by Jenna Coburn
“Hey,” Alethea said as a greeting, and the same echoed back. “Ehm…I’d like a coke.” She smiled warmly, and put her hands on the old, worn-out wood of the bar. This was her first time trying something like this—going somewhere to interrogate witnesses and locate leads. Her heart beat a little too fast, and she considered that it might’ve been wiser to order something alcoholic.
The coke was served up quickly, and Alethea thanked the girl before she took a deep gulp. Afterwards, she cleared her throat and started talking. “Hey, um…so. My name’s Alethea. I’m kind of…looking for someone.” She attempted to keep a straight face, and barely managed. If she had been a mysterious man in a trench coat, maybe she could’ve delivered that line better. And more gruff.
“Hi, Alethea. My name’s Pearl,” she answered nonchalantly. “Who are you looking for, then? You someone’s girlfriend or something?” Alethea raised her eyebrow, but it made sense. She could just imagine how women came here to drag someone out by his neck.
“No, actually, my brother was here a few days ago, drinking with two other people, and I’m looking for one of them, so….” There was the clear glint of recognition on Pearl’s face. Alethea herself hadn’t mentioned anything directly, but she had suspected that everyone at the bar had already been questioned thoroughly.
“You’re the sister of this boy who killed Larry, huh?”
Alethea grimaced. “He’s being accused of that. I’m trying to get to the bottom of it. I understand Larry Patrick was well-liked here? When I say that my little brother can’t be the real killer, I mean it. He’s just…he’s just a kid. I mean, do you have younger siblings?” The question was completely rhetorical, and she just kept talking.
“That third man who was with them, I want to find out who he was. So I can find the real killer.” Only after she had spoken so openly, she realized that it may not be so smart to go in with her guns blazing. Her mouth was a gun, and her spit was fire. Her own mental picture made her frown.
“Well, eh, Alethea? I’m sorry but we already talked to the officers and this…FBI man.” Pearl’s face told the second part of that story. Holden Westley was a man not easily forgotten. “Nobody knew the guy, He’s not a regular or something. It was some middle-aged, grey-haired business type. Not the kind who usually comes here or stays here.”
Alethea pressed her lips together and nodded. It wasn’t like she could have expected another answer. “Thank you anyway,” she said. At that exact moment, she noticed a man standing next to her. That is, she noticed him less than she smelled him. Her head turned automatically, like one turned to approaching danger.
“I know who you lookin’ for,” the guy said. His wafting breath told a story of old bourbon, some of which continued aging between his teeth and in his beard.
“Oh?”
Silence descended. Alethea felt stupid, but that small, inquisitive noise was all she was capable to produce on such short notice. The occasion was happy, but the messenger was questionable. Only after she had taken a moment for herself was she capable of formulating a proper response.
“That would help me a lot! Who is he?” She consciously needed to suppress the urge to wave her hand in front of her nose. That wouldn’t have been very polite.
“That night I saw ‘im writin’ on th’ bathroom wall,” Old Bourbon revealed in a low voice, while nodding sagely. Alethea waited for something more, but his hairy face withdrew while he just kept on nodding, as if he just had told her the secret key to the heart of the universe. “On the right above the sink! Can’t miss it!” With that, he turned around on his heel and shuffled back to whatever dark corner he enjoyed his drink in.
Alethea looked to Pearl, and Pearl shrugged her shoulders. Neither of them really understood, but Alethea had nothing else to go on. Raising both her eyebrows for a second, and mobilizing her wit and courage for this last foray, she marched straight to the men’s bathroom, kicked open the door and scrutinized the wall.
Exactly where Old Bourbon had told her, there was some horrible scribble and a phone number. “If you’re looking for a good time, call this number. Hot chicks only,” she read it aloud. She wasn’t sure how many hot chicks used the men’s bathroom, but for whoever wrote that, the glass must’ve been half-full. With a bit of swiping and typing, the number was in her phone.
She considered going back to that shadowy corner of Spoony’s where Old Bourbon dwelled, but thought better of it. He probably didn’t know more. It wasn’t like he’d have dialed that number. With a wave and a loud “Bye!” into the room, Alethea reentered a world of fresh air and proper lighting. Only the atmosphere was less welcoming. Spoony’s Bar had a way of telling anyone who came in that they wouldn’t be judged.
A bit down the road, Alethea looked at the phone number glowing on her cell display. When the police came asking, it must’ve still been a bit too early in the day. Either way, they had missed the crucial bathroom graffiti. She could have told the police or tried to check online who the number belonged to, but that would’ve been the slow way.
Alethea wanted to take the fast road to success. She pressed down on that green symbol and put the thing to her ear. While it was dialing and ringing, she considered saying something ominous, like, “I know what you did.” Again, she lacked the gruff voice for that.
“Hello, this is Phoenix Yonkers. Who is calling?” The man’s voice sounded calm and businesslike, but otherwise it wasn’t much to go on; then again, Alethea hadn’t exactly expected a special response or a confession in the first sentence.
“Hi, ehm, my name is Alethea Thwaite. I’m…well…it’s a bit awkward, but…I’m calling because….” She cleared her throat. This just wasn’t her kind of game. She’d never call a number someone left on a bathroom wall, not even as a joke. It was just too silly. “I found this number on the bathroom wall at Spoony’s Bar.” That seemed the simplest way to put it.
There were some seconds of silence on the other end, and they only increased the awkwardness. Alethea looked up and down the street, retreating a bit into the entrance of an alleyway. She took a deep breath and reminded herself of the importance of her mission. She’d go—that is, had gone—to the men’s bathroom at Spoony’s Bar and back.
“I’m not sure I understand what you’re saying, miss,” said the voice on the other end of the line. To Alethea, it seemed afflicted by that same awkwardness that she felt. Perhaps there was something else going on here. It made her feel more confident.
“In Spoony’s Bar in Sparta, North Carolina, there’s a written note on the men’s bathroom wall…it says that hot chicks looking for a good time should call, and this number is written underneath.” She had put on a very explanatory tone, only to realize a second to late that she had strongly implied she is a “hot chick looking for a good time.” If they weren’t on the wrong foot before, that must’ve surely put them there.
“Well, ehm, I’m sorry, Miss…Thwaite?…there seems to be a misunderstanding. I never–” There was another pause. “Wait a minute. That….” There was some muffled laughter. “I’m so sorry, that must’ve been an old colleague of mine. He’s always performing these sorts of childish pranks. I’m sorry, if you–”
Alethea interrupted him, because she suspected he’d say something next that she didn’t want to hear. “Yes, well, can you tell me who your old colleague is? I’m actually trying to find him. It’s unrelated to this note, just the only connection I found. He may be an important witness for an ongoing police investigation.”
“Oh!” She knew that feeling. Only when she had said it, it was a question. “Oh.” Mr. Yonkers said it twice, and she couldn’t hold it against him; the jump from hot chicks and bathroom scrawls to police investigations was a mental leap of some proportion. “Yes, well, I mean, I can give you his number. His name is Pierce Jewell. He’s probably staying in some hotel in town, then. His job takes him cross-country.”
She quickly typed in the phone number she was given and thanked the man on the othe
r end. “And don’t worry, Mr. Yonkers. You won’t receive many calls from hot chicks using the men’s bathroom.” Perhaps he had a good answer for that, but Alethea hung up on him. It was for the good of them all.
There was another phone number on her cell display now, and another chance to consider her options. For some reason, perhaps it was the young detective’s intuition, she didn’t want to call this man. It was much better to surprise him where he lived. Surely, he couldn’t make excuses to her face so easily. And there weren’t many places to stay in this town.
Sparta City Hotel, said the big glowing letters. The place felt smaller by the minute. Alethea walked up to the receptionist and felt some kinship as she looked into the woman’s tired eyes. “Good evening. Alethea, right? Are you looking for Mr. Westley again? I think he’s not here right now.”
Alethea shook her head. “I’m looking for someone else this time, but it’s related to the case. So…I hope you’re able to help me.”
Her eyes grew preventively larger. She was pre-begging, since she wasn’t sure if it was even allowed for them to just tell a random person who stayed there and who didn’t. The receptionist had pointed out Holden Westley easily enough, but then again, Alethea might’ve spotted him herself if she had turned her head a few degrees.
“The man’s name is Pierce Jewell. Is he staying here,” she glanced at the receptionist’s name tag, “Sally?” The question was accompanied by her most hopeful smiles. Not even a rock could have resisted her now; she was certain of that.
Sally didn’t give much indication she was fazed—just like a rock wouldn’t—but she still took a passing glance at their registry and then nodded, with a smile that was just the bare minimum, as required by standards of polite customer service. “He’s in room 213.” Sally looked off into empty space for a moment, remembering. “That’s just across from Larry Patrick’s room, actually.”
Alethea breathlessly pointed a finger at her. “A-HA!” she exclaimed. Sally looked befuddled, and after blinking twice, Alethea joined her and coughed. “Sorry. I got a bit excited.” That actually elicited a genuine response from the receptionist, who nodded and patted Alethea’s shoulder over the counter. It was an awkward gesture, but well-received, perhaps because of its awkwardness.
It made them equals again. Alethea knew why she had felt that impression of kinship. “Mr. Jewell’s currently in his room,” Sally imparted in a lower voice.
“The man might be dangerous, Sally. I’m looking for him in relation to the murder case. You should call the police, ask for Agent Westley and tell him that Miss Thwaite has a lead on who might’ve been the third man in Spoony’s Bar, and then tell him what you just told me about Pierce Jewell.”
Sally nodded, but there was worry in her eyes. “I don’t think you should go there alone if he is dangerous, Alethea.” She quickly turned around and called out into the office behind her. A security man appeared; he wasn’t young anymore, either.
“That’s okay, it’s just…I mean, it’s a suspicion, and I don’t want to get off on the wrong foot, okay?” Alethea bit her lip and looked apologetic. Also, she doubted that this security guard could actually ensure anyone’s safety.
Sally shook her head vigorously. “No, no.” She turned to the man again. “Glanville! Go with that young lady to room 213. This man Jewell might’ve been involved in the murder of Larry.” Alethea looked on with quiet desperation, but somehow this exchange made her realize a critical fact—why was Larry even staying in a hotel in his own town?
Before she could consider that line of thought further, Glanville moved ahead to the elevator and there was a lot of waving from him and Sally, so much that it made Alethea incapable from doing anything but follow obediently. Inside the elevator, Glanville pressed the button and then turned to her.
“Glanville’s the name. I’m the security guard,” he said in a voice that sounded like he started smoking when he was around fourteen. He held out his hand, and she shook it with a smile.
“I’m Alethea, the…I’m a private investigator, of sorts.” He nodded repeatedly. It gave her the impression he would’ve done that no matter what she told him. The elevator’s doors reopened quickly, and Alethea put her hand over a scanner to hold them open. She stared intently at Glanville, who wasn’t sure what was going on.
“Look, Glanville, I want to talk to this guy Pierce Jewell on my own. What about you position yourself by the elevator or something, and then if you hear me scream or anything, you can still step in, okay?”
She formulated it as a question, but it wasn’t one; while Glanville represented some form of very limited local authority, he also knew when it was better to back down. That’s how he’d survived to his age as a security guard. He nodded. “Understood, ma’am,” he confirmed.
They both left the elevator, and with renewed confidence, Alethea marched towards room 213. She noticed that Larry Patrick’s room was indeed across from it—directly across—and there was police tape attached firmly to it. For a second or two, she thought about a more hands-on investigation in there, but it wouldn’t have been worth it. Especially because even Agent Westley’s coolness had an end.
She firmly knocked on the door of Jewell’s room. It was quite disappointing to her when the man actually came and opened it. “Hello?” he said. Pierce Jewell looked like he had been described—somewhat nondescript. He was middle-aged, wore business clothes, had a receding hairline and a growing gut; he was clean-shaven and grey-haired.
It was visible in his demeanor that he was used to being the boss of someone, but that didn’t exactly make him stand out. “Hello, my name’s Alethea Thwaite,” she told him. “I’ve got a question for you. It may be a bit of an odd one. A few days ago, did you have a drink in Spoony’s Bar?”
A sort of confused recognition appeared on the man’s face—he wasn’t just surprised because of the question. “Yes,” he answered slowly. “I don’t know where you’re going with this, Miss Thwaite, but I’m going to tell you right now….” He paused. Alethea found it to be dramatic. “I don’t remember anything that happened during that night after, say, ten o’clock.”
This answer puzzled the young private investigator, but then again, it made sense. Unless he actually was the killer, Pierce Jewell would’ve come forward already. He would have told the police what he knew. “It sounds weird, but it’s a fact,” he explained himself.
Alethea frowned, but she wouldn’t give up all that fast. “So you don’t remember drinking with my brother, Braden Thwaite, and the murder victim, Larry Patrick?” She gave him that stare she remembered seeing her mother give—the one where you felt cold sweats breaking out on your neck even if you were telling the truth.
“I…I guess I remember? I mean, it could’ve been them, maybe? That night’s not very clear!” His tone had grown defensive very fast. “So I was….” Voice trailing off, he seemed to actually contemplate this new information, only to remember something else an instant later. “Who are you, anyway? I don’t have to answer your questions.”
Alethea saw a mental image of a legal counsel on Jewell’s fast dial. She sighed. “I’m Braden’s sister, okay? The last name is the same, and stuff? And I’m investigating this!” He raised an eyebrow at that, looking her up and down, as if searching for some sort of official brand.
“Well, Miss Thwaite, as I said, I don’t really remember anything, and now I’d be thankful if you left me alone.” The conversation had gone downhill rather fast. “This whole thing is very regrettable. I mean, my room’s right across! The only reason I’m still here is because there’s zero choice unless you want to live in….”
Alethea tuned out at that point, but Jewell probably went on for a minute or so before they bid each other good-bye, and she turned around to pick up Glanville.
Glanville comfortably sat in a chair and looked at nothing in particular. He had mastered a state exactly at that halfway point between sleep and alertness—indispensable for a security guard who didn’t wa
nt to die of boredom or lose their job because they were sleeping.
As they were riding the elevator down to the lobby, Alethea thought about the case. She had been on such a roll, and this turned out to be some sort of very confusing dead end, unless the man was lying his butt off, which was always a possibility. Although, she didn’t think that someone could lie so badly in a way that was acted out so well, if that made any sense.
“Thanks, Sally, and good night.” She waved good-bye as she trotted towards the exit.
“See you, Alethea. Look after yourself,” Sally advised.
Chapter VI
On the way home, just a short way from the circus grounds, Alethea’s phone rang. It was Agent Westley. They must’ve arrived very shortly after she had left the hotel. It was kind of astounding, almost, that they did not run into each other. She imagined Jewell’s face when he opened his door to the police, and it made her smile faintly.
“Hi, Agent Westley,” she greeted.
“Good evening, Miss Thwaite. You’re proving to be quite valuable to the case. If I may ask, how did you find out?” She smiled to herself. In her head, retelling it made it sound even dumber than it was.
“I got his friend’s number from bathroom graffiti that a drunk in Spoony’s Bar saw him draw,” she explained. “That friend, called himself Phoenix Yonkers, then gave me his name and number. Sally, from reception, told me the rest.”
“Seems you’ve got a knack for people confiding in you,” Westley complimented with unusual warmth. Usually, he only got excited over food. She still wasn’t sure how the man wasn’t fat. “Mr. Jewell’s story is odd, but also oddly compatible with your brother’s. They both forgot the night’s events, or at least claim it.”
