by Terri Reid
*
I spend the rest of the day calling people on the list and setting up times to meet. Several of them give me an earful about the old boyfriend and what a nasty piece of work he was. They’d all said good riddance when he left for basic training.
There’s also mention of a couple of other oddball admirers. One was a guy named Sam who taught woodshop at the same school where Doreen taught English. He was drafted and may have died in Vietnam. The other was a classmate of Doreen’s, a pothead named Freddy who ended up working at the local video store.
The biggest surprise? The discovery of a spiteful best friend who turned on Doreen. When Cheri thought her boyfriend was showing too much interest in Doreen, she lost it at a diner where they were hanging out. Cheri made violent threats against her best friend and finished it off by dumping a glass of water over Doreen’s head.
The crime scene photos before the body was moved did show a multitude of stab wounds, so it’s clear that someone had passionate anger issues toward Doreen. It hadn’t dawned on me to consider a woman as a suspect in Doreen’s murder, but why not?
I flip through the police files and find several references to Cheri, but the investigators appear to have dropped her quickly from the suspect list. I add her to my short list with the two admirers and that writing student Brian from Doreen’s journal.
Doreen’s old boyfriend, Kenny O’Donnell, answers my call with a smoker’s hack. I introduce myself, tell him why I’m calling, and we agree to try to meet at the end of the week after his chiropractor appointment. Between bursts of coughing, he says he went on disability and retired from the county roads department a couple of years ago due to a bad back.
We chat a bit, but from his tone I’m glad we’re not in the same room. Kenny reveals he’s on marriage number three. His gravelly voice has a mean edge as he talks about having a couple of kids who don’t speak to him much and not seeing his grandkids very often. It sounds like he has more problems than a bad back.
“When I found out somebody knocked her off, I wasn’t surprised.” Kenny spits out the words as if they have a bitter taste. “Things would’ve turned out different, better, if Doreen wouldn’t have split with me.”
“I thought you broke up with her after you left for basic training,” I say. “So why was she still wearing your high school ring?”
“She lost hers, and I didn’t want to take it with me to ’Nam, just in case something happened…anyway, I told her to keep it. I just made it look like I broke up with her. She was really mad at me because of something I—” He pauses, catching himself. “So I broke up with her before she could do it first.”
“Why was she angry with you—”
“I don’t wanna talk about that.”
“Okaaay,” I say, hedging for a moment and waiting for him to explain. He doesn’t. “Well, help me out a little bit. Can you think of anybody else I should talk to?”
“Hey, there’s a guy you should meet.” I can hear from Kenny’s voice that he’s relieved to change the subject. “He knew everything about everybody back then.”
“Who is he, and where do I find him?”
“Richie Cavanaugh. He owns a bar called Cavanaugh’s. He’s had it for more than forty years. It’s where everybody in town goes.” He laughs and starts coughing. “It’s the only place in town—” Kenny’s cough takes over and he can barely breathe. He begins to wheeze.
“Are you alright?”
He answers only with more coughing and wheezing.
“Well, thanks for talking to me—”
He clicks off.
*
It’s dark by the time I pull up to the tavern and park. On the outside the building has an ordinary brick facade. There’s maybe an office or a couple of low-rent apartments upstairs. The name Cavanaugh’s is painted in red on a large, lighted sign hanging between the two floors.
I step inside a classic dive bar, the kind of place you stop for a cheap beer. I look around. Two guys are playing pool on one side of the room. The dimmed lights reflecting off the wood-paneled walls and red vinyl booths create a welcoming ambience.
For a weekday evening, there’s a decent crowd. I figure little has changed at Cavanaugh’s since the place opened in the early seventies, and that’s probably why people like coming here.
I walk towards an empty stool and notice the bartender playing dice with a customer. The bartender looks over and nods. I nod back. “No hurry. Finish your game.”
I take a handful of peanuts from a wooden bowl and swivel on my stool so I can take a better look at the place. There’s a stage on the other side of the room where a tall, skinny guy sets up a karaoke machine.
Behind me, a voice asks, “What’ll you have?”
“A Coors Light, please,” I answer as I swivel back to the bar. “You must be Richie Cavanaugh?” He smiles, and I stick my hand out to shake. “I’m Ronnie Lake. We spoke on the phone earlier.”
“Nice to meet you.” Cavanaugh shakes my hand and then reaches in the fridge under the bar for my beer. “That’s too bad about Doreen’s dad being so sick and all.” He pours the Coors into a glass and places it in front of me.
“Doreen’s old boyfriend Kenny doesn’t sound too well either,” I say.
“Yeah. First his back, and now he’s on oxygen because of the emphysema. Too many years with the smokes.”
“It’s a tough habit to kick.”
“Kenny was lighting up even back in high school. He played football, and he was huge. Not anymore.”
“The three of you go back that far?”
“Sure. But Kenny and Doreen didn’t get together until the end of college. I guess they’d been together two or three years when she was murdered.”
“Hey, Richie,” the karaoke guy calls from the other side of the room. An unlit cigarette hangs from his lips. His mouse-brown greasy hair, combed over to hide baldness, crowns a sunken, unshaven, leathery face.
“We’re good to go, it’s time,” he says to Cavanaugh, looking at his watch. He pushes up the sleeves of an old Yankees sweatshirt, and the glint of a gold chain around his neck catches the light. “Stop flirting, we got a few people asking to sing.”
“Yeah, you can start,” Richie answers. The guy goes back to the system and starts the first song. The lyrics pop up on the screen, and a woman climbs on stage to the opening bars of Gloria Gaynor’s “I Will Survive.”
Turning back, I ask, “Who’s that guy?”
Richie laughs. “You mean Ted? He was in school with us, too.” He scans the place. “A lot of my regulars went to school with us. Ted ran the AV club in high school. Every time I saw the guy, he was pushing a film projector on a cart.”
Richie gets a twinkle in his eye. “He had a crush on Doreen back when we were in school. Then again, I had a crush on her, too. Geez, all the guys did. Anyway, Ted ended up running the AV department at the same school where Doreen was a teacher before he went off to Vietnam. That’s what I heard.”
“Was he drafted? Or a volunteer?” I take another handful of nuts.
“Who knows? We never knew what became of him until one day he showed up here,” Richie says. “He was always different, but I gotta believe he saw some really bad shit over there, because he’s never been right since. I felt real bad for the guy, so I hooked him up with this job. He comes every evening and handles the karaoke.”
All of a sudden, the woman howls one of the stanzas from “I Will Survive,” completely off-key, and Richie and I grimace.
“Hey, it keeps the customers happy. You hungry?” he asks.
“How about a burger, medium rare. No fries.”
“Got it.” Richie goes out to the kitchen to place the order. He comes back and gestures to one of his guys to take over the bar.
“How were they as a couple, Doreen and Kenny?” I ask.
“Hey, I’ve known him almost fifty years.” The bartender hesitates. “I hate to say it, but he was always mean to his women.”
“How mea
n?”
“He’d scream and holler a lot. Really controlling, but I don’t think he actually ever beat up a woman.”
A guy with a dark crew-cut, tight blue jeans, and a black tee-shirt jumps up on the stage and launches into his version of 5 Seconds of Summer’s “She Looks So Perfect.” One of his friends joins him, and the two try to get their dance moves synced. They’re obviously having fun, and the crowd likes them.
As they wind down, a small group of young professionals—they look like Jersey City financial types—push a lovely mocha-skinned twenty-something toward the stage. She finally removes her suit jacket and rolls up the sleeves of her crisp white shirt. She tosses her friends a smile as she saunters onto the stage.
The first bars of the sax and guitar are immediately recognizable as she sings “What you are…” and wails Aretha Franklin’s “Respect.” Her voice is amazing.
The short order cook delivers my burger and a sandwich for Richie. He digs into his BLT and says, “I never understood why Doreen stayed with Kenny so long. She was beautiful, smart, had a lot going for her.”
“Kenny said his wives all ‘got away.’ Maybe Doreen couldn’t.” I take a bite of the burger and drink my beer.
The music starts up again, an old Tom Jones song. Richie raises his voice over the music. “Kenny didn’t do it. The police checked him out, and they found nothing.”
The karaoke volume goes way up as the performer behind us wails “Deee-li-lah,” followed by the rest of the chorus.
I turn around, and that guy Ted is on the stage. He’s changed into a tight white shirt that’s open to a deep V and even tighter bellbottom trousers that emphasize his unappealing scrawniness. An assortment of gold chains hangs around his neck. It’s his sad attempt at replicating what Tom Jones wore on stage decades ago.
It’s amazing how the crowd is singing along as he croons into the microphone. “He’s really working the room,” I say, shocked. I look back at Richie, and he chuckles.
“It’s kind of his signature song. He sings it every night.”
The next patron hops up on the stage and starts his version of the Rolling Stones’ “Satisfaction.” Cavanaugh’s customers quickly crowd the small dance floor.
Richie spends the next forty-five minutes telling me about other customers in his tavern who were around at the time Doreen was murdered.
“See that guy? Over there?” He points toward a booth near the kitchen. “That’s Joey Alberti. He knew Doreen, had a thing for her, too. Back in the day, he used to manage the health club where she worked out. Now he has a sporting goods store.” The guy’s at least fifty pounds overweight with a shaggy haircut. His brown hair looks like the early mop-tops on The Dave Clark Five.
Joey clinks glasses with a woman sitting across from him. “That’s his wife,” Richie says. “They come here a lot for their date night.”
Joey does look pretty normal, but who knows about back then. I make a mental note to check him out later.
The bartender’s stories continue along with the karaoke. Finally, around midnight, Ted shuts down the equipment. People pay their tabs, and I do the same.
“Thanks for all the info, Richie, and the burger.”
“Any time.”
*
I put the key in the Mustang’s ignition just as Ted exits the bar and gets into his car. He’s silhouetted against the light from the Cavanaugh’s sign. I watch him squirm as he changes back into his sweatshirt, jeans, and a jacket. It must be freezing in his car.
Ted peels off the gold chains and throws them on the seat until he gets to the last one. He takes it off, kisses the end of its chain, and hangs it on the front mirror. He stares at it for a moment then touches it. I reach into a tote bag on the floor and feel for my small binoculars.
I’m too late. I focus the binoculars on his car just as Ted leaves. Oh hell, he’s weird, and now he’s got me curious. I take only a moment to decide to follow. We drive for fifteen minutes then stop at a grocery store. While Ted’s inside, I walk over to his car, which fortunately sits in a dark part of the lot. I watch for any sign of him through the front window of the supermarket. When he heads down an aisle toward the back, I lean in for a good look at the chain hanging from his car’s mirror.
It’s too dark for me to see what it is that’s dangling from the mirror. The windshield is filthy. All the other windows are dirty, too. I don’t dare turn on my flashlight. I reach into my pocket for my phone and quickly snap a few pictures.
I glance at the big window. No sign of Ted yet, so I walk back to my car in time to see him paying at the front of the store.
I continue tailing him as he drives away—I’m definitely in my dog-with-a-bone mode. Will would be super-pissed at me. He approved the interviews, but not surveillance.
Finally, Ted pulls into a small, dumpy-looking apartment building. He locks his car and goes inside.
My first inclination is to jump out and try to go inside, too, but Will’s words come back to me. You are not to set foot out of the office on this case until you’ve cleared everything with me. I think back to last summer, how I was guilty of rushing in before thinking. I like to think I’m capable of learning from my past mistakes, so I resist the urge.
I look up at the apartment building and see a light click on in a third-floor unit. It’s got to be Ted’s.
I check the pictures I snapped of the mysterious object on the chain. I try to zoom in and focus, but I can’t make out what it is. These are useless.
I think about grabbing a few more pictures but his car is again parked in the dark, this time in the lot next to his building. Besides, if I don’t get out of here, the boss will fire me for sure.
*
It’s after midnight, and I’m in my bedroom with a glass of wine and my computer in my lap, swaying to the music and singing along with a YouTube video of Dusty Springfield’s “I Only Want To Be With You.” As she sings about never wanting to let go, I try to put myself inside the mind of Doreen’s attacker. But I’m tired, and my imagination shuts down.
I click over to “These Boots Are Made for Walkin’.” Every now and then my adorable Warrior joins Nancy Sinatra with a howl. I give him a kiss on top of his head, jump up, and copy all of Nancy’s old dance moves.
Finally, I drop back onto my chaise with a second glass of red. Something grates at me, something way back in the depths of my mind that I can’t quite get a fix on. What is it? I shrug and look up old Tom Jones hits. I sing along here and there while Warrior, head between his paws, stares at me with his dark eyes.
I cycle through the greats: “It’s Not Unusual,” “She’s A Lady,” and “I Who Have Nothing.” He was definitely an amazing crooner with a lot of sex appeal. His wardrobe emphasizes his studliness—the very tight pants, the shirt opened almost to his waist showing a chain with a huge gold cross. He’s not my type, but I get why women went for him.
I can barely keep my eyes open, but I find a video link in the sidebar for “Delilah,” and I click on it. It’s from a 1968 performance where Jones is dressed in black tie. He’s young and handsome, and wow, can he sing. I drift off just as he belts out the line “…I felt the knife in my hand.”
*
I’m in a cold, dark room surrounded by endless shelves that tower over me, overflowing with files and boxes, caging me in. A Tom Jones song reverberates eerily through a sound system, the voice garbled as it plays in slow motion. Where the hell am I?
With my flashlight, I look at a thick file on my lap, and the music changes to Dusty Springfield’s voice floating dreamily among the shelves. I frantically flip through the file, searching for something. Exactly what it is I don’t know, but I know I have to find it to get the answer. The answer to what? It’s hard to concentrate with these strange songs coming at me…
The music changes again, now to “These Boots Are Made for Walkin’.” A cold breeze hits me from above and I shine my light on a ceiling fan, turning slowly. A gold chain hangs from its center, teasi
ng me. I stand on my chair to get a closer look, but the ceiling raises higher and higher, pulling the chain further and further away as the blades rotate.
I go back to searching the files. What is it that I have to find?
*
I bolt upright on the chaise, shake my head groggily, and glance at my clock. 4:45am. How many bizarre dreams will it take to teach me not to drink red wine right before I fall asleep?
I feel a sudden sinking sensation in my stomach. I know what I was looking for in my dream.
I grab my phone and flip through the pictures of documents from the police station until I locate it. I zoom in, and there it is.
*
Will is pissed at me for following Ted without checking in with him first. He grumbles over his coffee at the diner and lectures me about safety. I’ve heard it all before, but I deserve it. When I try to tell him that I think I may have solved the case, his sarcastic laugh cuts me off. To be fair, an entire police department couldn’t solve this murder.
Our breakfast arrives and I tell him about Ted and Doreen, that they’d known each other since high school and later worked at the same school. Next, I click to the document I was searching for in my strange dream.
“The victim’s death certificate? So what?” Will sips his coffee.
“It shows her full name.”
“Yeah?”
“See? Doreen Evelyn Lyla. Or, D. E. Lyla. See, if you say it a certain way, it sounds like Deee-lilah. That’s the way Ted pronounces it when he sings ‘Delilah’ every night at Cavanaugh’s. Anyone else would say duh-lilah, but not Ted. Plus, have you ever listened to the lyrics?” I don’t give him time to answer. “It’s basically the story of Doreen’s murder.” I switch over to the lyrics from a website to show him the song. “Look.”
“Ronnie—” Will shakes his head.
“I know you think it’s a reach. I did, too.”
“How’d you come up with this far-fetched theory?” Will rolls his eyes.
“Do not eye-roll me, Will Benson. You know I’m a music fanatic, especially classic rock. The music tipped me off.”
