“I’m afraid so,” says the man. “I’m sorry I didn’t call you sooner. But, believe me; if I had something good to tell you, I would have called right away.”
“I’m sure you would,” replies Nancy, doing her best to keep any trace of annoyance out of her voice. She thanks him, and slowly hangs up the phone. Something about the name seems familiar, but she can’t figure out why. Probably reminds me of the Andrews Sisters, she finally decides, and puts it out of her mind.
Chapter 40
Peggy, December, the previous year – the evening of day two
Standing outside the motel, Peggy peers through the fogged up window, and watches as Jake registers for the room. The temperature has dropped even further in the last hour, and she shivers against the cold, wondering whether she’s made a smart decision. But, when Jake comes out of the office wearing a broad smile, and brandishing a shiny room key, she is convinced she has.
“I got us a room around the back,” he says. “That way, nobody’ll bother us.”
“Was it expensive?” asks Peggy. “I promise I’ll pay you back. Soon as I get home.”
“Look, I told you, it’s no big deal. Besides, if I hadn’t met you, I’d be stuck here all alone. Or, maybe I wouldn’t have gotten this far. A lot of people won’t even pick up a guy hitchhiking by himself. That’s a fact.” Then, he adds, with a wink, “But, a guy with a good looking girl like you—well, then it’s a piece of cake!”
“Oh, you’re just saying that to make me feel better about not having any money.”
“No,” he says, “I mean it. I’d still be stuck at the Red Apple Rest. Anyway, that’s it. The room’s on me.”
“Well, I really appreciate it.”
The two trudge through the accumulating snow to the end of the building, and around the back to their room. Jake inserts the key into the lock, twists it, and unlocks the door, opening it with a flourish. “Ta da!”
Peggy gasps. The room is not at all what she had expected. In her mind’s eye, she had pictured a dark, cramped cubicle, crowded with cheap, second-hand furniture, and indoor-outdoor carpeting. But, instead, when Jake flips the light switch, they are instantly transported back to the ‘60s, to a time of ruffles and lace, heavy drapes, and “shag” carpeting. “Oh my God; it’s beautiful!”
Jake’s opinion differs considerably. “Jeez-us,” he says, his voice barely audible. “What the hell—”
“Don’t you just love it?” says Peggy.
“I don’t think so,” replies Jake. But then, he quickly adds, “But if you like it, that’s all that counts.” He flops down on the bed, and is surprised at how firm it is. “Hmmm…maybe it’s not so bad after all.”
The walls are covered in heavy, textured paper, with embossed images of pink flowers scattered tastefully on its light green surface. The drapes are rose colored, contrasting nicely with the walls. The baseboards and all the wood trim have been recently painted in an off-white satin finish that gives them an elegant appearance, consistent with the overall scheme of the room. There’s a small writing table and chair in the far right hand corner, and an overstuffed recliner in the opposing corner. A medium-sized triple dresser sits across from the foot of the bed, and on it a modest flat screen TV. Jake walks over and picks up the remote control. “I hope they’ve got some decent channels,” he says. “Hey! It’s Monday. Maybe there’s a football game on.”
“You men,” says Peggy. “Is that all you ever think about? Sports?”
“Wel-l-l-l,” he says, with a slick grin. “There are other things we guys think about. What exactly did you have in mind?”
“Not what you think,” says Peggy. “I was thinking about TV shows. Maybe we could watch a movie.”
“Hey!” exclaims Jake. “I bet you can get those kinds of movies…I mean, you know; if you wanted to. Not that you’d want to. I mean, you wouldn’t, would you?”
“I’m really hungry,” says Peggy, changing the subject. “Do you think there’s any food around here? Maybe they have a vending machine or something.”
Jake is embarrassed. He realizes that he hardly knows this girl. “Okay. Yeah. I’ll go find out. You wait here. I’ll be right back.” He slips on his jacket, and opens the door. A gust of wind blows a cloud of snow into his face. “Shit!” he exclaims. “Why me?”
Inside, Peggy is exploring the bathroom, which, like the bedroom area, is impeccably decorated in the style of the ‘60s. She decides to brush her teeth, and while she’s at it, maybe change out of her clothes. Might as well make the best of it, she thinks.
Outside, Jake is tramping back and forth in the snow, muttering to himself. A part of him knows he should just go find some food, while the other part of him is answering to a different kind of hunger.
The wind continues to howl, and the snow continues to fall.
Chapter 41
It’s the evening following my failed attempt at trying to reach the man who bought the bracelet. I’ve finally remembered to call him again; this time, however, unlike the first time, the phone is answered on the second ring.
“Hello. Who is this?” says the gruff voice on the other end of the line. It’s obvious I’ve interrupted something— judging by the slurred sound of his speech, probably a prolonged session with a bottle of bourbon.
“Mr. Lynn? Mister Frank Lynn?” I’m trying to keep a civil tone, but I don’t suffer fools easily.
“Who wants to know?”
I do! Come on, Shithead; just say it! I try again. “Is this Frank Lynn of Mexico, New York?” I say the words very slowly and deliberately, as if I were speaking to a child.
Silence.
“Hello?” You better not have hung up on me.
“Yeah,” he replies, at last. “This is Frank Lynn. Who the hell is this?”
“I’m sorry to bother you so late, Mr. Lynn.” Like hell I am. “This is Matt Davis. I’m the Chief of Police in Roscoe.”
“Roscoe? What the hell is a Roscoe?” Obviously, not everyone has heard of Trout Town, U.S.A.
“It’s a town,” I say. “We’re located down in Sullivan County, about an hour from Binghamton.”
“So?”
“My name is Matt Davis,” I reply. “I’m the Chief of Police—in Roscoe?”
“Yeah,” says Mr. Lynn. “So you said.”
Another long pause.
“Mister Lynn?’
“Yeah, yeah,” he says, at last. “I’m here. So you’re near Binghamton, huh?”
His tone and manner are starting to piss me off.
“Is it Wanda?” he asks, a touch of anger in his voice.
“Look, I’m sorry,” I reply. “but, I’m calling about a bracelet.”
“A bracelet? What kinda bracelet? Do you got any idea how late it is?”
“Sir,” I say softly, “I already apologized for calling at this hour. And, believe me, if it weren’t important, I wouldn’t be bothering you.” I decide to play along. “Okay,” I ask, “who’s Wanda?”
“Who’s Wanda?” he shouts. “She’s my wife! That’s who she is.” He then mumbles something indiscernible, which is probably just as well.
“Is there some reason that you might think the police would be calling you about your wife?” My curiosity is peaked, and even though the bracelet is my prime concern, the road we appear to be going down might hold some promise. “Is she missing?”
“I’d rather not say.”
“I’d rather you would say,” I reply. “We’re investigating a homicide here, and I can use all the help I can get.”
“Well, if she’s dead,” he barks, “I say ‘good riddance!’ Now, if you don’t mind, I’m tryin’ t’ watch a ballgame.”
I’ll bet. “Look, Mr. Lynn, I’ve been to Mexico before, and I didn’t particularly care for the ride. But, if I don’t get a little cooperation here, I might just force myself to make the trip again—if you get my drift. Now, let’s try this again. Is there some reason you think the police might be calling about your wife?”
“Mr. Lynn?”
“Yeah, yeah,” comes the reply. “I heard you.”
“And?”
“I’m thinkin’.” (I can just picture him standing there in his sleeveless undershirt, looking at the phone as if it were an object from outer space). “Yeah,” he says at last, “there’s plenty of reasons.”
“Like what?”
“Like where do you want me to start?” he says.
“How about at the beginning?”
“She’s just trouble,” he slurs. “You get it? Nothin’ but trouble. And, she ain’t missin’. I kicked her ass out a month ago!”
Oh, great. “Did you and she have an argument?”
“Yeah, that’s it,” he replies. “It was an argument. We had a big argument.”
“What was the argument about?” (Now, I’m really curious).
“Did ya ever watch the Shopping Channel?” he asks.
“No, I’m afraid not.”
“Well, she did. Every goddamn day! That’s all she did. Just watch that channel, and buy shit.”
“I see.”
“So, I threw her ass out. Can you blame me?”
I don’t really know how to answer, so I don’t.
“Well, can ya?” he asks.
“I guess not. But, I suppose that’s your business.”
“Damn straight it is!” he shouts. “So, don’t tell me I didn’t have a right to throw her ass out.”
I decide I’ve had enough. “Look, Mr. Lynn. I’m not really calling about your wife. But, since you mentioned her, did she ever buy a bracelet?”
“What kinda bracelet?”
“A Missing In Action bracelet,” I say. “You know; the kind they wore back during the Vietnam War.”
“What about Vietnam?” he snarls.
Oh, great, another Vietnam vet with a chip on his shoulder.“Nothing,” I say. “This one was for the Iraq War. I’m trying to find out who bought a particular bracelet for a soldier missing in action. We know someone in your household bought such a bracelet. Would you possibly know if it was your wife?” (It’s obvious to me that it had to be his wife and not him).
“Beats me,” he says. “That woman bought more shit—”
“Yes,” I say. “I understand that. But, I’m only interested in a bracelet from the Iraq War.”
Another prolonged silence.
“Well? Did she buy a bracelet like that? Did she, Mr. Lynn?”
“I wouldn’t bet against it,” he says.
I decide to try a different tack.
“Is there any way I can get in touch with her?”
“My wife?”
“Yessir,” I say. “I’m just thinking that if you could reach out to her, maybe have her give me a call―”
“Now, why would I wanna do that?”
“Because, then I wouldn’t have to keep bothering you.”
That should make him happy, I think.
“So, if I get Wanda to call you, can you stop her from buyin’ all that shit?” he asks.
“Absolutely,” I lie. “And, the sooner you have her call me, the sooner I won’t have to call you anymore. So, why don’t you get yourself a pencil and paper, and I’ll give you a number where she can reach me?”
This apparently strikes a chord, because his next words are music to my ears. “Yeah,” he says. “Hang on. I’ll be right back.”
I hold my breath and pray.
Several minutes later, my prayers are answered. After I hang up, I decide Frank Lynn isn’t a bourbon drinker after all—he’s probably more like a “Bud man.”
Chapter 42
Olivia, the previous year – day one, late afternoon
The sun has set, and Olivia watches the receding taillights of the black and white police cruiser, as it disappears in the distance, and then she turns and looks over at the diner. The lights emanating from its interior beckon her, and she heads toward the entrance. It’s been a long day, and she is exhausted. With all the planning she has done, Olivia never considered that she might not make it into the city in one day. Now, here it is, past dark, and she’s only in Roscoe. If she could just find someplace to spend the night, she wouldn’t have to hitchhike in the darkness. But, right now, she’s hungry, so she opts to satisfy the one need that she can.
She scans the interior of the diner, decides against a booth, and sits down on one of several empty stools lining the long counter that spans the entire far wall. The waitress motions that she’ll be right back with a menu. In a minute or two, she returns with a glass of ice water and the bill of fare, which she places on the counter. “Take your time, sweetie,” she says. “I’ll be back in a ‘sec.’”
“Mind if I sit here?” says a man’s voice. Olivia spins around on her stool to see a somewhat unkempt looking man in his mid forties, wearing a red and black, checked Woolrich jacket, jeans, and work boots. He kind of reminds her of her late father.
“No,” says Olivia. “I mean, sure; I don’t mind.”
“Thanks,” says the man. Then, he sticks out his hand, saying, “I’m Warren.”
Olivia hesitates, and then shakes his hand. “I’m Olivia. Pleased to meet you.”
“Same here.”
Just then, the waitress returns, and seeing the man, says, “Are you two together?”
The man looks at Olivia, and Olivia looks at him. “Oh, what the heck,” he says. “Sure. Put her stuff on my check.” Then, turning toward Olivia, he says, “I mean, if that’s okay.”
“Sure,” she says. “And, thanks.”
“Don’t mention it.”
“Hey,” he says. “Why don’t we get a booth? I mean, it’s a lot more comfortable, don’t ya think?”
Olivia shifts uneasily on her stool.
“Oh, I get it,” says Warren, with a smile. “No problem. We can just stay right here. I wouldn’t want you to get the wrong impression.”
Olivia immediately feels guilty. “No, no,” she says. “It’s okay.”
“Are you sure?”
“Absolutely!”
“Okay,” he says. “You go pick one out; I’ll stay here until the waitress comes back, so she’ll know what’s happening.”
Olivia selects a booth all the way in the back, by a window. In a minute, she is joined by the man, who has brought her water. He sits across from her, which makes Olivia a lot more comfortable.
After ordering their meals, the two spend the next fifteen minutes exchanging “stories,” before their food arrives. Olivia tells him of her plans to model and about the arrangements she’s made to stay at the Y. He tells her his name is Warren Joseph, but his friends just call him “Wa.” She learns that he’s forty-six, and a veteran of Operation Desert Storm.
“Hey, that’s cool. My father was in the Middle East, too.” The thought of her father brings a tear to her eye, which she wipes away with a napkin.
“What’s wrong?”
“He was killed there…in Iraq. He should’ve never been there in the first place.”
“Why was he there?” asks Warren. “Heck, he must have been about my age.”
“He was in the National Guard,” says Olivia. “You know, to earn extra money—”
“And they called him up, right?”
“Uh huh,” whispers Olivia.
“That sucks,” says Warren.
“I know,” she replies. “I really miss him.” She doesn’t tell Warren how much he reminds her of her father. But, looking across at him makes her feel kind of safe; just like when her dad was alive.
Warren tells Olivia about the most recent “developments” in his miserable life. Three weeks ago, he says, he lost his job at the meat packing plant in Oneonta, and ten days later, his wife of twenty-three years announced that she was splitting. “I’m sick of living with a loser,” she had said. “Those were her exact words,” says Warren, shaking his head.
What Warren doesn’t tell Olivia is that one of the reasons he has not fared well is his propensity to
drink—and to gamble. Back in Kuwait, in 1991, “Wa” had a reputation for betting on anything that moved. In fact, one buddy had joked that, “’Wa’ would put money on a scorpion fight, if he could find one.”
When the meal is finished, Warren lays a generous tip on the table; he can scarcely afford it, but figures it will look good to the girl. “So,” he says, “what now?”
Olivia stands up, and puts on her jacket, not quite sure how to answer.
“I meant, are you going to start hitchhiking right away,” asks Warren. “Or are you going to spend the night?”
“Well,” replies Olivia. “I don’t really have any money to waste on a room. I was kinda hoping I’d get to the city by tonight.”
Warren stands up, and stretches his arms in the air. Taking a deep breath, he says, “I’ll tell you what. If you don’t mind the company of an old man, what say I just drive you straight on into the city? We could be there in…oh, hell…two, maybe three hours. It won’t even be that late. We’ll find that YMCA, and get you all set up. Heck, maybe I can get a room there, too.”
“You mean it?”
“I told you, I’m not working, and I don’t really have any plans. So, why not? Besides, maybe I might just look around the city for some work, myself. I know there’s a big meat packing section in Manhattan. I think it’s somewhere on the Eastside.”
“We-l-l-l-l,” says Olivia. “If you really want to.”
“Oh, I do,” says Warren. “I’ll go pay the check. Why don’t you meet me outside?”
“Okay, but I have to use the ladies room, first.”
“Perfect,” says Warren.
Just perfect.
Chapter 43
It’s been more than a week since I had my little conversation with Frank Lynn, and I haven’t heard word one from his wife. So, I decide to give him another call. He answers the phone on the second ring. I’ve deliberately called him in the morning, in the hope of catching him sober. It’s obvious that my efforts have been rewarded as soon as I hear him speak. He has absolutely no idea who I am. But, at least he hasn’t been drinking.
After I explain – all over again – about the bracelet, who I am, and how he promised to have his wife contact me, he apologizes profusely, and again assures me that he will have her call—and, he actually sounds sincere. Once again, I give him my home phone number, and then hang up. Unless you’ve known a drunk firsthand, it’s difficult to comprehend the day-and-night personality changes that come about when one imbibes. Unfortunately, I’ve known way too many alcoholics, and although I never fully understand what makes them tick, I know pretty much what to expect. It’s not a comforting thought.
Opening Day: A Matt Davis Mystery Page 17
