“Thanks, guys,” I said.
Nick beamed a smile back at me. “My pleasure,” he said.
This generated a grunt from Tyrese, which I took to be his tired form of agreement.
I was about to switch the topic of conversation to Tiffany’s morbidly dark artwork when someone new entered the room and everyone’s attention shifted.
Chapter 22
“Ho, ho, ho!” Santa Claus bellowed from the doorway.
I looked over and smiled. The costume was perfect, with an authentic-looking wig, the red suit and black boots, an appropriately rounded belly, red, rosy cheeks, and sparkling brown eyes, which I recognized. Of course, I had the advantage of knowing ahead of time who Santa really was, but even so, it was hard to tell it was Duncan. He was carrying a big sack slung over one shoulder, and after entering the room, he set it down on the floor. Then he stood back, hands on his belly, and let out another string of ho-ho-hos, followed by a hearty “Merry Christmas!” His voice was well disguised, but even so, I experienced the rich chocolate taste that always came to me when I heard him speak. And I began to wonder if he had some theater background of his own, because the way he modulated and projected his voice hinted at some stage experience.
I watched with amusement as he unloaded a bunch of bottles of liquor, stuff I had agreed to donate to the cause. That was what Billy, Mal, and I had done in my office earlier, made a list of the drinks favored by everyone in the group. There was something for each person there: chardonnay for Cora, Kahlúa for Holly, gin for Carter, rum for Alicia, scotch for Tad, whiskey for Sam, vodka for Clay and Mal, brandy for Tyrese, and a six-pack each of assorted microbrewery beers for Joe and Frank. For the newcomers, I had to hope that what I had seen them drink so far was a favorite, and judging from the appreciative and somewhat surprised looks on their faces, I thought I got it right. Stephen McGregor got brandy, and Sonja West got a bottle of Amaretto.
I watched the group closely as Santa handed around the gifts. If anyone recognized that Santa was Duncan, they didn’t let on. Since I hadn’t known for sure who would be present, there were gifts for others in the group who weren’t there at the moment: Tiny, whose work schedule had made him scarce lately; Dr. T; Tad; Kevin Baldwin; and Greg Nash, our Realtor newcomer. Duncan, aka Santa, set those gifts aside as he handed out the goodies. Then he tossed the extras back into the sack, wished everyone a happy holiday season, and left.
This was Mal’s cue. With a mighty stretch and a faked yawn, he rose to his feet and said, “I’m wiped, so I think I better head home.”
I rose, too—it would seem odd if I didn’t escort him out of the room—and told the others I was going to call it a night, as well. Amid a chorus of good wishes, thank-yous, and good nights, we exited the Capone Club room and headed downstairs.
When we reached the main floor, we headed for the back hallway, down which was the door to my apartment. Anyone watching would assume we were headed upstairs, but also down that hallway were the bathrooms. When we were outside the men’s room door, we did a quick check of the hallway to make sure no one saw us, and Mal ducked inside. I then went on to my apartment entrance and unlocked the door. With that done, I turned and hobbled back to the bar, where I made small talk with Billy and Teddy for several interminably long minutes.
Finally, I felt my cue—the vibration of my cell phone in my pants pocket, letting me know I had a text. I checked the message to make sure it was the one I was waiting for, and when I saw that it was, I excused myself and headed toward my apartment. Just as I reached the hallway, Santa emerged and hollered out, “Merry Christmas, everyone!” as he made his way to the front door. His exit was marked by a chorus of return greetings from the patrons and a series of toasts. Moments later Santa had left the building.
I crutched my way down the hall, and when I was outside of the men’s bathroom, I looked to make sure no one was nearby. Then I knocked on the door three times. It whipped open so fast, it startled me, nearly making me lose my balance. Duncan dashed out, headed for my apartment door, and disappeared inside my apartment in a matter of seconds, leaving me behind in his dust.
We had managed the switch unnoticed, and as I headed for my apartment, I was feeling both happy and just a little bit smug. When I opened my apartment door and stepped into the small foyer, Duncan was waiting there. After I locked the door to ensure no surprise visits, he bent down and kissed me on the lips.
“I’ve missed you, Mack Dalton,” he said in a low, husky voice that made me taste peppery chocolate.
“I saw you a little while ago,” I said just before he kissed me again, longer this time.
“Not the same,” he muttered against my lips.
We were both breathless when we finally parted, but Duncan clearly had some stamina left in him, because he swooped me off my feet and carried me up the stairs, one crutch jammed between me and his chest, the other banging on the stairs as he climbed them. I dropped the banging crutch as soon as we reached the top; the other one ended up in the bedroom with us.
And for the next hour or so, all my worries were cast aside.
* * *
Sometime later we were seated at my small kitchen table, eating cold chicken, cheese, and fruit, accompanied by a nice dry pinot. Duncan looked more relaxed and happy than I’d seen him in a long time. I was feeling pretty good myself, until he raised the topic that haunted me most.
“So where is this latest letter?”
I made a face, showing my disappointment.
“What? Did something happen to it?”
“No,” I said, shaking my head. “It’s not that. It’s just that I was feeling so good about life . . . relaxed, happy, and content. And then you reminded me of my sword of Damocles.”
“Sorry,” he said, biting into a chunk of Gouda. “But I’m glad to know I left you feeling good for a little while at least.” He flashed a wicked smile and winked at me.
“You left me feeling great,” I said in a low, appreciative tone. “I guess I’m just disappointed that I couldn’t bask in that glow a little longer.”
“I can bring the glow back later if you like.” As he said this, his eyes were dark as coals, like the entrance to a bottomless abyss, one I was more than willing to throw myself into.
“I would like,” I said. Then, with a sigh, I got up from the table and headed into my father’s office to fetch the letter and its contents.
“Here you go,” I said when I returned, setting the letter, the aster, the weeping willow leaf, and the envelope on the table. All of them were inside the plastic Baggies we’d put them in earlier.
Duncan picked up the letter and read it through the Baggie, munching on some grapes as he did so. He frowned a little, scowled at one point, and then set the letter down.
Desperate to bring a little light into this cave of depression, I said, “Cora did some research on the recipients of the packages the letter writer sent, looking for any commonalities. She found one, though it might be a bit of a stretch. All the recipients have some connection to the university. Two of them are students, the art store guy carries books and supplies for many of the university art classes, and the spice shop lady sells her wares to several of the dorms and eateries on campus.”
Duncan cocked his head to one side, looking contemplative. “Is that all she found?”
“So far, yes. But I was thinking about it earlier, and it might be a reasonable lead. Whoever delivered those packages had to have access to information about each of the recipients, things like addresses and schedules. And in the case of the art store and the spice shop, access to invoices would have supplied the necessary information. What if the letter writer is someone who works in a billing or financial capacity at the university? They would have access to financial records of the students, which I think would also give them access to their schedules and home addresses, maybe even their work history. And they would also know all the vendors that deal with the school on a regular basis.”
Duncan con
sidered this, and his expression lightened. “That’s not a bad wrinkle,” he said. “Definitely worth looking into. It will be interesting to see if your visit to the cemetery tomorrow turns up anything related to the university.”
The reminder of tomorrow’s agenda once again darkened my mood. A surge of anger swept through me, making me shudder. “When I get my hands on this damned letter writer, I’m going to . . . to . . . Argh!”
Duncan chuckled—not the reaction I was expecting.
I gave him a curious look.
“Sorry,” he said, swallowing whatever was in his mouth and taking a swig of wine to wash it down. “It’s just that I love your spunk, your spirit. You have this fiery personality to go with your fiery hair.”
“That’s such a stereotype,” I chastised.
“Most stereotypes exist because they have some basis in truth. Perhaps the genetic code for red hair is linked somehow to certain personality traits.”
I opened my mouth to object, but he continued before I could get a word out.
“Or perhaps the way people treat those with red hair spurs those personality traits. Nurture or nature?” he said, his eyebrows raised, a smile on his face. He popped a grape in his mouth before he added, “Which do you think it is?”
“Neither,” I said. “I think the whole stereotype is born out of a metaphor . . . red hair . . . fiery.”
Duncan conceded the battle. “Fair enough. Let’s switch topics. How did your visit with Ben Middleton go?”
Over the next hour I filled him in on the progress we’d made, some of the scenarios we’d tossed around, and where we were going next. He tried to poke holes in some of the theories I shared with him, but in the end he agreed Ben Middleton might be innocent. He admitted as much with a frown.
“Why do I sense that the prospect doesn’t make you happy?” I asked him.
“Don’t get me wrong,” he said with a dismissive wave of his hand. “If the man is truly innocent, I’m all in favor of proving it and seeing that he goes free. But . . .”
I waited for him to finish, but all he did was deepen his frown.
“But it’s not going to make me any friends down at the police station,” I said, filling in words for him. “Is that what you’re thinking?”
He nodded grimly. “Or with the DA’s office. It won’t make either of them look good if you discover they arrested and convicted an innocent man. The police in this country are under so much scrutiny these days as it is. Something like this is only going to reinforce the negative attitudes that seem so prevalent of late. It might have been better if you’d stuck to cold cases that haven’t been solved yet. Figuring those out still makes the police look a tad incompetent, but not as bad as something like this will.”
I knew he was right, but it didn’t change my conviction to pursue the case, and I said so. “However,” I noted, “maybe there’s a way to do some damage control.”
“How so?”
“If we can prove Ben Middleton is innocent, what if I go to the DA and your superiors, present them with the exonerating evidence, and then let them take the credit for looking into it? I’m more than willing to stay out of the limelight and let someone else have the glory.”
Duncan shook his head and gave me a wistful look. “You’re living in a fairy-tale land where morals and ethics rule, and good always wins out over evil. But that’s naive thinking. There are a lot of politics involved here, and there are some folks who would rather see an innocent man rot in jail than risk their own reputation getting a smudge.”
“That’s horrible!”
“Perhaps, but that doesn’t mean it isn’t true.”
His negativism irritated me. “Are you suggesting I let the case drop?”
“Not at all. I’m proud of you and what you’re doing, Mack. But I’m also worried about you, about how you’re going to hold up under all the fallout, and about how you’ll deal with the inevitable disappointments and criticisms. There’s bound to be some backlash, and I’m worried about how it might affect you.”
“You should also worry about how it’s going to affect you,” I said. “You should probably distance yourself from me as much as possible.”
“I can handle the flack,” he said dismissively. “Don’t worry about me. Besides, if you promise not to tell anyone where you heard it from, I’ll tell you a little secret.”
I was intrigued, and he knew it. I pantomimed locking my lips and tossing an imaginary key over my shoulder. Then I waited for what seemed like forever.
“The chief had a little chat with me about you,” he said. “He’s intrigued by what you’ve done, both with me and on your own, and he’s interested in learning more about you. But that’s his private view. Publicly, he needs to kowtow to the existing mayor and the DA to some extent, particularly since the mayor is up for reelection and reducing the crime rate is high on his political agenda. The chief is hoping to bring the mayor around at some point, but it’s going to take some time, since they’re still cleaning the egg off their faces from your past exploits.”
I shook my head, dismayed. “This political crap is so annoying. Why can’t people just say what they mean and be forthright and responsible? If you screw up, say so and apologize. All this media manipulation and the attempts to divert attention and shrug off the blame just make the public more suspicious. A little more honesty would be so refreshing.”
“Honesty among politicians?” Duncan said, looking askance. “Surely you jest.”
I sighed and blinked hard. “All this politicking talk is making me dizzy,” I said, setting down my wineglass. “Or maybe it’s the wine.”
“Or maybe it’s my awesome presence,” Duncan said, only half sarcastic. “What do you say I take your mind off it all for a while?”
That made me smile, and without another word, I got up from my chair, grabbed my crutches, and headed for my bedroom. Duncan followed, and for the next several hours I was blissfully oblivious to the outside world and all the potential dangers, headaches, and pitfalls lurking within.
Chapter 23
Morning came all too soon. Duncan shook me awake around five, and I reluctantly let go of the idyllic dreamworld of my slumber.
“I need to leave while it’s still dark,” Duncan whispered in my ear. His breath was warm, his voice soothing, and the combination of the two made me taste sweet milk chocolate.
When I rolled over and blinked the sleep from my eyes, I was surprised to see that he was already dressed. He sat down on the bed beside me and brushed my hair back off my face. Then he kissed me.
“I wish I didn’t have to go,” he said.
“So do I.” I threw back the covers, donned my robe, and then grabbed my crutches. I followed him out to the main area of the apartment, and from there down the stairs, a journey made in silence . . . if you didn’t count the thumping of my crutches.
When we reached the bar’s back hallway, he turned to me and said, “Are you still planning on going to the cemetery today?”
I nodded. “Mal is going with me.”
“Good. I think,” he said with a slightly troubled expression. “Be careful and call me if you need anything, okay?”
“I will.”
He kissed me again, a little longer this time, and had the kiss lasted a second or two more, I don’t think he would have made his escape in the dark. Not wanting him to see the disappointment on my face, I turned away and hobbled down the hall to my office, entered it, and disabled the back alley door alarm. I then headed back to the hallway, wondering if he would linger there until I returned for one last good-bye. But by the time I reached the hall, I could see the door closing and knew he was gone. My disappointment mounting, I went back into the office and turned the alarm back on.
I’d planned to return to bed, but by the time I hobbled back upstairs to my apartment, I knew that wasn’t going to work. I felt wide awake and buzzed, so I made my way to the kitchen and fixed a pot of coffee. Then I dragged out my laptop, launched
the browser, and read everything I could find about Forest Home Cemetery. It was a fascinating place, rich with Milwaukee history, and the pictures of the grounds I saw online depicted a serene and lovely place landscaped with magnificent old trees, a small lake, and a picturesque stone bridge. Of course, most of that would be barren, gone, or frozen for my visit today, since it was the dead of winter, and I felt a tug of disappointment. I spent some time reading up on the green burial process and the Prairie Rest section of the cemetery, which housed those who chose that form of interment. Though the topic was admittedly a bit morbid, I found the idea of our bodies being returned to the earth kind of refreshing and nice. A childhood ditty played in my head a few times—the worms crawl in, the worms crawl out, the worms play pinochle on your snout—and rather than being disturbed by it, I found it oddly humorous.
I became so absorbed in my research that the time passed by with startling speed. Before I knew it, it was time to shower, dress, and head downstairs to start prepping for my eleven o’clock opening. I abandoned the computer and headed for the shower after taping a plastic garbage bag over my cast. When I was done showering, I spent a good ten minutes debating what to wear, trying to decide what would be appropriate cemetery visitation garb and wondering if it really mattered. In the end I opted for black jeans, a turquoise sweater, and one sensible low-rider black boot. Over my casted foot I put on two pairs of my father’s heavy black wool socks. After a quick fix to my hair, I headed downstairs just before ten thirty.
Debra and my daytime bartender, Pete, were already at the bar, setting things up, and my daytime cook, Jon, was in the kitchen. I crutched my way to the customer side of the bar, sidled onto a stool, and told Debra to pass me over some fruit, a cutting board, and a knife so I could help her with prepping the garnishments. She did so, and I went to work while she made coffee and helped Pete stock behind the bar.
The chopping duty was a monotonous task but one I typically enjoyed, because the mind-numbing tedium lessened my synesthetic reactions. I was intimately familiar with the sounds and sensations touched off by the citrus smell of the limes, lemons, and oranges, and I could easily suppress them. I’d been chopping this stuff on a daily basis for so many years that my hands functioned robotically, performing the necessary movements in a rote manner that was blissfully mindless.
Shots in the Dark Page 19
