Shoofly Pie & Chop Shop: 2 Bugman Novels in 1

by Tim Downs

  He closed his book and slowly rose to his feet. He extended his hand to Nick once more.

  “I will pray that you find what you are looking for. Much more importantly,” he said with a penetrating gaze, “I will pray that you discover what it is that remains when even the shoofly pie is gone.”

  Nick walked the old man to his car. Just as the black sedan disappeared from view, Kathryn’s silver Contour rounded the corner and came to a stop directly in front of the Quonset.

  “Was that Dr. Jameson?” she said.

  “I told him you’d call. Oversleep?”

  “Didn’t sleep.” She followed Nick to the front door, where she hesitated. “Aren’t we doing another interview this morning? What do we need to go in there for?”

  “Dr. Jameson wanted me to show you something,” Nick said.

  Kathryn followed him cautiously, stepping only as far through the doorway as was absolutely necessary. “What is it?” she asked, eyeing the glass cases on either side.

  Nick stepped around to the right and removed the lid from a terrarium. He reached in and slid his right hand under something that looked like a black leather glove. He returned to Kathryn with a smile on his face, holding his hand in front of him like a waiter with a dessert tray.

  It was not a glove, but it was black—black as coal tar. Two bulbous arms extended before it like the claws of a lobster and a thick knotted tail curved up behind it like a whip—a whip with a very sharp tip.

  “This is Lord Vader.”

  Kathryn began to back away. “Dr. Jameson wanted me to see that?”

  “He was quite impressed with him. ‘A magnificent specimen,’ I believe he said. ‘Be sure to show it to my dear friend Kathryn.’”

  “I’ve never met Dr. Jameson.”

  “Lord Vader is an Emperor Scorpion. He’s quite impressive, don’t you think? A good eight inches if he’s an inch.” Nick held his hand at eye level and stepped forward, smiling. Kathryn stepped back.

  “I can see it just fine from here.”

  “From way over there?”

  Another step forward, another step back.

  “Emperors are very unusual—first, of course, because of their enormous size. But they’re also unusual in that they’re social. You can keep several together in one tank, like I do, and they get along just fine. But they do like to be alone every now and then, so from time to time I allow Lord Vader to go for a stroll here in the lab.”

  “You let that thing run loose? It could kill someone!”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. Lord Vader rarely stings—only in self-defense. He doesn’t need to, really, because of these.” He stepped forward and pointed to the enormous black projections the scorpion held menacingly aloft.

  “Are those pincers?”

  “They’re called pedipalps. They’re remarkably powerful. I feed him mostly crickets and giant mealworms, but every now and then … See that metal box under the table? That’s a rodent trap—a live rodent trap. Whenever an unfortunate Muridae tries to invade our sanctuary, he must face the wrath of Lord Vader. It is his destiny. It’s an amazing battle—arachnid against mammal, invertebrate against vertebrate.”

  “You let that thing loose on a helpless mouse?”

  “A mouse isn’t defenseless, Mrs. Guilford. It has teeth and claws. It can crack through a kernel of corn or gnaw its way through a floorboard. But it’s no match for Lord Vader, I’m afraid. Would you like to hold him?”

  “No. Thank you.” She retreated a step farther.

  “You’d think Lord Vader would use his stinger. After all, a mouse is the size of a cow to him. But he doesn’t. He just grabs hold of Mickey with those pedipalps and tears him limb from limb.”

  As he spoke, Nick continued to inch forward. He held his hand out to one side and gestured to it as he sidled closer to Kathryn, then swung his hand back slowly in her direction. Each time she would back away, and they would repeat this maneuver, over and over like a kind of waltz, both of them moving slowly down the aisle toward the office door.

  “The fact is, his sting is no worse than a wasp’s. There’s a rule of thumb in the scorpion world: the bigger the pedipalps, the more harmless the scorpion. The little brown ones with the long, slender pedipalps—now those are the ones to watch out for.”

  “Do you have any of those?”

  “Of course. The entire row of cases just inside the door is my Scorpionidae collection. On the right, Lord Vader and his Imperial Stormtroopers. In the middle, common southwestern U.S. species. But on the left, watch out—those are my North Africans.”

  “For heaven’s sake, what do you keep them for?”

  “It’s a hobby,” he said, placing Lord Vader on the floor and nudging him forward until he skittered away. “I think from time to time everybody needs a bit of distraction. Don’t you?”

  He reached past Kathryn, opened the office door, and stepped inside.

  She stood motionless for a moment, realizing in amazement her current location; then she quickly slipped into the office and slammed the door, eyeing the floor behind her as it closed.

  “You look much less wrinkled today,” Nick said. “Now how about that interview?”

  The Dodge rolled to a stop on the shoulder of the dirt road about fifty yards away from the decaying farmhouse. Kathryn heard two completely different hissing sounds emanating from somewhere under the hood, then a mysterious clicking noise followed by a kind of groan. She shifted to keep water from dripping onto her shoes from under the dash.

  “We’d have been a lot more comfortable in that rental of yours,” Nick said. “Why did you insist on taking my car?”

  “I just thought it might be a good idea.”

  “You know, it’s customary to call ahead and set up an appointment before doing an interview. I don’t usually just drop by. ‘Hello, I’m a forensic entomologist. I collected some maggots from your brother’s corpse, and I’d like to ask you a few questions.’”

  Kathryn rolled her eyes.

  “What if Mr. McAllister’s sister isn’t home?”

  “She’s home. She’s always home.”

  Several minutes passed.

  “What exactly are we waiting for?” Nick asked.

  “I’m just not sure this is a good idea.” Kathryn shook her head doubtfully. “I don’t see why we need to talk to her.”

  “Because the difference between a suicide and a murder is one of motive. Motive is everything, Mrs. Guilford—and who might understand the motives of the deceased better than his own kin?”

  Kathryn continued to shake her head.

  “If I didn’t know better, Mrs. Guilford, I’d think you didn’t want the lady to see you.”

  “Amy McAllister and I don’t exactly—what I mean is, we have a history.”

  “Really? I love history.”

  Kathryn took a deep breath. “Jimmy and Amy came from a … troubled family.”

  “Troubled in what sense?”

  “Troubled is a small-town term. It covers everything from minor neglect to outright cruelty and abuse. It’s the polite way to say it, and polite is very important in a small town.”

  “Well, I’m from Pittsburgh. Was Amy abused?”

  “In every way imaginable. You could say that she’s … not quite right. Growing up, Jimmy and Amy kept each other sane. Jimmy was all she had in the world—no mom, no dad, no real friends—she had Jimmy.”

  “And Jimmy had you.”

  Kathryn winced. “Jimmy … wanted to have me. Nine years ago Jimmy asked me to marry him—the same night that Andy proposed to me.”

  “Two in one night. Boy, you were on a roll.”

  “This is not a joke! I had to turn him down, and it broke his heart. Jimmy always walked the line, and I think—Amy thinks—that my rejection is what started him over the edge. He went into a depression after that and started disappearing for long periods without explanation.”

  “And sometime during that period his drug abuse began.”

 
“Sometimes I wish I had married him,” Kathryn said under her breath.

  “A rescue marriage.” Nick nodded. “Very common. Very noble. Very stupid.”

  Kathryn glared at him. “Everything is so easy for you, isn’t it? It must be so much simpler working with insects that have legs and wings but no feelings!”

  “You have no idea how much simpler.”

  Kathryn closed her eyes and massaged her temples in slow circles. “Amy blames me for Jimmy’s depression, for his withdrawal from her, for his anger and isolation. Amy blames me for everything.”

  “For his death?”

  “Especially for his death.”

  “In other words, one of your motives for this investigation is to prove to Amy that it wasn’t your fault. If it was suicide, then you’re to blame; if it was murder, you’re off the hook.”

  “Does that matter?”

  “As I said, Mrs. Guilford—motive is everything.”

  Nick peered down the road at the crumbling farmhouse.

  “And I thought this was going to be just another boring interview.” He smiled, opening his door. “This could be downright interesting.”

  The dirt road disappeared into the mottled front yard of the aging house. Two Leghorns wandered aimlessly across the grass and one misshapen ligustrum thrived beside the sagging porch stoop. Four wooden columns, each rotted away at the base, supported a rumpled and pockmarked tin roof. The floorboards of the porch were cupped and twisted, long ago worn bare, and the brittle glazing around each window pane curled in like yellow parentheses. The curtains were thin and worn and pulled tight across each window. It was a dark and tired and withered house that had long ago given up hope.

  Nick knocked gently at the door.

  “No answer,” he said.

  “She’s home.”

  Nick knocked again, a sharp, rapping, annoying barrage that continued until the curtain jerked to one side and an ashen face suddenly appeared, startling both of them. Kathryn stared at the floorboards and stepped slightly behind Nick.

  The door opened, and a woman of almost undiscernable age stepped out. Her features were still young and rounded, but her skin was sallow and pasty, drawn into tiny canyons that drained into the eyes and mouth. Her hair was pulled back in a thoughtless manner, and her dark eyes bore a constant glare. She was still dressed in a faded blue housecoat. She studied Nick, starting with his feet and working her way up, recoiling when she came to his enormous spectacles. She leaned forward and glared harder, as if trying to grab hold of the elusive eyes darting beneath.

  “What you want?” she barked.

  “Are you Amy McAllister?”

  “Depends on who you are.”

  “I’m Dr. Nicholas Polchak. I’d like to ask you a few questions.”

  “Don’t need no doctor.” She dismissed him with a wave of her hand, retreating back into the house. “You tell Family Services I ain’t crazy, I just like my privacy.”

  “I like my privacy, too, Miss McAllister. I’m not that kind of doctor.”

  She turned as Kathryn reluctantly slid out from behind Nick.

  “Hello, Amy,” Kathryn said softly.

  Amy’s eyes widened and then narrowed again until they were only slits. Her mouth began to form a dozen different words, but the only one that emerged was a guttural, “You!” And with that she stormed back into the house and slammed the door behind her.

  Kathryn hung her head and muttered, “I told you she still blames me. I told you there was no use in trying to—” But in the middle of her protests, Nick casually opened the door and stepped in.

  He walked briskly from room to room, stopping in each room just long enough to make a quick appraisal. On the left was a dining room; the table was thick with dust, and a vase of long-dead flowers sat crumbling in the center. On the right was a kind of sitting room dominated by the smell of mildew and an aging Queen Anne sofa covered in a slick and barren red velour.

  But the most noticeable feature of every room was the candles. Tall ones, short ones, on saucers and coasters and tins, lining bookshelves and furniture and dotting the floor like tiny fireflies. Candles smoldered everywhere, scenting the air oppressively and giving the entire house the look of a mausoleum.

  At the end of the hall a double doorway opened into a small room completely devoid of furniture. The drapes were drawn tight, and the room would have been black as night if not for the candles. On the far wall was a stone fireplace. On the center of the mantel stood an Olan Mills portrait of James McAllister in full-dress uniform, framed by a pair of thin, white, flickering tapers.

  Kathryn was right behind Nick, glancing nervously about as she tiptoed from room to room.

  “You can’t do this! You can’t just march into a person’s house and—”

  Nick ignored her, continuing on until he finally rounded a corner to find Amy McAllister, squatting on the kitchen floor among several more candles, peacefully stroking a yellow cat. She had let her hair down, and it draped raggedly around her face. Her housecoat spread open at the waist and her pale legs jutted out to both sides. She looked like an alabaster gargoyle as she squatted and stared, mesmerized by the undulating movements of the cat.

  She looked up at Nick and Kathryn with no expression at all. Then, slowly, a look of recognition came over her face. She snapped to her feet and opened her mouth to speak, but before she could get a word out, Nick cut her off.

  “Miss McAllister, I am investigating the death of your brother. There are some questions that need to be answered—and I need your help to answer them.”

  Amy glared furiously at Kathryn.

  “Why not ask her?” She pointed accusingly. “She knows why Jimmy died!”

  “Amy,” Kathryn said with a groan, “that was nine years ago!”

  “You killed him!” Amy hissed. “You killed him just as sure as if you put that gun to his head! You was the one … the one who …”

  Amy’s voice suddenly trailed off, silenced by the sound of pleasant humming and cabinets quietly opening and closing again. Both women stood dumbfounded, watching Nick as he casually searched through the kitchen cupboards and pantry. He pulled out a faded tin of almond mocha, sniffed at it, and with a look of disgust, slid it back in place again. He turned a tall jar with his thumb and finger to peer at the label—instant Nestea, decaf. He shivered and wiped his hands on his pants. On the top shelf he spotted a half-empty box of Celestial Seasonings.

  “This will have to do. Miss McAllister,” he said, placing the box in her hand, “do you believe your brother took his own life? I’m not sure I do. If you want to talk about it, I’ll be in the parlor.” He tapped on the box. “I take mine with honey.”

  He turned and walked out of the room, leaving Amy staring open-mouthed after him. Kathryn glanced at Amy, then lowered her eyes and walked quickly after him. Nick was already stretching out on the Queen Anne sofa when Kathryn entered the parlor.

  “I love what she’s done with the place.” He nodded approvingly. “The candles are a nice touch—sort of a Stephen King motif. I wonder if she decorated Schroeder’s Funeral Home.”

  “Be quiet! Are you out of your mind?”

  “You keep asking me that.”

  “Is this how you conduct an interview?”

  “You were doing so well, I hated to interrupt.”

  “I tried to tell you about her. Amy hasn’t been quite right for a long time.”

  “Quite right? Take a look at this place, Mrs. Guilford—the lady is skating on the other side of the ice.”

  “She’s had a lot on her mind.”

  “She’s had you on her mind, that’s for sure.”

  Kathryn glanced nervously back down the hallway. “I think you had better do the talking this time.”

  “Gosh. I just hope I can handle it.”

  The clinking of metal against ceramic brought their conversation to an abrupt halt. Amy cautiously rounded the corner carrying a tarnished metal tray bearing two china cups with mismatc
hed saucers. A single tea bag floated in each; one was still in its package. She stopped in the middle of the doorway, as if uncertain whether to enter or not. Her eyes went immediately to Kathryn. She stepped around to Nick and offered him a cup, then set the tray down on the coffee table and pulled a chair up close. She sat silently, her black eyes darting from the remaining cup to Kathryn and back again.

  Kathryn slowly reached to take the cup. Amy immediately snatched it up for herself and redoubled the intensity of her glare. She sat silently sipping her cup of tea, her eyes never shifting from Kathryn’s face. Kathryn drew back, red-faced, and stared fixedly at her hands in her lap.

  They all sat in silence for several minutes. Kathryn could feel the heat from Amy’s eyes, as if she were being prodded with a fire iron.

  “Miss McAllister,” Nick said at last. Kathryn almost let out an audible sigh of relief. “I am a forensic entomologist from North Carolina State University. I specialize in the investigation of unwitnessed deaths and the analysis of their possible causes.” As he spoke he saw Amy begin to shake her head slightly, like a mare trying to force her eyes into focus. Nick paused, set down his cup, and began again.

  “Miss McAllister. Do you really believe your brother killed himself?”

  She shrugged and shook her head several times before finally speaking.

  “They say he did.”

  “Who says he did? Who are they?”

  She shrugged again. “Peter. Peter says everybody thinks so.”

  “Do you think so?”

  Amy’s eyes grew darker and more confused. It was obvious to Nick that she had little ability to form her own opinions; those she had could easily have been given to her by someone else. Her only contribution would be her knowledge of her brother’s past.

  “Miss McAllister, I’m told your brother had a history of depression. Is that right?”

  She nodded.

  “When did it begin? Do you remember?”

  “I remember, all right.” She turned her glare to Kathryn again. “It started after her! She’s the one who—”