Murder by Candlelight

by John Stockmyer

  At least Z seemed to be dressed right for the occasion: few of the others in clothes more formal than his. The women were mostly wearing lumpy-leg-concealing slacks; the men in their "goin' to the Royals' game" garb.

  Looking for a familiar face, Z saw a portable table set up at the center of the long house, a man and woman seated behind it, paper name tags laid out on the table's surface. Beyond the sign-in pair was a trestle board covered with white butcher's paper, the far end spread with cheap, white paper plates, stacks of foam cups, and white plastic tableware. The rest of the table's surface was crowded with crock pots, bowls, shallow metal pans, chip packages, and beverage dispensers, folks already in the food line.

  But first things first.

  Shuffling to the center table, waiting his turn while a faded pair of oldsters got their name tags, Z stepped up, the neatly dressed man seated behind the table beaming up at him; Z getting a shocked stare from the woman. (Always the female reaction to big and ugly.) The man wore brown slacks and a tan shirt, the woman -- a stupid expression.

  "Bob Zapolska."

  "Bob ...," the man began, starting to paw through what was left of the stick-on name tags, the tags on the table in alphabetical order.

  Suddenly, the man looked up at Z again. Squinted.

  "Bob Zapolska? Big Bob Z?" The man's voice rising in pitch and volume, others turned to see what was wrong. "Hey, everybody," the man announced. "It's Bob Z!"

  Turning to Z, the man said, in a lowered voice that begged for absolution, "I never played football, so you wouldn't know me. My name's Harry Jenner. This is the wife."

  Z nodded to the woman, a clown face of cosmetics.

  By the time the happily smiling little man had handed Z the proper tag, other men had crowded around.

  "Remember me?" said a big-boned, completely bald giant in out-sized jeans and orange tank top, the man a head taller than Z's six-foot-plus.

  There was something familiar about the man's heavy face, but ....

  It was then that Z remembered the tags, a tactful glance at the man's thick chest solving Z's problem.

  "Otto Warner," Z mumbled, shaking hands with the colossus.

  "Your left tackle," the man boomed, grinning. "We gave 'em hell our senior year, didn't we? I laid 'em out, and you ran all over 'em." Otto had already been at the beer. Just like the old days.

  "Hey, Z!" said another larger than life hulk, this one with a fringe of white hair at the edges of his dark-spotted scalp. Below, the man had a gut big enough to jam a doorway. "Larry Holt. Center." The fat man laughed, his belly jiggling. "Don't look so embarrassed, Z. I didn't recognize you, either."

  Didn't recognize ....? Z hadn't changed that much. He'd gained a little weight; but a lot less than Larry. An extra inch or two on the waist was to be expected with the passing years, Z gaining ... maybe ... thirty pounds. And Z had his hair, still clipped short like he wore it in high school.

  "Hi, Big Bob, remember me?" said a short woman with painted-blond hair. Younger looking than the rest, she was shoe-horned into a red, size-12 miniskirt. "Angie. Angie Roberts."

  Angie Roberts.

  Every high school boy's wet dream.

  Angie Roberts, cheerleader.

  Swing and sway the Angie way, they all yelled when Angie took the field.

  Z managed a smile. Hoped, for Angie's sake, she'd take it as lustful as in the old days.

  "Remember our special cheer?" she said, snapping her orthopedic shoes together, fists ready to punch the air. "End! Center! Tackle! Guard! Hit 'em! Hit 'em! Hit 'em! Hard!"

  Horrible!

  Z knew it would be bad, but ....

  "Over here, Z!"

  At last, someone Z recognized! Teddy Newbold. Dressed in a blue and green and gold ... and black and pink ... flowered shirt, over black and white, zebra-patterned pants.

  Nodding to his former fans, Z murmured his way through the knot of people who'd gathered around him, managing, as he did so, to "lose" his name tag in a wastepaper drum on the way to the "goodies" table, arriving to find Ted nearly through the food line, Ted's never-popular wife beside him, the woman's personality revealed in her selection of apparel: unrelenting black.

  Though Z wasn't hungry, he got a plate and speared himself a couple of melon pieces and two small wieners-in-barbecue-sauce, the latter rescued from a dangerous-looking crock pot.

  A can of coke from an ice-filled plastic cooler, and Z was ready to follow Ted to one of the aluminum-and-steel park benches under the shelter's wood canopy.

  Ted looked the same, at least. Of course, Z had seen Ted from time to time over a lot of years. Like the others, Ted had put on weight, most of it in the fatty inner tube he carried around his middle. As for the rest of him, Ted, like his mind, was nondescript. Suspiciously brown hair, brown eyes, brown skin, brown ... teeth.

  Ted's triangular-faced wife was younger. Thin as an assassin's dagger, she had all the warmth of a sack of broken glass.

  They'd had Z over to dinner a couple of years ago; Z had taken them to a restaurant as payback; both meals filed under "enough's enough."

  Ted and his wife began eating, Ted shoveling in a wide variety of items Z hadn't even seen on the food table: potato salad, bread slices, spaghetti with meatballs, pasta salad, fried chicken legs. Ted's wife was taking tiny bites of a forked-through wiener -- the very image of a praying mantis delicately dissecting an impaled bug.

  Practically everyone arrived, the party was settling down to a conversational buzz, people splitting off in the same cliques they'd formed in high school.

  There were the "circulaters," of course, men dressed in tailored, tasteful summer suits and handmade shoes. Dropping by table after table to say a pleasant word about how well they'd done in life. A couple of doctors, one retired in the Bahamas. Several lawyers. All worth millions, to hear them tell it. Asking polite questions about Ted's and Z's occupations in the pretense of showing concern for the welfare of the less fortunate.

  "Outrageous," said Ted's wife, a celery stick grasped in the pinchers of her short, front legs, the woman chewing steadily with her powerful mandibles.

  "Wot?" Ted asked, his mouth full of sliced turkey sandwich.

  "What we had to pay for this." She nodded sullenly at her plate. "Get better stuff at Shoney's salad bar -- at a cafeteria, for Christ's sake."

  It always hurt Z to hear a woman swear. His Mother's influence.

  "The fifty bucks also pays for the dinner!" Ted -- defending the honor of his class.

  Never what could be called a tower of intellect, Teddy could be loyal ... provided it didn't cost him.

  "Rubber wieners," the woman said scornfully.

  "Wha' 'bout 'em?" Ted asked, chewing fast, swallowing. "What you want, caviar? It ain't ... isn't ... that kind of party."

  "As if we get invited to that kind of party."

  "What?"

  "A caviar party, is what. We're not exactly on the A-list in Gladstone."

  "There isn't no A-list in Gladstone," Ted said with some dignity.

  "We're on the shit list."

  "That's not true."

  "Because of your job."

  "What's wrong with my job?"

  "You get no respect is what."

  "What you mean I got no respect?"

  "A crummy cop."

  "What you mean, a crummy cop?"

  "Crummy."

  "Not a cop, neither. A detective."

  "Same as!"

  "Is not!"

  As for Ted being a detective, Z was the one to blame for that, Teddy unable to "detect" his dick with his fly unzipped. It was Z who'd passed Ted enough tips to cause Ted to advance, Teddy sometimes favoring Z with information only the cops could get.

  It was then that Z was aware of someone behind him, hovering, a situation Z tried to avoid by sitting with his back to a wall -- when possible

  Carefully, Z turned. Saw ... Bud Izard ... Z recognizing Bud because Z had recently been in Bud's Tavern on Oak. Z wasn't much of a drinker
, but had been feeling down that day.

  Back in high school, Bud had been the senior right tackle when Z was a junior. Since then -- like so many here -- Bud's impressive muscles had sunk to the bottom of a tub of lard.

  Like other big men Z had known, Bud was quiet, almost shy, as if apologetic for taking up so much of the world's space.

  "Hey Bud," Ted said, Ted also getting a drink at Bud's from time to time.

  "Teddy."

  "Join us, boy. The more the merrier." With a wife like Ted's, "the more the merrier" made a lot of sense.

  "Can't."

  "Can't? Where you goin' in such a rush? The party's just started."

  "Got to get back to the business."

  Bud was dressed as Z had seen him at the tavern: black slacks, white shirt, black "bolo" tie with a turquoise and Indian-silver clip.

  "What about your counter man?" Ted shrugged, at the same time managing to stab a slice of barbecued beef into his mouth, a dribble of sauce dripping down to be forever lost in the jungle of Ted's shirt.

  "Sick," Bud said. "Got to clean up before I open."

  "Yeah. Tough. See you at the dinner tonight?"

  "Maybe," Bud said uncertainly.

  After that, Bud just stood behind Z, swaying, shifting his massive weight from one foot to the other. "Actually," Bud began again, looking pained, "I need ta talk ta Z."

  Seeing that the big man was serious, Z nodded; scooted painfully to the end of the bench seat; swung his legs out; stood up.

  Good old Bud to the rescue, was what he was thinking!

  Z taking the lead, they headed for the nearest way out of the steel and wooden "tent," soon on the mostly bare ground beyond.

  Sprung from the trap of auld lang syne, Z took a calming breath. Smelled: flat beer, rotted banana skins, stale cheese puffs, cigarette smoke, urine of dogs and kids, hamburger, sunburned skin, dust, bruised grass, baked beans, old catsup, plastic plates, strawberry pop ....... After losing his sense of smell for a time as a teenager, Z like to smell ... everything.

  Away from the crowded pavilion, they lost themselves in the park's other "doings": teenagers throwing frisbees, dads rattling charcoal into braziers, bare-topped little kids running, falling down, wrestling, throwing dirt.

  Finally within the sheltering privacy of complete strangers, the two of them sat on a blue, fiberglass bench.

  "First, a question," Z said, picking up on something "detective" Ted should have noticed, but didn't -- no surprise there. "You're a year ahead of me. So, how come you're at this reunion?"

  Bud nodded soberly. "Heard talk of it at the bar. I came, hoping to find you here."

  "So?"

  "I got a problem, Z." Bud's voice as soft as the rest of him.

  "Yeah?"

  "Want to hire you."

  Z nodded.

  "I don't know how much you charge, or when I can pay. Things are a little short right now. You know how it is."

  Looking over, Z noticed that Bud had his big fists clenched into boxing gloves.

  Z nodded again.

  "The problem is," Bud continued, going slow, "I got a maniac on my trail."

  "Maniac?"

  "Yeah."

  From his back pocket, the gentle giant extracted what looked like a playing card, handing the card to Z.

  Z took it. Looked at it.

  Bicycle style.

  Worn.

  Turning the card over, Z saw it was the queen of spades.

  Z handed the card back, Bud returning it to his hip pocket.

  "I know it don't look like much," Bud said, begging Z's pardon with a sickly grin, "but that's the death card."

  Ah! Hocus-pocus. Explaining why Bud Izard sought Z's advice.

  Z could do nothing but regret the day he'd taken on the "ghost light" case at Bateman college in the nearby town of Liberty. Since then, all he seemed to get was "paranormal" work, receiving calls from respectable people and cranks alike. You got a reputation and ....

  The occult was Jamie Stewart's line -- Jamie, the girl "ghost hunter" Z was paired up with on his last major case.

  Every time Z thought of frolicsome Jamie Stewart, he felt like blushing; would have, if he were the blushing kind. They'd been on a job together, Jamie hunting the source of a "ghost light," Z hired as her muscle. They'd spent a lot of nights in this abandoned house; just the two of them.

  Predictably, with Jamie's sexual appetites ....

  Fun, but dangerous, Susan the kind of woman to make a "ghost" of Z if she caught him cheating.

  Not that Z's playing house with Jamie was his fault -- it wasn't. Given the intimate situation, any man would have ....

  Females!

  Why they couldn't figure out that sex had nothing to do with love, Z didn't know. Even bright women, like Susan.

  There was Paula, for instance, Z's ex. ....

  But that was going far afield with Bud there beside him, a hang-dog expression on the big man's, little boy face.

  "So?" Z had to learn more.

  "It was like this." Bud looked all around to make sure no one was listening, like men did when they were about to embarrass themselves. "At the tavern a couple of weeks ago, this beautiful young girl came in. Blond. Big tits. But not showing them off more than what was tasteful. Friendly, you know?

  "Had to be a hooker, but with class. Real class, you know?"

  Z nodded. "Had legs on her like they was goin' out of style, what I could see of 'em from behind the bar. She had them crossed, you see. Short skirt slit up to China." Z nodded. B-girl. Had to be. "I was paying her the kind of attention a girl like that deserves."

  In spite of himself, Bud smiled, a grin the size of coal lumps on the biggest snowman in the world. "And -- don't laugh -- she was comin' on to me, too."

  Far from being surprised, Z was thinking that's what working girls did. Work.

  "So I was gettin' all heated up like I hadn't been in years. I'm gettin' older. We all are. Not so easy to get it up as it was when we were kids." Z hoped Bud didn't think he was speaking for everyone their age! "So I hardly noticed this other guy that come in to sit at the bar. But then, I did. 'Cause he began tryin' to get the girl's attention, too."

  "Joy-girl have a name?"

  "Yeah. Her name was Carrara Marble. Beautiful, ain't it."

  Z nodded. Maybe the girl did have a sort of class. After all, "Carrara" was the expensive kind of marble Michelangelo used for his important sculptures.

  Back before Z and Susan were officially dating, Susan had gotten Z to go to Kansas City's Nelson Art Gallery. (This was after Z took a slug in the lung from Susan's crazy ex, the bullet putting Z in the hospital -- and almost in the ground.)

  To recover, he'd had to walk a lot. Slowly.

  What better place to walk out of the weather than the art gallery, a grateful Susan suggested. You try to walk slowly in a mall and health-chasing grandmas ran you down.

  Z hadn't known anything about art at the time, but with Susan beside him to explain what he was seeing, had learned. More than learned; had come to love the gallery.

  The silent, beautiful rooms.

  The antique armor.

  The Greek lion in the Ancient History room.

  Particularly, the Monet.

  Back to the present.

  Called herself Carrara Marble, did she? Maybe the chippy was as classy as Bud Izard said, the kind of hundred-dollar hooker that those "in the life" called a racehorse.

  "Well," Bud continued, swallowing hard, "she don't give the other man the time of day, see? And I could tell he was gettin' mad.

  "Now, he's a little guy, so I don't expect no trouble." Bud stopped suddenly. Looked at Z. Hard. "But maybe you know him? He was in your class." Bud looked back at the party shed. "He's not here today, the little bastard. I was careful to look. Name of Howard Kunkle?"

  Z shook his head. With four-hundred students in his graduating class ...?

  "So pretty soon," Bud continued, "this Kunkle leaves. And to tell the truth, the g
irl leaves shortly after. She was just waitin'. Had a rich trick in the neighborhood, would be my guess. So I got to admit it. Maybe she wasn't coming on to me as much as I figured. Was just being nice, you know? You don't expect that from a whore. Just being nice for nothing." Bud paused again, thinking.

  "So I figured that was the end of it. But then this Kunkle guy comes back in the tavern. And he's pissed. Claims I stole his girl. First thing I know, he's whipped out this card. And he gives it to me. Says it's a death card. That it means I'm goin' to die." Bud was shaking his massive head.

  "I laughed it off. Told him to sober up. And again, didn't think nothing more about it 'till he took a shot at me after I locked up last night. Oh, it was him alright. I saw him. Across the street. The same little guy. By this time, he's running. But he took a shot at me. It was him."

  Pretty poor shot, Z was thinking, to miss a target, broad as Bud. On the other hand, most people couldn't hit an elephant with a handgun. Z couldn't, that only one of the reasons he never carried a piece.

  "Report it to the cops?

  Stupid question, said Bud's look.

  "What you want me to do?" Z asked, at the same time nodding his agreement about the helplessness of cops in such a case. Now if Kunkle had murdered Bud ....

  "I don't know," Bud admitted. "But could you do something?"

  "Cost a hundred."

  "Like I said, I don't know when I can pay. If you was a drinker, you could take it out in trade ... except you're not. But I'm good for it. You know that."

  "Got an address?

  "What? ... Oh, I see. Yeah."

  Unbuttoning the pointed, fold-down flap on his western-style shirt pocket, Bud fingered out a slip of paper. "I had my bar man look it up." Bud gave the scrap a nearsighted stare. "Thought you might want it. He lives at 1761 Jarbo."

  "I'll have a talk with him."

  "I don't know if that would do any good, Z," Bud said quickly, far from convinced. "I think he's crazy. I tried to run him off and it don't do no good. And I'm a big guy. If he doesn't scare when I give him the bum's rush, how's a talk from you going to help?"

  An understandable concern on Bud's part, since Bud didn't know how effective Z's "talks" could be.