Dead In Red

by L. L. Bartlett

  “Walt didn’t want Veronica to get her hands on it. He said he didn’t have a safety deposit box and asked me to take it for safekeeping. It was only supposed to be for a couple of days. She killed him that night.”

  Had Walt finally told Veronica he was broke? I could imagine someone with an obsessive personality being angry and determined enough to try to seize Walt’s only real asset. She must’ve tortured him until he told her what happened to the ring.

  “Anyway,” Gene continued, “Cyn and I talked about it and decided to keep quiet. Cyn was ecstatic when that homeless guy was arrested. But you kept poking around and she got paranoid. We argued on Sunday afternoon. She went berserk after she visited your brother. She was afraid she’d be accused of being an accessory to the crime. She wouldn’t listen to me—to reason. She left town. At first I thought she’d gone to Holiday Valley, but I went out there and she hasn’t been around. I don’t know where she is.”

  And I wasn’t going to tell him. Yet, I believed him. He wasn’t a killer, and he wasn’t a drag queen. He was just a boy in a dress on Saturday nights.

  Gene held his coffee under his chin, but didn’t seem willing or able to drink it. The hands holding onto the cup were small, soft, the nails short. They weren’t the bloodied, masculine hands I’d been seeing for almost two weeks. Yet, when I’d touched him, the vision had exploded across my mind.

  A chill ran through me. It was Gene’s blood on those glistening hands.

  Like a slaughterhouse, Sophie had said.

  “Why did Veronica think Walt had money?”

  “He drove that big Caddy. She never saw where he lived—how he lived. See, at first Walt was a sucker for her, wanted to impress her. He told her that after his accident he received a million-dollar settlement.”

  “But he didn’t.”

  “Nah, more like a hundred grand.”

  “He must’ve eventually told her the truth.”

  “He did. She didn’t believe him. She’s . . . one scary person.”

  “How did you and Walt become friends?”

  He laughed. “Golf. He told me one day we’d play a round. Never happened.” His mouth sagged. “Never will now.”

  Walt hadn’t had many people in his life that cared about him. Hell, I’m not even sure Tom really gave a damn about him. But wimpy little Gene did. And now he was just as vulnerable as Walt had been.

  “I’m sorry you lost your friend.”

  Gene looked over at me, his eyes bright. “Thanks.”

  “You’re not safe here in Buffalo.”

  His gaze intensified, fear tightening his lips. He’d seen firsthand Veronica’s handiwork.

  “Does Veronica know about the Holiday Valley house?”

  He shook his head.

  “It might be a good idea for you to go stay there for a few days. Do you have clothes there?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Good. Because I don’t think you should go back to your apartment. I won’t say I’m great at reconnaissance, but I can usually pick up a tail. I’ll drop you off at your car and follow you out to the Thruway to make sure Veronica isn’t staking you out. You stay put out there until at least Saturday. After that—”

  After that he’d either be dead or alive, but the truth would be out.

  “What do you say?”

  He sighed, recapped his coffee. “Okay.”

  # # #

  CHAPTER 21

  It was almost nine-thirty when, feeling punch drunk, I staggered into Richard’s kitchen. He and Brenda were at the table, finishing breakfast, and neither of them looked happy.

  “Where the hell have you been?” Richard demanded. “Didn’t you think we’d be worried sick? Your car’s gone, your bed hasn’t been slept in.”

  “That’ll teach me to make the damn thing every morning,” I said and collapsed into a chair.

  “Did you sleep at all?” Brenda asked.

  “Not since yesterday.”

  “You want something to eat?”

  “Toast, please.”

  She got up to make me some.

  “Well?” Richard asked. His eye wasn’t so black this morning; it had turned a bit green with yellow edges—healing.

  Resting my elbow on the table, I leaned my cheek into my palm and tried to keep my eyes open. “I went back to Norwalk Street, found Gene Higgins.”

  “And?”

  “He says Veronica admitted to him that she killed Walt and dumped him behind the mill. Poor kid’s scared shitless.”

  “With cause, I’d say.”

  “He’s going to hide out at Cyn’s house in Holiday Valley for a few days, but I don’t for a minute think he’s safe.”

  “Why not?” Brenda asked.

  I sat up straighter, cleared my throat. “That vision of bloody hands I keep getting—it’s Gene’s blood I see.”

  The toast popped up, and Brenda put it on a plate, handed it to me. “I don’t see how you can eat it dry like that.”

  “I like it that way.”

  “Want some milk with that?”

  I nodded.

  “What makes you think it’s Gene’s blood?” Richard asked.

  “I touched him and bang! There was the vision. What I don’t get are the hands themselves. They’re very definitely strong, masculine hands. And so far nobody involved in this murder has hands like that.”

  Brenda placed a short glass of milk in front of me. “I could warm it up,” she offered.

  “No, thanks.”

  “What’ll you do next?” Richard asked.

  I chewed and swallowed some toast. “Crash for a few hours.”

  “Oh, good,” Brenda said, “because the zipper broke on one of the suitcases and I want to see if we can get another one.”

  “You don’t need me for that.” Richard said.

  “It’s your suitcase,” she deadpanned.

  End of that discussion.

  I gulped down the milk, grabbed my second piece of toast and pushed myself up from the table. “If I’m not up by one, give me a yell, willya?”

  “Will do,” Richard said, resigned.

  I threaded my way through the pantry to my room off the back hall. I needed to call Tom, tell him I wouldn’t be in before I could allow myself the luxury of sleep. And later in the day, I’d have to turn my efforts to figuring out how to protect Gene and corner Veronica.

  And I didn’t have a clue how to accomplish either.

  * * *

  Instead of Richard, it was the telephone that woke me. It rang four times and I grabbed it before voice mail picked up. “What?”

  “Do you always answer the phone that way?” Maggie asked.

  My grip on the receiver slackened. “When I’m yanked from a deep sleep, yeah.”

  “It’s almost one o’clock. What are you doing in bed at this time of day? Are you sick?”

  Eyes closed, I asked myself the same question. Maybe. Subtle rumblings behind my eyes told me I’d better take my meds when I got up, in hopes of staving off one of my all-too-frequent skull pounders.

  “I don’t know where Brenda is. You want to leave a message?”

  “Well . . . actually, I wanted to talk to you.”

  That statement warranted the opening of one eye. “Oh?”

  “I . . . kind of wanted to apologize to you.”

  The other eye opened. “What for?”

  “Apparently it’s none of my business if you risk your brother’s life.”

  “Who told you that?”

  “Richard.”

  I blinked.

  “He called me earlier this morning and very politely told me to mind my own business.”

  “And what did you say?”

  “I apologized.”

  I rolled onto my back, stared at the ceiling. “Does this mean the two of us can move forward?”

  “I’m not sure what it means.”

  “Neither do I, but it might be fun to find out. What are you doing on Friday?”

  She laughed
. “I’m the maid of honor at a wedding.”

  “What a coincidence. I’m the best man. I meant after that.”

  “I took the whole day off from work.”

  “Me, too.”

  “Then maybe we could spend the rest of the day together.”

  “How about the evening, too?” I suggested.

  “Maybe.”

  “That sounds nice.”

  “Yeah, it sounds nice to me, too.” Did I detect the hint of a smile in her voice? “Okay,” she said at last. “I guess I’ll see you Friday.”

  “For sure.”

  The phone clicked in my ear and I hung up the receiver. My grin of anticipation waned. Now if we all lived until Friday, we might just have a happily ever after.

  * * *

  The first time my bony ass had ever settled in an Adirondack chair had been on a trip to Vermont with Shelley. We’d stayed at a quaint country inn, sucked in clean mountain air and decided that rural vistas could entice us away from the city. That is, until Shelley realized that cell towers and kosher delis weren’t available on demand.

  The sun had already maneuvered around ninety percent of the deck when I’d gone to sit outside to soak in its rays on Brenda’s new lawn furniture. She’d won that battle, but still hadn’t convinced Richard that a hot tub was a necessity.

  Sitting back, my face tilted toward the sky, legs outstretched before me, arms limp on the long flat rests, I lazed, inviting sleep to come. And maybe I even dozed for a few minutes before something cold thwacked beside my hand.

  “Don’t spill it,” Richard chided.

  My eyes jerked open, my fingers closing around a frosted glass. A lemon wedge floated amongst a cluster of ice cubes. I took a sip. Unsweetened iced tea—just the way I liked it.

  Richard had taken one of the other rustic chairs and sipped his drink.

  “Where’s Brenda?” I asked.

  “Ironing and packing for the trip. She’s making it a ritual, taking pictures and everything. It’s unnatural.”

  No, it was Brenda’s way of coping with what Richard and I were doing. She was worried, with reason, after what had happened to Richard less than three months before. Yet she loved him enough not to be clingy.

  I leaned back in my chair, the sun warming my face. “Shelley was the same way the first six months we were married,” I said, lamely. It was later that everything soured. That the mere thought of her made me angry. That she lied and cheated on me and stole all our assets to feed her drug habit.

  I put her out of my mind and wondered if Richard realized just how lucky he was to have Brenda.

  “What’s on your mind?” I asked, changing the subject.

  “Airplane tickets for Friday night.”

  This wasn’t a conversation I wanted to have. I took another sip of tea, waited for him to continue.

  “We have to wrap up this investigation of yours. Fast.”

  “I don’t know where to find Veronica until tomorrow night.”

  “It’s time you told the police what you know.”

  All the muscles in my body tensed. “I haven’t got a shred of tangible evidence.”

  “You’ve got pictures of Walt and Veronica together. You’ve got Gene Higgins’s testimony.” Richard had adopted his patient, comforting, reasonable physician’s voice, which tended to piss me off.

  “It’s not enough.”

  Richard set down his glass, crossed his arms over his chest, his expression dour. “To use an old cliché, I’m caught between a rock and a hard place. You and Brenda.”

  “No you’re not. Brenda’s your future. I’m only a small part of your past, and damn lucky to still have a place in your life. You can’t let whatever’s going on with me influence the big decisions in your life.”

  “That’s a crock, and you know it. If I needed a kidney tomorrow, you’d be there for me—just like I’d be there for you.”

  I shook my head. “It’s a question of priorities. It’s—” Useless to argue with him, my better judgment screamed.

  There were alternatives. I could call Sam, tell him everything I knew and let him run with it. But that wouldn’t stop the visions, the nagging feeling I’d picked up at Walt’s apartment that told me to find the truth.

  Sophie had more or less told me everything would be over by Saturday, but that was a day too late for Richard’s timetable.

  I picked up my glass but found I couldn’t take another swallow. I set it beside me on the deck. “Look, give me two days. If I don’t have everything wrapped up by Thursday night, I’ll share what I know with someone. Either Sam Nielsen at the newspaper or the Amherst police. Will that satisfy you?”

  He took a few moments to mull over what I’d said. “I don’t like it. But I guess I understand where you’re coming from, and I suppose I’ll have to accept it. What do we do next?”

  I let out a breath. “Hang out tonight at Big Brother’s and see if Veronica shows up. She might socialize there as well as perform. But it could mean a long night.”

  “Hey, I’m up for it.”

  After pulling an all-nighter and with only three hours of sleep, I wasn’t sure I was.

  # # #

  CHAPTER 22

  After supper I spent two hours pulling weeds, which proved to be a satisfactory way of working off aggression—tension—I wasn’t sure exactly what emotion prickled through me. My bushel basket was full by the time I finished and the garden looked beautiful. If I didn’t get around to mulching, I’d have to do it again in another week, but the thought didn’t bother me. It gave me a goal—a reason to live. The garden also represented order, and that’s exactly what I craved.

  The sun had set by the time I wandered into Richard’s study. Brenda sat under the glow of a genuine Tiffany lamp, a yellow pad on her lap, refining her final packing list while Richard pored over the latest issue of the New England Journal of Medicine—still boning up for the new job, I supposed.

  “You about ready to head out?”

  Richard set his reading aside. “Sure thing.”

  Brenda looked up. “If you come back early, bring some wings, will you?”

  Richard paused to give her a kiss good-bye. She grabbed his hand—hung on for long seconds, didn’t say anything. He gave her a reassuring smile, kissed her fingers and pulled away, and we headed for the door.

  Richard drove and the ride across town was a silent one.

  “You seem preoccupied,” Richard said.

  “I am. You want to wrap this up and I’ve got a feeling . . .” I had a feeling, all right. Only I wasn’t sure what it was. Uneasy covered a lot of territory. I was almost afraid to close my eyes because I knew the vision of those damn bloody hands could swoop down over me at any time. I was going to see those hands in reality in the not-too-distant future and dreaded it. Blood in that volume meant death and I was probably going to be an unwilling witness to Gene Higgins’s death.

  My paranoia shifted into overdrive. “When we get there, you wouldn’t want to just wait in the car, would you?”

  “Why?” Richard asked.

  He had no clue how . . . well, dead he’d looked lying on the floor with a bullet wound to the chest. How I never wanted that to happen again. How thinking about Gene’s probable death was scaring me shitless.

  I looked out the passenger side window. “Just wondered.”

  “Why don’t you tell me everything you know about those bloody hands,” he said.

  “I’ve told you everything.”

  “I don’t think so. You’ve seen hands. Can you focus in on what’s around them? What else do you see?”

  I wasn’t sure I could conjure the vision on command. I closed my eyes—concentrated. I felt the car slow . . . for a red light? I heard the radio as background noise. Squeezing my eyes shut tighter still didn’t bring up the vision. No, it would show up when I didn’t want it to.

  “I can’t get it.”

  “Next time it hits, pay more attention to the periphery. It might give you a
clue as to where you need to be.”

  Where I needed to be. He’d accepted the inevitable, too. Only he was banking on it happening before Friday.

  So was I.

  * * *

  Big Brother’s wasn’t as kinetic as the other gay bars we’d visited. A glittering silver disco ball revolved overhead, but it was a ballad—Ella Fitzgerald?—playing in the background, while a few couples, males only, clung to one another on the small dance floor. The stage up front was unlit, the folds of its heavy curtains melting into the darkness. Flickering oil lamps glowed on each bistro table, illuminating the faces of the few patrons. Either we were too early or the place was dead on a Tuesday night.

  I spotted Veronica right away, sitting at the far side of the horseshoe-shaped bar, a nearly full martini glass set before her as she swayed dreamily to the music.

  “This is where we part company,” I told Richard.

  “Not on your life.”

  “Look, I don’t want to argue about this.”

  “Then don’t,” he said, and stalked across the room, taking the empty stool on Veronica’s right. He signaled the bartender, gave his order.

  I couldn’t let some other joker grab the seat on her left, so I hurried over to take it.

  The bartender handed Richard a bottle of Labatt Blue and a glass. He paid for it and received his change, laying down a couple of bills and shoving them forward.

  The bartender wandered up before me. “Get you anything?”

  “Bottle of Molson.”

  He nodded, handed me my order in record time. “Three fifty.”

  I shoved a five toward him, waved him to keep the change. Veronica hadn’t opened her eyes, hadn’t noticed her new neighbors.

  Richard leaned forward around her, gave me an imploring look.

  I cleared my throat. “Miss Veronica?”

  Veronica turned her head in my direction. “Yes?”

  Her startling blue eyes surprised me—reminding me of my mother’s, of Richard’s. I offered my hand. “My name is Jeff Resnick. I’m a friend of Tom Link’s.”

  “Sorry, I don’t know anyone by that name.” Her voice was higher than I anticipated.