Bubbles Ablaze

by Sarah Strohmeyer

  I closed my eyes. I wish journalism schools would stop graduating these ethical tightwads. “I didn’t realize I had a personal involvement. I didn’t realize it was Henry Metzger who sent me a fax getting me to the Number Nine mine Wednesday night or that he paged Stiletto on his cell phone.”

  “It was a whim,” Metzger said. “Actually, Max suggested it when he thought there was a possibility that Price was going to the mine that night. A good source who’d been keeping tabs on Koolball filled me in on his familial relationship to you, Bubbles. A mine explosion seemed like a perfect way to eliminate not only you, but also Steve.”

  “Your son?” Esmeralda said, incredulous.

  “Stepson and a hindrance in many, many ways, as was Bubbles. She and Steve knew me too well and, like Price, stood in my way of assured success. I had to get rid of them.”

  “He’s not what you’d call a warm and fuzzy father figure.”

  “Oh,” Esmeralda said.

  “McMullen cornered Price and shot him. Then McMullen escaped through the access hole and set off the explosion.”

  Except McMullen couldn’t handle the guilt, I thought.

  “The problem was Koolball,” Metzger continued. “I couldn’t have him killed because I needed the extinguisher. Yet I didn’t know what he’d do about Price’s murder, if he’d rat to the police, or if he knew about me. I was confident about one thing—that he’d try to reach you, Bubbles. You had been at the mine, had seen his car and were telling everybody in town about it.”

  “Which is why you pretended to be Stiletto and hired Zeke to keep tabs on me,” I said.

  “Yes.” Metzger beamed like I was a star pupil.

  “And you also put the pressure on Hugh to get hold of Stinky.” I gestured with my hand. “Something like, find Koolball and I’ll offer you protection. You won’t have to go to jail for murder.”

  “Too bad you didn’t give him Koolball, Bubbles,” Metzger said. “Hugh would be alive today. Don’t you feel guilty?”

  “No,” I said.

  The front door downstairs opened and closed. “Hello?” said a deep voice.

  “Up here,” Henry said laconically.

  “But why kill me?” Esmeralda said. “Is it because of my investigative reporting?”

  “You’re incidental,” he said to Esmeralda. “But I knew Bubbles would figure out my plans. She’s a better reporter. You, Esmeralda, are just a cover. A cover that must be blown—away, so to speak.”

  I tried not to be swayed by the better reporter part, although, I have to admit, I was rather flattered. “Where’s Sasha?” I asked.

  Steps came down the hall, slowly.

  “Sasha is in a safe place, waiting for phase two. She is my insurance that Chrissy Price will make me her silent, seventy-five-percent partner in opening the Mammoth Basin. That way I’ll have total control.”

  “And Steve?” I asked.

  Metzger stepped back and let the visitor enter. “You’re late,” he said.

  “Got held up,” said Donohue.

  Henry Metzger’s so-called source. The one that had been filling him in about Stinky Koolball and his relationship to me.

  Donohue tipped his hat. “Bubbles. Esmeralda. So, then.” He rubbed his hands together. “How are we going to do this?”

  Metzger looked at both of us. “Yablonsky first because I’m tired of her. Esmeralda’s easier on the eyes. Do her next.”

  “Yeah?” said Donohue. “Okay.”

  “And what about you, Chief?” I said.

  Donohue pulled out a pair of gloves from his pocket. “How’s that?”

  “May we drop our hands?”

  The two men looked at each other and nodded. “Sure,” said Donohue.

  Esmeralda and I dropped our hands and shook our arms. “I mean, what about your soul?” I said.

  “Soul, huh?” Donohue snapped on his glove. “What about my soul?”

  “Your great-great something father was Yellow Jack Donohue, isn’t that right?” I tried to recall in detail the photos at the Union Hall.

  “That’s right.” Donohue snapped on the glove’s mate and removed the gun from his holster.

  “And didn’t he go to the gallows as a Molly Maguire after he was framed by men like Franklin Gowen and Asa Packer?”

  Henry Metzger handed him Esmeralda’s gun. “Use this. She’ll stop babbling soon.”

  They exchanged weapons. “Thanks,” said Donohue, checking out the sight. “So what?”

  “So, this man who is paying you off in a retirement house or whatever cash you’re getting,” I pointed to Metzger, “might just as well be the head of the Lehigh Valley Railroad in the 1870s. Henry Metzger, like Asa Packer and Franklin Gowen, did all he could to suppress the unions. He didn’t give a damn about workers. It was because of him that I never had a father to run to when I had nightmares at night. He killed my father and, had he been living at the time, he would have shot Yellow Jack Donohue.”

  “Like this?”

  Donohue raised Esmeralda’s pistol and fired. It was one shot and it echoed through the house with a deafening sound.

  Henry Metzger fell to the floor. Dead. Dead for sure.

  “Holy shit,” Esmeralda said, staring at the blood that seeped through the hole on Henry Metzger’s forehead.

  I was speechless. Simply speechless. Largely because I was worried about what would happen next.

  “Sorry I had to do that in front of you, ladies.” Donohue’s knees creaked as he bent down and felt for Metzger’s pulse. “We could have brought him to trial and all that crap, but I’m too old. I just wanted the S.O.B. dead.”

  I reached for Elvis.

  “Stop. Bubbles, you can trust him.”

  Stiletto appeared at the door looking like death warmed over. Zeke was right behind him.

  “Steve!” Esmeralda exclaimed, holding open her arms. “I’m so glad you’ve come for me.”

  Stiletto shoved aside Esmeralda and stumbled forward, taking me in his arms.

  “Bubbles,” he murmured, kissing me deeply.

  And that’s when I noticed he was bleeding. Profusely from the shoulder. His white shirt was a blackish red on one side, and damp. His face was ashen. Dark circles lined his eyes, which studied me with all the intensity they could muster.

  “Are you okay?” He put a sweaty and cold hand against my cheek. “I love you so, so much.”

  His blue eyes began to roll. He leaned against me. I staggered and lay him down on the bed. Esmeralda pulled the gun out of the way.

  “He’s going into shock!” I said, grabbing a blanket from the foot of the bed. “We’ve got to get him to the emergency room.”

  “Darn it,” Zeke said. “There’s no working phone.”

  “I’ve got a cell,” Esmeralda said, searching around the room. “If I could only find my purse.”

  “Hey, Allen,” Donohue said from his position on the floor. “I distinctly remember telling you to get him to the hospital. Wasn’t he passed out when you found him in the basement?” Donohue took out his radio to call for an ambulance.

  “He woke up halfway to the hospital and took the wheel.” Zeke clutched Stiletto’s wrist. “He insisted we come back for Bubbles.”

  I bent my head to Stiletto’s chest and whispered a few heartfelt words. I have never prayed so hard or fervently in my life.

  And then I felt Zeke’s hand on my back. “It’s too late, Bubbles. I think we lost him.”

  Epilogue

  Needless to say, I did not make it to the Hellertown waste hauler’s strike vote. That was okay because the strikers didn’t want to get together at 5 A.M. on a Sunday, either, and they tabled the meeting. I did, however, manage to stop by the Catasauqua Republicans barbecue, which seemed to thrill Dix Notch more than the story I had about Henry Metzger’s comeback and subsequent death.

  Max Factor, of course, is in a heap of trouble. He had acquired all of Chester Zug’s personal information and used it to compile a new identity for Henr
y Metzger. He also drafted a plan with Henry to execute troublesome parties—like yours truly—before moving forward.

  Initially, Metzger’s plan was implemented to perfection. McMullen shot Price. McMullen committed suicide. Metzger’s plans to isolate Chrissy Price and pressure her to make him a silent partner in her company were foiled, however, by two entities—Professor Tallow and the Slagville Sirens.

  Max Factor had called Chrissy at the inn Friday night and said he would provide her with secret information about Bud’s murder if she met him at the Le Circe bar. Unfortunately for Factor, Tallow ambushed her at Le Circe first. He spent a half hour explaining how a gambling joint could destroy precious Celtic artifacts and why she shouldn’t let it be built. He spent another twenty minutes trying to hit her up for funding. Disgusted, Chrissy left and was waiting for valet parking to bring her car around when the Sirens’ husbands showed up in the F1 pickup. Max Factor tried to trail them in his Mercedes, unsuccessfully.

  That left Metzger and Factor with no option but to kidnap Sasha, a move that skewered their, until then, very profitable relationship with Chief Donohue.

  Max Factor had contacted Donohue as soon as he and his boss had learned from McMullen about Koolball’s extinguisher at the beginning of the year. The history of coal mining had taught them that having law enforcement on the baron’s side was not only beneficial, it was essential. Donohue provided them with daily updates, including my relationship to Stinky and my planned visit with Stiletto to the Passion Peak. In exchange, he was paid a handsome fee.

  But Sasha’s kidnapping changed all that. Donohue had tapped into the pay phone at Le Circe and listened to Metzger ream out his lawyer when Chrissy Price slipped away. After Metzger ordered Factor to pose as a police officer and kidnap Sasha, Chief Donohue had had enough. He decided it was time to switch sides, for he, too, knew his coal country history.

  He called Metzger and offered to do the dirty work, should dirty work need to be done. With McMullen no longer available to play shooter, Henry took him up on his offer. The call came around one A.M., right after the Hoagie Ho.

  Donohue immediately phoned Zeke for backup and the two of them drove to Saucon Valley. Zeke found Stiletto in the basement and got him out of the house. Then Donohue came to “kill” us, neatly turning the tables in the end.

  Following standard procedure, Donohue has stepped down as Chief of Police while the state police conduct an investigation of Metzger’s shooting. Donohue has claimed self defense in the shooting of Henry Metzger, and Esmeralda and I have decided that’s good enough for us. Sasha, who had been sequestered in Max Factor’s office, has declared the chief her hero. We hope the authorities will weigh these elements in deciding whether to charge Donohue further.

  Max Factor, however, was arrested for kidnapping, assorted counts of fraud and attempted murder (after trapping me in the basement of St. Ignatius Church). His law license has been suspended, though he has been released on five hundred thousand dollar bail. Dan claims that since several of the charges are federal ones, Max will end up in Allendale, one of the cushier federal pens in Pennsylvania.

  Chrissy, Stinky and the Slagville Sirens reached an agreement on the fire extinguisher. Stinky holds the patent and has licensed it to Chrissy’s newly formed Buss Enterprises (Buss being a combination of Bud and Chris). Chrissy has pledged to use the fire extinguisher to put out the fire in Limbo and to make the underground safe for a casino. Buss Enterprises owns the mining rights under the Dead Zone and Chrissy has acquiesced to the Sirens’ request that she not mine there.

  Convincing the towns of Slagville and Limbo, once the fire is out, will be another matter since the mining rights could bring in tons of money. But Stinky’s fire extinguisher has yet to be perfected and, as Vilnia says, why cross a bridge when you can stand under the bridge and taunt goats. I think she means she’ll cross that bridge when she gets to it.

  I asked Vilnia what was up with those old men following me, and she explained that she’d sent her husband and the husbands of other Slagville Sirens on an errand to Lehigh. Their purpose was to find out if I had any sinister angle regarding Bud Price or Stinky that they didn’t know about. They were suspicious since I was at the scene of the murder and explosion that night. After the men asked around at Price Family Ford and then searched my house, they decided I had just happened upon the murder scene in the mine. So they cleaned me out of leftovers and went back to Slagville. They weren’t sent on another “errand” until they picked up Chrissy Price in their F1 pickup.

  Roxanne found Stinky in the Hole Saturday night and convinced him to come home. She tearfully confessed that the box of documents had been stolen while she slept downstairs and he confessed that he had been the one who took them. He had read the News-Times with my story about McMullen Coal digging beneath the Dead Zone early Friday morning. In his constant paranoid state, Stinky feared the documents would attract unwanted attention, so he slipped into the house shortly after dawn and took them. Then he drove down to Lehigh to meet with me.

  By the way, he also snuck into Roxanne’s house Friday night and cooked himself a burger, accidentally forgetting to turn off the stove when he heard a noise and fled. That caused the fire, which G so courageously extinguished.

  Zeke Allen has become somewhat of a fixture in our lives and I don’t think it’s because he likes Mama’s meat loaf or Genevieve’s mashed potatoes. He seems to be taken with the wit and intelligence possessed by my daughter, Jane. They take long bike rides and discuss all sorts of deep religious issues. Reincarnation. Spiritual nihilism. Sex. Jane has turned him onto Buddhism and Zeke has given her a beautiful white leather-bound edition of the King James version of the Bible. All I can say is that it’s better than G’s nonstop South Park.

  It took Zeke a while to get over the guilt of holding me at gunpoint. He was only doing what Stiletto had asked him. Unable to reach Roxanne’s Saturday night—because I had brilliantly disconnected the Main Mane’s phone—Stiletto had called Zeke and demanded that he do whatever it took to keep me from coming down to Saucon Valley. He said a trap had been set for me. Zeke waited in my car and forced me to his house with no explanation. His thinking was that if I knew a trap had been set, I’d have wanted to spring it. He was right.

  Esmeralda and I ended up sharing a byline on a story that was carried coast to coast and even overseas by the wire services. Writing with her wasn’t so bad, except she kept hogging the computer and correcting my grammar. Whom versus who, that sort of thing. And although she claims she has no interest in Stiletto, I suspect otherwise. I saw the way she gazed at him when he stumbled in the door that awful night and I suspect that for a moment there, she fantasized he was coming for her.

  She is going to be a pain in my Sommersized backside.

  That’s because Steve Stiletto did survive, despite his near death experience. His injuries were so severe that the AP postponed by one month his transfer to England, where he is supposed to head a new bureau. But there’s more.

  The day after being released from the hospital, Stiletto declared that he was embarking on a spiritual quest to seek truth and purity and therefore he wouldn’t be indulging in the delights of the flesh for a while.

  That’s right. Stiletto took a chastity vow.

  “There’s more to life than dodging bullets in Pakistan, you know?” he said as we were relaxing chastely in front of a toasty fire in his Saucon Valley mansion.

  “I know that, Stiletto.”

  “Career. Danger. Travel. Those don’t matter when you die.”

  “Oh?” We were on the floor, our backs against the couch warming our toes after a long hike in the woods. As part of his spiritual quest, Stiletto had been spending a lot of time becoming one—with nature, that is.

  “Giving. Growing. Loving. Committing. Those are the important things, Bubbles.” He put his arm around my shoulders and pulled me tight. “Don’t you agree?”

  I dared not to hope. “Yes.”

  “So wha
t do you say? Why don’t we give it a go?”

  I turned my face to him. “Marriage?”

  “The Peace Corps. Taking care of those who can’t care for themselves. The monsoon-ravaged jungles of Asia. The drought-ridden plains of Africa. Two years, Bubbles. Two years in our lives committed to donating our skills so others may live. Let’s do it!”

  “Right.” I sighed.

  I didn’t need the Peace Corps.

  In Stiletto I’d already found the toughest job I’d ever love.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Sarah Strohmeyer is the author of Bubbles Unbound and Bubbles in Trouble, the first two mysteries in her award-winning series. A former journalist whose work has appeared in The Boston Globe, the Cleveland Plain Dealer, and on Salon.com. She lives with her family outside Montpelier, Vermont. She can be contacted through www.SarahStrohmeyer.com.

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