by Rich Foster
“Just a minute,” a voice called.
Vicki Thompson came down the steps, breathing hard from the extra weight she carried. “What did you want to know?”
“Tell me about the graduation party back in 92.”
“Oh geez. That was a long time ago. Not much to tell.”
“Try me.”
“I went with Hughie. We dated all through high school. In hindsight I should have shopped around. Ours was a failed marriage. He lost his job, we lost the house, and I was stuck paying for the funeral after he chickened out on life with a shotgun. Sheriff Gaines was decent, he called it an accident so the kids and I got his life insurance.”
She was digressing into her own problems.
“So nothing happened at the party?”
“I got drunk and threw up, so Hughie and I left. I was too drunk to go home so we went up to the overlook and parked. When I sobered up we started necking, one thing led to another and a month later I was pregnant. We got married in August, wham, bam, welcome to the real world ma’am.”
Small failures clung to her like lint on cashmere. Hughie might be dead and buried but he lived on as an emotionally, toxic cloud of thwarted dreams that poisoned her days.
“Did you see Alison Albright that night?”
“I was too drunk to see my toes.”
Harry thanked her.
Traffic was at a crawl on Main Street which was crowded with people heading home from the beach or out to an early dinner. Troubled thoughts bothered Harry as he drove.
He broke free from the congestion and cruised around the end of the lake. A feeling of relief swept over him as he turned into the long drive of his home. In the ten months he lived there, the cabin became a place of peace and comfort to him, almost as much as his boat that lay alongside his dock.
Went to see the latest chick flick with Sandy,
Love Paula
PS: There’s a vodka martini in the freezer.
Upstairs, he took a long shower, trying to scrub away the day. Some days were that way, by the end he felt as if he deserved every dirty word people tagged to his profession, being sullied from learning people’s secrets, being privy to shattered dreams, and looking for hearts of evil.
His desire to fish was gone, having slipped the hook. Instead he opened a beer and settled into the Adirondack chair on the porch. For an hour he scarcely moved. He watched the sunlight dance on the water. The wind rustled the maple and aspen leaves. A hundred feet out, a large bass broke the surface, perhaps stampeded by a passing powerboat. The sound of laughter carried across the waves from a sailboat ghosting along on the light breeze. He closed his eyes and took in the subtle sounds of life. The sun was warm on his face. Slowly the heat and grit that clung to his mind, sloughed away.
When he awoke, he bestirred himself to heat up a slab of leftover lasagna in the kitchen and then took his plate and the rest of the six-pack back out on the porch. As he ate, the sun settled toward the top of the purple mountains five miles away. There was a burst of color that flared up and just as quickly died. While he nursed his beer, night stole across the water. From the gathering gloom in the marsh a loon cried. Nearby a barn owl hooted. Stars appeared one by one and then ten by ten until thousands marked the sky. Before the stars of Leo rose in the night sky, he drifted off to sleep.
Paula’s kiss woke him. “I’m home.” The words were a soothing end to his day. They went upstairs where Harry stretched out on the bed while in the bathroom, Paula did the things a woman does before going to bed. The clock hands were just past eleven. He turned on the television and casually listened until one story caught his attention.
“This is John Close reporting for CNN from Mexico City. Jose Mandilla Ortega died at his villa today from a single shot to the head. Senor Calzado of Mexico’s Attorney General’s office released this official statement:”
The cameras cut to a dark skinned man in a business suit. Across the bottom of the screen the ticker displayed his name and title.
“Ortega was long suspected of narcotics and weapons smuggling both into and out of the United States. The government believes he was responsible for significant corruption, bribery and murder in Michoacán. Perhaps, his assassination is the consequence of turf wars between drug cartels, but Mexico is better for his passing however it came about.”
Harry thought of Barton and with a wry smile thought, I bet the deceased’s girlfriend has an exceptional tan..
Chapter 7
Harry rose while the sky was still dark. He brewed coffee and took a thermos with him down to the dock. The engine rumbled to life on the first turn of the key. Vapor rose at the stern along with the sound of cooling water slurping out the exhaust.
He unhooked the bow and stern lines, and then dropped down into the boat. He slid the gearshift forward and let the boat idle away from the dock. He kept it slow until he cleared the no swim buoy and then the outboard gave a throaty roar, water hissed off the hull, until it climbed up onto a plane.
Beyond the low hills in the east, the sky was slate gray. Stars began to wink out in the dawn light. His boat raced north. Ten minutes later he sped past the prison that covered Cramsden Point. Floodlights lit the headland like midday. Several large floating signs, warned,
NO TRESSPASSING!
U.S. Government Facility
ADX Praxis is a restricted site.
WARNING: Do not pick up persons in or near the water!
Trespassers will be prosecuted to full extent of the law.
BUREAU OF PRISONS.
A mile further north Harry eased back on the throttle and the boat settled into the water pushing a fat bow wave that died away as he let the boat glide into a shallow bay. As he closed on an area of seaweed he dropped a small fluke anchor overboard. He let out twenty feet of three braid line, then cinched it off to the bow cleat. He backed the boat down. The boat moved astern until the line pulled taut, water dripped from it as it rose out of the water and the anchor set. The water beneath the hull was only four to five feet deep.
Morning sounds drifted to him. Birds stirred, cars drove past on the shore road, and a faint buzzer came from the direction of the prison as reveille was sounded.
Harry baited his hook with a night crawler he dug up in Paula's garden
.I wonder if he had higher aspirations for his life?
He pushed the hook through and cast parallel to the seaweed. The sinker and unfortunate worm hit with a splash, sending out wide ripples, then he began to wind the reel.
For an hour he worked the rod but to no avail. The sun was up, bright and warm already. Harry stowed his gear, retrieved the anchor, and started the engine. With a thrust on the throttle, the boat’s stern kicked around in a tight turn of white water and then as he straightened the wheel he opened it up and the boat charged for open water. The transom pennant flogged in the air.
By seven-thirty Harry was home, frying bacon, potatoes, and eggs. He made a mental list of people he had yet to see. It was getting shorter. Rachelle Sylvester lived in Beaumont.
I should have looked her up when I went over the mountain to see Whittier at the old folks home.
He flipped the eggs.
Nor would it hurt to touch base with his client and see if Parks wqs more forthcoming with information.
Harry slid the food out of the frying pan and onto his plate.
Later, I can call on Patty Wourk.
*
Harry pulled up to a rambling wooden house in Beaumont. The parcel was at least a half-acre of well-tended lawn and flowerbeds corralled by a wrought iron fence that was genuine, not a hollow imitation.
When he rang the bell a real maid, complete with white apron and black dress, answered it.
“May I help you?”
“I’d like to speak to Rachelle Sylvester.”
“You have the wrong Rachelle. This house belongs to the Buchanan’s.”
“Sorry. That’s right, Sylvester was her maiden name. Is she available?”
&n
bsp; “No, sir. However, you could find her at the store.”
“Where?”
“Buchanan House. It is two blocks north and one over. An old brick two story.”
Half of the buildings in Beaumont were red brick, but he found the shop. It appeared prosperous, offering a wide inventory at prices that precluded a majority of the local residents.
The lead and glass door door was locked. Harry rapped on the frame. A blurry image approached, the lock chattered, the door opened a bit and a woman looked out.
“We don’t open until ten.”
The face was lean. Middle age was taking over but careful make-up and the tiny scars of a facelift forestalled its onset.
“I’m not shopping. I wanted to talk to Rachelle Sylvester about Alison Albright.”
A glimmer of distaste marred the woman's features. The tip of her tongue flicked at her upper lip. “I suppose you could come in.”
She locked the door behind him.
“Harry Grim, I’m a private investigator.”
“Rachelle Buchanan.”
They shook hands. Rachelle gestured toward a sofa and two chairs near the front window. “Have a seat.”
Pedestrians wandered by on the sidewalk. Harry felt he was a mannequin on display.
“What can you tell me about Alison?”
“She was trash.”
The woman doesn’t mince words, Harry thought.
“How so?”
“She thought she was somebody. She would twitch her little butt and the boys came running.”
“So the guys in your class knew her?”
“Of course. She was too good to run around with sophomores, she made it a point to flirt with the seniors.”
“What about the party after graduation?”
Rachelle rolled her eyes. “We were stupid kids, risking a record for a bit of fun. Although, Red Lake being a small town, I suppose we would not have gone to jail.”
“Who was there?”
Rachelle listed the names Harry heard from others.
“Do you remember Alison being there?”
“Sure, she turned up close to midnight with her friend.”
“Do you know the friend’s name?”
“Jessica something. I forget her last name. She was pretty. Alison was wired, she was either on coke or speed. Her friend was looped. Whatever that girl was using left her feeling no pain.”
Harry pulled a list from his pocket. His finger ran down the class of 92. “Jessica Cate or Jessica Jessup?”
“Now that I hear it, Jessup. I remember wondering what sort of parent would go for that sort of alliteration.”
“So what happened after they arrived?”
“There was a discussion at the front door, then the two girls and most of the guys went into the dining room. A minute later the ‘Stripper’ blared from the stereo which I assume she was doing.”
“You didn’t look?”
“I was flying high and making out in the living room. At the time I didn’t care what anybody else was doing.”
“It would seem that somebody knew she was coming, otherwise where did they get that record? Do you know who?”
“Like I said, I was pretty far gone.”
“Who were you with?”
The distaste appeared again. “Robert Goodman.”
She said nothing more. Harry waited.
“Thank god I didn’t keep on with him.”
Harry let her sleeping dogs lie.
“So what happened later?”
“There were a lot of guys hooting and hollering and a steady parade of jocks from the dining room to the keg in the kitchen and back again.”
“What was going on?” Harry figured the answer was obvious but posed the question anyway.
“Probably what a lot of us were doing that night, drinking and fucking.”
The swear word seemed to conflict with her cultured face, as if the memory of that night made feel the need to be vulgar.
“Any idea with whom?”
Rachelle shook her head. “It was long ago.”
Harry sensed the walls going up as she withdrew back into her image of herself. He rose. “Thank your for your time.”
Her smile was sickly. “Sure, you are welcome.”
Twenty minutes later, Harry caught Parks on his way to a Rotary club meeting.
“I really need to go, can we talk later Mr. Grim?”
“Just a quick question, who was doing Alison Albright that night?”
Parks' face tensed.
“I don’t know. Did someone claim they did?”
Harry ignored the returned question. “Did you?”
Harry watched Parks’ face and thought, he needs to lie better if he wants to be in politics.
“No. I didn’t even know her.” Parks took another glance at his watch, “I'm sorry but I am late.”
Harry watched as Travis scurried off, another frightened animal.
By late morning Harry was already coming back down the pass into Red Lake. Summer was in full swing. Boats crowded the lake. Sailboats heeled in a brisk breeze out of the west. The water-skiers who packed the lake when he left had given up due to the wind chop but wake boarders and tubers were still out. The skiers would return after the wind died and the water lay down.
Harry pulled his pickup off onto the shoulder to enjoy the view. Then, feeling guilty about wasting time, he opened the phone book he carried under the truck’s seat. According to his alumni list, Jessica Jessup was now a Farron and lived in Mason Forks.
A great amount of driving could be avoided if information arrived in a different order, but he knew that was outside of his control.
Patty Wourk, married name Antolli, lived on the east side of town. Harry could go that way, swing by the Danby house, stop off at his cabin for lunch and drive the eastern side of the lake until the shore road met State Route 12 above Upper Cramsden. The route was longer but, by midday in the summer; traffic in downtown Red Lake moved at a crawl.
Frank Danby’s place was surrounded by the artifacts of his trade, a trash trailer, assorted rusting tools, and piles of lumber under ragged tarps. Judging from the driveway Danby’s vehicle leaked oil. Harry rang the bell but there was no answer.
Harry walked down to the road and opened Danby's mailbox, it was choked with mail. Danby seems to be away.
Next, he tried the neighbors. One said he minded his own business and Harry should do the same. On the driveway side nobody was home.
Harry moved on.
The Antolli’s lived in a townhouse. The detritus of children cluttered the small yards, bikes, skateboards, bats, and balls. The project was only ten years old but the particleboard siding already bowed between every stud in the walls. The trees planted by the developer were maturing; eventually they would hide the building’s defects.
A woman whose smile was disarming answered his knock. Harry liked her long, straight, dark hair. He found many women got the unfortunate urge to lop their hair short in their mid-thirties. She was trim. He imagined she was once a cheerleader in a pleated skirt and a throb in many high school boys’ heart.
“Patty Antolli?”
“Yes?”
“I’m Harry Grim. I am a private detective. Could I talk to you about Alison Albright?”
“Sure. Come on in. Becky called to say you might come my way.”
The house was as neat as one might expect with three children living there. The kitchen was bright and cheery.
“Coffee?”
“Sure.” Harry didn’t need or want the coffee, but it put people at ease. Patty heated two mugs in the microwave. “Cream? Sugar?”
“Black is fine.” The mug was slid across the table. Patty sat down across from him.
“Alison was a slut. Of course, so were half the guys at that party, but they don’t have a name for guys like that.”
“I think they call it, lucky?”
Patty smiled. “I suppose so, but for some of them it wasn’t luck, it wa
s aggression.”
“Anyone in particular?”
“Most of the jocks didn’t believe in the word, no. I turned down dates when they asked. At the least it kept me from getting pawed. Maybe worse?.”
“Anyone in particular that way?”
“Dave Barnes was less than a gentleman back then, Vinnie Tagliero thought every girl in school wanted to go all the way with him, and Travis Parks took some convincing to understand the word, no.”
Harry arched his brow. “What in particular?”
“I kneed him in the family jewels,” Patty said, sporting a wicked smile.
“Was this the night of the party?”
“No, that was another night.”
“So what occurred during the party?”
“Alison promised to strip for the guys, that’s why they let her stay.”
“Where was Alison’s friend?”
“She was in the backroom with them.”
“What were they doing?”
“Freight training one or both of them I assume. I wasn’t foolish enough to go in there with a bunch of horny drunks.”
“Was it consensual?”
“I guess so. I didn’t hear any complaints. Anyway, the party was getting too wild for me so I left. I heard the cops showed about an hour later.”
“So do you know what happened?”
“Nobody ever talked about it. Alison disappeared and it was like that party never took place.”
Harry asked a few more questions but got nothing.
“If you remember something, anything at all, give me a call,” he said as he passed her his card.
“Grim Investigations,” she read. “Aptly named, huh?”
Harry shrugged, “Just glad my name’s not Happy.” He made his way to the door.
As he drove north, toward Mason Forks, he considered the facts.
Nobody saw Alison after the party, but there hardly seemed time to kill her and cover it up, unless all the guys were in on it. If she wasn’t killed that night, someone must have seen her the next day. And ,why did the body turn up now, after twenty years? Harry wondered. Also, who invited Alison and more importantly with whom did she leave the party?
