the onslaught of light leaking around the back window. “You can always reach me here. Besides, cell phones take money and I’ve only had a job for four days.”

  “Your brother’s sitting on millions. He can’t buy you one?”

  Sam and I weren’t close enough for me to get into that situation. “Just tell me what you know.”

  “Schizophrenic homeless guy. Name’s Craig Buchanan. He had the murder weapon on him.”

  “A stiletto.”

  “You got it. But he didn’t do it, right?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “You got a line on who did?”

  “Not yet. What else can you tell me?”

  “Just the guy’s next of kin. A sister in Cheektowaga—not far from you.” Paper rustled, as he must’ve consulted his notes. “Cara Scott. I’ll save you some time.” He gave me her address. “The story’s in today’s edition. You can check it online now.”

  “I’ll do that.” He was being too helpful. What would he want in return?

  I pushed some more. “The cops gave Kaplan’s cousin his house keys. Did they say anything about his wallet or the missing ring?”

  “Nothing on the wallet. The ring hasn’t been hocked—at least not yet. I guess the keys were on the body, along with pocket change. You know, Jeff, we should work together on this.”

  The memory of Richard’s blood-soaked trench coat was still too fresh for me to want to take up anyone’s offer of help. As it was, had I put Maggie in danger by allowing her to come with me to Holiday Valley?

  “I thought you said this wasn’t your story.”

  “It wasn’t. The guy who had it went on a cruise. The Caribbean in June, can you believe it? So what’ve you got?”

  “Nothing I can talk about yet. Just some
impressions that don’t add up.”

  “Yet.”

  “Yeah. Yet.”

  “The two of us would make a helluva team,” he tried again. “I don’t have to name my sources, you know.”

  “I know. But I don’t have anything concrete to give you yet.”

  “Yeah, well keep me in mind. I’ll be talking to you, Jeff.” The receiver clicked in my ear.

  * * *

  I wasn’t ready to talk to Craig Buchanan’s next of kin. Instead, I called Tom to apologize, but he blew me off and told me not to bother to come in that day as he’d already asked Dave the other bartender to step in, but I’d better show up the next day. Fair enough. I was just grateful I still had a job.

  After showering, I inspected the small cuts on my face—no worse than razor nicks. But the patches of redness were not attractive. So what. It’s not like I’d be going on a date with Maggie—or anyone else—any time soon.

  The thought of food didn’t turn my stomach, so I downed my medication with a chaser of Cheerios and two cups of coffee, then appropriated Richard’s computer to read Sam’s article. It didn’t tell me much more than I already knew. Next up I tried to find a Web site with information on the Cattaraugus County tax base to track down the owner of the house at 4537 Alpine Road. If it was there, I couldn’t find it.

  Sophie was convinced Walt had a foot fetish and Google gave me an assortment of URLs to try. Each was set up like any standard porn site. Lots of shots of hot lesbians licking toes, naked bi chicks sucking toes, contorted women sucking their own toes. Walt didn’t have a computer. Did he buy the magazines with skinny, scantily clad or naked chicks on the cover, tongues hanging out seductively and masturbate to his heart’s delight? And if he did, where did he hide them?

  Footsteps approached from the hall and Richard wandered into his study. “You must be feeling better this morning.” I turned to see him do a classic double take as he focused in on the image on his nineteen-inch monitor. “What are you doing with my computer?”

  I leaned back in his big leather chair and swung around to face him, struggling not to grin. “Checking out foot fetish Web sites. Wanna look?”