Dead In Red

by L. L. Bartlett

  “No,” he said, but his expression said otherwise.

  It was taking all my self-control to hold onto my temper. “Thank you.” I turned back to the monitor and clicked on the “Home” button, then on “Show Times.” The image changed, the club’s schedule filling the screen. Club Monticello was billed as the “Biggest, Best Gay Bar in Buffalo,” but the drag shows were listed only for Friday, Saturday and Sunday evenings.

  Richard leaned in close enough that I could feel his breath on the back of my neck. “First foot fetishes, now drag shows? What’s next, kiddy porn?”

  Slowly, I swiveled the chair around to face him. “I’m going to pretend you didn’t say that.”

  He backed off a step. “You know what I mean.”

  I kept my mouth shut, afraid of saying something I might always regret. I turned back to the monitor, shut down the connection and turned off the computer. Pushing back the chair, I got up and headed for the door. Richard moved to block me.

  “I got a call from Cyn Lennox this afternoon. A worker at the Hawk’s Nest saw you taking photos of her. What the hell is going on? Don’t tell me she’s your suspect.”

  “Fine. I won’t.” I moved to push past him but he blocked me again.

  “You can’t be serious. She didn’t even know Walt Kaplan.”

  “She tell you that?”

  He had no answer.

  “Walt was in her office just days before he died.”

  “How do you know?”

  “How do you think?”

  Richard gritted his teeth in annoyance. “You got that the day we visited her?”

  I nodded.

  “Why didn’t you say something then?”

  “What for, and get you angry—like you are now? No one wants to hear an old friend might be a murderer.”

  “‘Might be,’” he repeated. “Does that mean you’re not sure?”

  “You’re damn right I’m not sure. And I don’t like going around telling my suspicions to people when I don’t have the facts to back them up.”

  That mollified him, but only for a moment. “She said she’d file charges if you show up again.”

  “I don’t need to go back there anymore. I have what I need to keep going.”

  “Her picture?”

  I nodded.

  He shook his head. “I’m asking you, Jeff, please drop this.”

  “Why, because your friend’s got something to hide and doesn’t want the truth to come out? Even if she didn’t do it, she knows something about Walt’s death and isn’t telling.”

  “Then what is it you think you know besides Kaplan was in her office?”

  I clamped my lips together and looked away.

  “Could it be you haven’t got anything but a hunch?”

  “I’ve got more. Lots more.”

  “Then why don’t you share it with the cops?”

  “I told you, I’m not ready yet.”

  “Then why don’t you tell me?” He waited for an answer. “No, you don’t want to talk to me, either. You’ve hardly said a word to me in days. What’s going on?”

  The frustration in his voice only cranked up my feelings of guilt. Yet I refused to meet his gaze.

  “I thought you counted me as not only your brother, but your friend. Lately you’re cutting me out. Why? It can’t be just because of Cyn.”

  The fatigue I’d been denying for days finally caught up with me, and I knew I wasn’t in any shape for a battle. “I don’t mean to, it’s just that—” I shut my eyes and exhaled, wishing I could be somewhere—anywhere—else. When I opened them again, Richard was still staring at me, disappointment shadowing his eyes.

  “Look, Rich, you don’t approve of what I do, be it getting a job or looking into Walt Kaplan’s death, or even how I’m handling this situation with Maggie Brennan. I can’t do a damn thing right in your eyes.”

  “Don’t give me that shit. If you can’t be honest with me, at least be honest with yourself.”

  His words stung, but he was right. I wasn’t telling the truth. I wasn’t capable of telling him what I really felt. I trusted Richard more than anyone else on this Earth and still I couldn’t level with him.

  Richard was the first to look away. He crossed the room to the dry bar across the way and poured himself a neat scotch. I stood in the doorway, unable to move.

  He took a sip and didn’t look back. “Go on, take off. It’s what you do best.”

  My memory flashed back to the day, eighteen years before, when he’d driven me to the airport. Without his knowledge, I’d enlisted in the Army. When, bags packed and needing a ride, I finally told him, two hours before my flight, he’d been hurt and angry. Really, really angry. By the time we stood together in the airport’s departure lounge, he’d come to reluctant acceptance.

  “Thanks for . . .” After nearly four unhappy years in the Alpert residence, I wasn’t sure what. “Everything,” I’d mumbled.

  I’d been shocked when he’d grabbed me in a fierce hug. “I love you, kid,” he’d managed to croak in my ear.

  I didn’t hug him back. I’d been embarrassed beyond words.

  When he let go, I’d clutched my carry-on and bolted for the Jetway. Yet at the last second, I’d turned back to see tears in his eyes. Guilt made me give him a perfunctory wave before I charged ahead to escape what had become for me a very painful exit.

  I didn’t see Richard again for six years, and even then hadn’t been able to let go of the bitterness.

  Richard’s back was still to me. He raised his glass to drink again and, true to form, I fled for the safety of my room, feeling just as stupid and unworthy as I had all those years ago.

  * * *

  I rang the buzzer and waited. Except for the dim light within, the bakery was dark . . . as usual. Then, a bulky silhouette blotted out a portion of light.

  Sophie ambled forward and unlocked the heavy plate glass door, her face creased with worry. “You don’t look happy.”

  “I’m not.”

  She ushered me inside, closed and locked the door. “So come in and tell all.”

  I shuffled along behind her. “Nothing much to tell.”

  We sat down at the wobbly card table. Tonight, oblivious of the outside temperature, she had hot chocolate steaming in mugs with hairline cracks crazing them.

  “It’s this murder, isn’t it?” she asked. I nodded. “Things aren’t going fast enough for you, eh?”

  I took a sip of my cocoa and shrugged. “The police arrested the wrong man.”

  “What else?”

  Again I shrugged. “You ever connect with someone who knew what you were thinking, feeling?”

  “Your Maggie?”

  “She’s not exactly mine. But she says she can feel what I feel. I guess she’s never done that with anyone else.”

  “Mmm.”

  “That a yes or a no?”

  Sophie tilted her head to one side, considering. “I wish I could say yes. Sometimes these gifts we have isolate us from others. We both know how frightening it can be to know things we’d rather not know. Is Maggie afraid?”

  “She’s freaked. So am I.”

  Sophie leaned back in her chair, folded her hands over her ample stomach. “This murder—Maggie—that’s not really why you came here tonight.”

  I met her gaze. “I guess not.”

  “Tell me.”

  She was right. I had come there to talk about something else, only now I wasn’t sure I could.

  She reached across the little table and patted my hand. “Guilt is a terrible thing to live with. I know about it firsthand.”

  I stared down at the circle of tiny bubbles rimming my cocoa.

  “When Richard got shot, I actually prayed to God, ‘Don’t let him die.’ I thought that would be enough. I thought everything would be all right if he made it and was okay. But I can’t get away from the fact it’s my fault he almost died, and makes me one helluva shit as a brother.”

  Sophie frowned. “That�
�s not true. You love him and you need each other. And who’s filling your head with this nonsense, anyway?”

  Maggie. Myself. “Nobody important.”

  “Then why do you listen?” she scolded. “Does your brother blame you?”

  “No. He worries about me like, like—” I laughed. “An old yenta.”

  Sophie reared back as though offended. “I’m not a yenta, but I do worry about you. I worry about all my,” she hesitated, “friends.”

  I couldn’t help but smile. “And you’re not old, either.”

  “Oh, you lie so well.” She grinned and reached across to pat my hand again. Then her smile faded and it was her turn to inspect the depths of her mug. “Your brother has reason to worry. Like what happened to you yesterday.”

  My head jerked up. Sophie’s expression was reproachful.

  “You think that was deliberate?” I didn’t have to clarify what I meant. She already knew what had happened to me in the ramp garage.

  “You need to be careful. More careful than you’ve been.”

  “That only proves me right. Getting Richard involved would only endanger him.”

  “You need him. And maybe somebody else will need him, too.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Drink your cocoa,” she ordered, and took a sip of her own.

  “What is it you aren’t telling me?”

  “I don’t know the whys of everything, either. I just know.” She leaned closer. “There’s a reason you two were brought back together after so many years. It’s best not to tempt fate by staying apart.”

  I sipped my hot chocolate, its warmth spreading through me, making me sweat. Sophie’s logic didn’t make a whole helluva lot of sense to me, but in only the short time I’d known her I’d learned to trust her advice. Still . . . “What if something happens to Rich again and it’s my fault?”

  “Didn’t you tell me he pushed you out of the way of that bullet?”

  My hands tightened around my mug. “Yes, but—”

  “Then how was it your fault?”

  “Because the killer came after me.”

  “Would you rather be dead?”

  Sometimes—like right then—I wasn’t sure about the answer to that question.

  “I don’t want anyone’s death—particularly Richard’s—on my conscience.”

  Sophie scowled, sat back in her chair and exhaled through her nose. “Didn’t you hear what I told you just now?”

  “Yeah—and didn’t you hear what I told you?”

  Sophie grabbed her mug of cocoa, chugged it, and smacked it down on the table. She pushed back her chair and stood. “Time for you to go.”

  I stayed put.

  “Come on, I need my beauty sleep,” she said and grasped my arm, pulling me up.

  Her abrupt dismissal annoyed me, but I wasn’t going to be obstinate about it. Then again, she probably thought I was being obstinate.

  I followed her to the front of the shop. “Am I going to be welcome next time I come?”

  Sophie stopped abruptly and I nearly fell over her. She stared up at me, looking at once puzzled and distressed. “Why wouldn’t you be welcome?”

  “Oh, I dunno—the fact you’re kicking me out right now.”

  “I told you. I need my beauty sleep.” She grasped my shoulders, pulled me down and gave my cheek a wet kiss. “Next time I’ll make placek. You’ll feel better about things by then.”

  “Okay.”

  She patted my back before leading me to the door. I passed through it and she locked it behind me. I crossed the parking lot and paused, turned back to wave but Sophie had already retreated.

  You won’t solve this without him, she’d said.

  I could take that two ways, I thought as I made my way to the corner to cross at the light. Either I just gave up and let the visions of a red stiletto high heel torture me for the rest of my life, or I caved in and put my brother’s life at risk by letting him help me solve Walt Kaplan’s murder.

  I wasn’t sure which was the worse form of purgatory.

  * * *

  Sleep didn’t want to come to me. Tired as I was, there were too many thoughts, too many scenarios swirling around in my brain. In the early days of my marriage to Shelley, I’d often lie awake in the middle of the night. Sometimes during the torment of sleeplessness Shelley would wake and we’d make love. Those way-too-early couplings were the sweetest memories of our time together. We were in sync back then. Somehow she always seemed to sense when I needed her most, and she’d be there for me. That was, of course, before cocaine became her lover of choice.

  I rolled over onto my side and tried to blank out my thoughts, but an image of Maggie flashed across my mind’s eye. She seemed to want me, and God knows I’d wanted her from the first time I’d met her. And yet . . . I didn’t want our first time together to be cheap or tawdry.

  I closed my eyes and once again saw her sitting at Richard’s kitchen table days before, her lashes long and the hunger in her eyes reaching out for me. I couldn’t handle it then, but right about now . . .

  A myriad of sensations swept through me and I allowed myself to enjoy them, letting it build inside me until—

  My eyes snapped open, every muscle in my body tensing as I made a grab for the bedside phone. “Maggie?”

  “Jeff?” She sounded startled. “It didn’t even ring.”

  I exhaled and rolled onto my back. “I didn’t want it to wake Richard and Brenda.”

  “You knew it was me?”

  “Yeah.”

  She was quiet for a few moments. “I was lying awake and had this irresistible urge to call you. I didn’t even think that I might wake Brenda and Richard. Oh, God, what if you hadn’t picked up? I would’ve looked like such an idiot.”

  “But I did pick up.”

  “Yes.” Her voice relaxed, and I could envision her smile. “You did.”

  “I meant to thank you for the flowers. They were very pretty.”

  “I hope they didn’t make you feel uncomfortable. Brenda said you liked flowers. She showed me your garden. You’ve done a beautiful job.”

  “Thanks.”

  I closed my eyes, concentrated until I could hear Maggie’s soft breaths against the receiver. I was content to lie there and just listen, but eventually she broke the quiet.

  “How long are we going to wait?”

  I wanted to laugh. In my own mind, we’d already— “Are you in a hurry?”

  “I . . . might be. It’s been a long time since I even wanted—Since I . . .” Her words trailed off.

  I remembered what she’d told me months before. A husband who’d preferred men to Maggie, and had been too chickenshit to admit it to her until they’d been married eight years. She knew my tale of marital woe, too. I thought we’d get together back then, but the timing hadn’t been right.

  “What are you doing tomorrow?” I asked.

  “Working.”

  “All day?”

  “What did you have in mind?”

  A stupid grin creased my lips. “You ever hear of afternoon delight?”

  She hesitated. “Your place or mine?”

  “I haven’t got a place . . . yet.”

  “Then mine it is.”

  “I get out of work at four.”

  “I could get out a bit early. Do you know where I live?”

  “No, but I bet I could find you.”

  “I bet you could.” Still, she gave me the address. I didn’t bother to write it down. I wasn’t likely to forget it.

  “Then I guess I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow it is.”

  Long seconds turned into a minute, then two before Maggie finally hung up the phone.

  Minutes later I drifted off to sleep, and dreamed of Maggie Brennan.

  # # #

  CHAPTER 13

  My second Friday at the bar was pretty much a repeat of the week before, except this time the customers had accepted Walt’s departure from this world and t
he talk was back to sports.

  I’m not the world’s biggest sports nut. I can hold my own in conversations about basketball and football, but baseball and golf leave me yawning. I didn’t want to dwell on my upcoming evening with Maggie, either, so I had a lot of time to think about Walt’s death and what I did and didn’t know about it.

  If I hadn’t been working, I might’ve accomplished more with my half-assed investigation. Like taking a look at Cyn Lennox’s home, not that it would tell me anything more about her. I realized I knew virtually nothing about little workaholic Eugene Higgins other than he was Cyn’s nephew. And how was I going to find out anything about him? I could tail him after we both got out of work, but I wasn’t sure I had the stamina that a stakeout would require.

  It bugged me that Walt hadn’t fought against his attacker. Could he have been unconscious at the time? The newspaper reports hadn’t mentioned any kind of head injury. Had he been drugged or even drunk? How long would it take for the crime lab to come back with a blood and tissue workup? They’d already closed the books on Walt’s murder and weren’t likely to prosecute Buchanan for months, so what was the hurry anyway—at least from the cops’ or prosecutor’s perspective?

  Walt had been re-dressed and dumped behind the mill. If Cyn had been involved in his death, it would be pure stupidity to dump the body behind her place of work, and Cyn didn’t strike me as brainless. And yet, the flash of insight I’d had of Walt in her office was really the only evidence I had against her—pretty insubstantial at best. The two pairs of shoes were somehow connected . . . but how? It couldn’t have been a coincidence that Cyn owned the shoes Walt had copied. For one thing, I didn’t believe in coincidences despite the fact Cyn’s vacation home’s address and the storage locker number had been the same.

  I could go back to Walt’s apartment and soak myself in whatever was left of him, but I didn’t think that would yield any results, either.

  A dull pounding in my skull told me I needed to take a break from this train of thought—especially if I wanted to be in any shape to socialize later in the day. But suddenly something else occurred to me. That flash of insight I’d experienced in Cyn’s office hadn’t been from Walt’s perspective. Someone had been looking at him, had experienced seeing Walt’s smile of pleasure. I tried to refocus on the image but it wouldn’t come. I’d been so obnoxious that there was no way Cyn was ever going to let me back in to soak up any leftover vibes, and I could kick myself for not thinking of it when I’d gone back to the mill to talk to Dana Watkins.