by N. C. Lewis
Duke scratched his chin. "Writing that article was damn difficult."
"I bet it was," he responded in a sympathetic tone. "But it was worth it, right? You've got your name in the Statesman and not for stealing from a store or committing murder. Duke Savage is somebody—must feel good."
"Beer!" Duke cried sharply. "I want another beer." The truth was the article hadn't led to the success he desired. He thought it would lead to bigger things, that his cell phone would ring off the hook, that national media would beat a path to his door. The phone didn't ring; no one called. Sure, he'd been paid for the article, but that money was long gone, spent on cheap booze, takeout meals and low-priced cigars.
The barman sighed, strolled to the tap and filled a tall glass with Brewhouse Brown Ale. "There you go," he grunted, sitting back down, picking up the newspaper and reading it.
"Life as a freelance reporter ain't easy." Duke pointed to his knotted tie and worn jacket. "That's why I work security jobs on the side. It pays for beer in between newspaper checks."
"We all gotta live," the barman soothed.
Duke slumped forward and slurred, "Journalism is a profession where you've got to keep pushing. The day you give up, it's over." He belched. "I'll never give up. My big break is coming. I can feel it in my bones!"
"Sure." He folded the newspaper and tossed it into the wire basket. "In between reporting jobs, you work security for rich folks like who murdered film star…" He paused, thinking. "Danny Fontane?"
"I did," Duke said with a wry smile. "I worked that event, told all my buddies in your hospitable tavern about that adventure." He turned to point around the saloon. The teenager had left, while the man in the maroon suit, Mr. Robinson, slumbered over a half-empty beer glass.
"Y'all are my friends," Duke cried in a drunken bark. Then he tried to think about Mrs. Foreman, but the alcohol clouded his mind. No idea was forthcoming, no plan of action revealed. A sense of despondency took hold as he gulped long and hard from his beer.
"So are you working any security jobs this week?" the barman asked watching Duke closely. Men with jobs drank more, especially on payday. "I mean, is the work regular?"
Duke raised his eyes to glance at the television screen. "Yep. I'm still working security; got me a reliable job." But that wasn't the full story. Since news of his human trafficking article broke, he found it almost impossible to find work from any of his regular security employment agencies. Eventually, he went from office block to apartment building seeking work. He struck gold at Domesticated Row where the property owner, Mr. Sartain, hired him for the night shift, six evenings a week—ten p.m. to six in the morning, cash in hand at three dollars an hour less than the minimum wage.
"The last guy stayed ten years, retired due to ill health," Mr. Sartain had said. "It's simple, walk the entire row every hour, check the doors, windows, and sign the logbook, then repeat. Takes about an hour to visit all the buildings, forty-five minutes if you're quick. If I could I'd train a monkey to do it, but they can't write."
Duke looked at his watch. It was a little after ten-fifteen p.m. According to the meticulous schedule given to him by Mr. Sartain, he should be rattling the doors and peering through the windows of Rumpus House and the unit next door, Kitty's Café. "What a total waste of time!" he muttered under his breath. "Especially when I can sit here drinking beer and fill the logbook at the end of my shift."
This was the secret Mrs. Foreman had discovered, confronted Duke about, and would soon tell Mr. Sartain. And when she did, Duke's comfortable evenings drinking at the Shady Grove Tavern would come to an abrupt end. He cursed at that thought.
"Eh?" the barman asked.
Duke glanced into his beer, took a long sip and smiled. "I was just saying it's very comfortable in here. If I were a monkey, this place would be my tree. It's like a second home. I'm thinking I'll be a regular six nights a week for years to come."
"That deserves another whiskey—on the house," the barman said, breaking out into a broad grin and getting up. He poured amber liquid freely into another short glass. "This tavern is your tree," he said softly. "And the booze is kinda like your bananas. Ain't that what those monkeys eat?"
"Keep treating your regulars like this," slurred Duke taking a sip, "and you will keep 'em coming back." As the whiskey settled in his stomach, an idea struck. It struck him hard like a brick thrown through a storefront window, and it made perfect sense. He enjoyed working security at Domesticated Row. He enjoyed drinking at the Shady Grove. Why should he let anyone get in the way of his nightly pleasure?
Duke Savage placed strong, bony hands flat on the rough mahogany of the bar and knew now what he must do to Mrs. Foreman.
Chapter 10
It was a little after eleven twenty Friday morning, and Amy King was running late. Her friend Danielle Sánchez would arrive at any moment to drive her to the Bellowing Spoon, a downtown restaurant. The two friends had a lunch meeting with Mrs. Lopresti to discuss staging events for the mysterious Mrs. X.
Fortunately, the house was quiet. Nick and Noel had left together early that morning. Ruby and Victoria had gone shopping at the Barton Creek Mall. Zach was the only other person in the house. He was upstairs on a phone call to his employer in London.
Amy, seated at the kitchen table, wearing a blue summer dress with a full skirt, jotted down staging ideas in a notebook. Mrs. Lopresti would want something new, something fresh, but Amy was working in the dark. Once she'd met the mysterious Mrs. X, she'd have a better idea of what was required. For now, though, she scribbled more random ideas onto paper.
Ten minutes later she put down the pen and picked up her cell phone. "Where is Danielle?"
After squinting at the screen—no messages—she placed it on the table and hurried to the kitchen counter to pour a coffee. Adding a splash of milk, a teaspoon of sugar, she took a large gulp and glanced anxiously at the kitchen clock. Mrs. Lopresti was a stickler for time. Amy couldn't afford to be late.
The cell phone rang.
Amy hurried to the kitchen table, one hand clutching her coffee, and picked up the phone quickly. "Yes?"
"Is this Studio Shoal Seven?" The voice was that of a mature woman.
"Yes," Amy replied, once again glancing anxiously at the clock.
"My name is Mrs. Stanton. Auntie Folate mentioned your business. She said you are superb at"—the woman paused for a moment as if thinking—"this staging thingy."
"Auntie Folate?" Then Amy remembered. She'd handed Auntie Folate her business card at Mayfield House. "Oh yes. How can I help you?"
"Young lady, I'm organizing a very important gathering and thought it might be fun to have you do your magic ahead of the event."
Amy glanced at the kitchen clock. "I'm rather in a rush. Is this a convenient number for you, Mrs. Stanton? Can I call you back this afternoon?"
"This afternoon!" replied Mrs. Stanton as if she'd bitten into a sour grape. "No, that won't do; that won't do it all. The other ladies might get in ahead of me. This won't take but a few moments. Do you have your appointment book handy? I'm paying cash."
Amy shuffled frantically through the pile of papers on the kitchen table, flipping open her appointment book. "What date did you have in mind?"
A car horn beeped—Danielle.
"This coming Monday," said Mrs. Stanton.
Amy drew in a breath. "But that's only three days away!"
"I know it is short notice, but I'm paying cash and will make it worth your while. Anyway, it's a surprise party," explained Mrs. Stanton. "It's for Jack. I love him so, thought it would be a wonderful surprise."
"Okay," Amy sighed. "Why don't you give me a few more details, and maybe we can work something out for Jack."
The sharp blast of a car horn told Amy she was out of time, but Mrs. Stanton was on a roll. "Oh let me tell you about my Jack. He is such a—"
"Please tell me what you have in mind," Amy interrupted trying to hurry the conversation along.
"Oh, I don't know, r
eally. That's why I called you."
A sudden sinking feeling filled Amy's stomach, and she drummed her fingers on the kitchen table. "Is there a theme that Jack would like?"
The line fell silent for several seconds. "Yes, I suppose there is… Kennels!"
That surprised Amy. "Kennels?"
Again came the sharp honk of a car horn, this time in three long blasts.
"Jack loves kennels. He lives in one."
"Eh?"
"Jack's a Boston terrier. I'd like you to come around Monday, clean out his kennel and make it look all neat and tidy for his seventh birthday party. I've invited several of his doggy friends. Auntie Folate said you were excellent at cleaning bird cages: a kennel isn't much different." Her voice hardened as if haggling a deal with a trader in a bazaar. " I wanted to get in ahead of the other ladies at our senior's luncheon circle. I'm living on a fixed income, can't pay more than fifty dollars, tip included. What time should I expect you?"
Amy, frustrated, politely ended the call. "I'm sorry, Mrs. Stanton; that's not what I do."
Zach ambled into the kitchen. If Amy had been paying attention, she would have noticed the slump in his shoulders, crease in his brow, and the wide-eyed look of dread that haunted his eyes. But Amy was preoccupied.
"Morning, Mrs. King, I wonder if—" Zach stuttered, as Amy slung her handbag over her shoulder.
"Got to go," Amy interrupted with a wave of her hand, hurrying out into the hall. "I've got an important lunch with a client, don't want to be late."
He followed her into the hallway. "Amy, there's something I need to discuss." But Amy didn't hear. She was already scurrying along the garden path to the car that had just sent another three impatient blasts of its horn into the morning air.
Chapter 11
It was already a scorcher in the capital city with the temperature on the way to another hundred degree day, humidity high. The car air-conditioning system, on full tilt, cranked out cool, refreshing blasts, the radio was tuned to classical music—a soothing Johannes Brahms piano quartet.
"Amy girl, what kept ya?" Danielle huffed putting the sedan into drive. Today she wore a tie dyed Keep Austin Weird T-shirt with a purple, silk bustle skirt that exposed her long, slender legs.
"It's a long story… You don't want to know." Amy glanced at the dashboard clock, a knot of anxiety growing with each passing minute. The car sped along the residential avenue and out onto the main road. "Let's take the MoPac Expressway; it will be quicker than the local roads," she suggested, staring out at the empty streets.
Danielle frowned. "Have you forgotten the rule, lady?"
"What rule?"
"The way to a happy life in Austin is to—"
"Oh, that rule!" Amy finished Danielle's sentence with a chuckle. "Avoid Interstate 35 and the MoPac Expressway."
Danielle glanced at Amy. "You sure you want to break the happy-life rule and take MoPac?"
Amy thought for an instant. "Since the new toll lane opened things have improved, haven't they?"
"Don’t know," came Danielle's reply. "It took them long enough to build it. I guess there should be some improvement. But I live by the happy-life-rule; I, want a happy life in my hometown."
"Let's take a chance," Amy said decisively. "Otherwise, we are going to be late."
Danielle shrugged, swung the car onto the expressway ramp, pressed hard on the gas pedal, and switched to the middle lane. Thirty seconds later they came to a juddering stop. A sea of red brake lights stretched out beyond the horizon.
"Good God!" Amy cried, placing her hands over her eyes. "It's even worse now they've opened the toll lane!"
"We'll be late for sure," Danielle muttered.
Amy was about to answer when a low hissing sound came from the engine. "What's that?"
Danielle fiddled with a control knob on the dashboard. "Amy girl," she hollered despondently. "The air-conditioning's out! It's got to be over a hundred outside. We'll fry in here!"
"You've got to stay positive," said Amy, although she was feeling the opposite. "It's not going to take that long. We are almost by the Town Lake exit."
The traffic shuffled forward, then stopped.
"I'd better call Mrs. Lopresti; let her know we'll be late," Amy said in a dejected voice, reaching for her cell phone. Beads of sweat were already forming on her brow.
"Wait!" Danielle cried. "Mrs. Lopresti might be stuck in traffic too. Amy girl, wait for her to call, then plead for mercy."
Amy mopped her forehead with a handkerchief. "Nothing to lose now, I suppose." She tossed the cell phone into her handbag. "I only hope I get a call from nice Dr. Jekyll and not nasty Mr. Hyde."
The traffic edged forward.
Amy's cell phone rang. Was it Mrs. Lopresti checking on her progress? What would she say? That she'd be at the restaurant in five minutes? Ten minutes? That she was stuck in MoPac traffic and who knows? Her mouth dry, she squinted at the screen, and let out a sigh of relief. It was Zach.
"Hi, Zach… Running late, stuck on MoPac… No AC… What's up? Call from London… Uh-huh… Uh-huh…with immediate effect... Oh dear… I guess… Yes, call Victoria… I know… She'll understand… I know… Bye."
Danielle glanced at Amy's ashen face. "What's going on?"
"Bacopa Holdings," Amy stuttered.
"Who?"
"Zach's company in London."
"What about them?"
"Their offices were raided by the police, the chief executive officer arrested, and the company closed."
"Closed?"
"With immediate effect," Amy said, repeating Zach word for word. "Zach won't be paid this month. He is out of work, not even a severance check."
Danielle stared out onto the congested roadway but didn't speak. The opening strains of Ludwig van Beethoven's Symphony No. 5 in C Minor boomed over the radio.
The car picked up speed.
"I feel sorry for Zach," Danielle said at last, swiping heavy beads of sweat from her brow. "I'm sure things will work out, eventually."
"At least the traffic's clearing up," Amy replied, her mind still spinning over Zach's news. Half closing her eyes, she focused on the task at hand: the business meeting with Mrs. Lopresti. After that she'd let herself think about Zach and Victoria. "If we keep at this pace, we'll be downtown in five minutes." Then she added, trying to lighten the atmosphere, "Well before we fry."
Twenty minutes later they pulled into the Bellowing Spoon parking lot.
Their clothes stuck to them like wet suits at a snorkeling convention.
It was twelve thirty.
They were late.
Chapter 12
Amy mopped her brow with a sodden handkerchief as she waited in the reception area of the Bellowing Spoon restaurant. An assistant took her reservation number, and it wasn't long before a waiter, a short man with a balding head and quick eyes, approached.
If their bedraggled appearance surprised him, he didn't show it. "Madames, follow me." He strode with quick, short steps to a private booth set in a quiet corner of the restaurant. "At the request of Mrs. Lopresti, we have situated you in an area that allows for easy conversation." His brow furrowed as he nodded at the four place mats on the table. "The other members of your party haven't arrived yet. May I bring you a pitcher of ice cold water?"
"Thank you," Amy replied.
"If you care to freshen up, our ladies powder room is on the far side." He showed the direction with a nod of his head.
When Amy and Danielle returned to the booth, they found Mrs. Lopresti seated sipping from a tall glass of water. Amy sensed something wasn't right. Mrs. Lopresti's hand trembled as it gripped hard on the glass, her knuckles white, and when Amy saw Mrs. Lopresti's eyes, wide and confused, she knew something was terribly wrong.
"Is everything all right?" Amy asked, her heart racing. Business could wait. Right now she focused on the well-being of Mrs. Lopresti.
"I'm so sorry I'm late," Mrs. Lopresti stammered, her voice usually squeaky, barely audib
le. "I've just had a dreadful shock."
"What's happened?" Amy asked, slipping into the seat opposite.
"You look as if you have seen a ghost," Danielle added.
"No… Not a ghost." Mrs. Lopresti took a sip from the glass. The way she tipped her head back reminded Amy of a Wild West sheriff downing a shot of whiskey before facing down an outlaw. Amy felt her pulse quicken as she waited for Mrs. Lopresti to continue.
"It's Mrs. X. She won't be joining us for lunch today."
That about caps a rotten morning, Amy thought. First, she was running late, then the MoPac logjam, the car AC, and there was the distressing call from Zach, plus she was sitting in a soggy, sweaty dress, and now the mysterious Mrs. X was a no-show. Did the woman really exist? Amy didn't know and didn’t care. All she really wanted right now was a shower and fresh clothes. "I'm sure," she said, controlling her anger, "we can still discuss her staging needs."
"Maybe come up with two or three options," Danielle added. "Then all Mrs. X needs to do is choose."
Mrs. Lopresti shook her head solemnly. "I'm afraid you don't understand." Her voice was soft and low, with just a touch of bewilderment. "Mrs. X's real name is Chloe Foreman and she's dead. Someone murdered her!"
Chapter 13
After hours of anxious discussion Zach and Victoria had gone to bed. Noel and Ruby, concerned over their own financial problems followed soon after. "Things will seem a little clearer in the morning," Amy had said.
Now, Amy sat on the edge of her bed, Nick by her side. The alarm clock on the nightstand read twelve fourteen. At long last, the house was still and silent except for the faint whir of the fan in Nick's laptop computer.
"That's right," Nick said, staring at the laptop screen. "Mrs. Foreman's assistant, Trixie Nithercott, discovered her body. Officer Rees Jones responded to the 911 call. There isn't much more than that in the computer file."
"Oh!"
It was only one word, but the tone and inflection caused Nick to glance up from the screen. "Honey, we've spent the entire evening talking about Victoria and Zach. Now you've got me looking at Mrs. Foreman's death." Nick placed an arm around Amy's shoulder. "I don't remember her, but was she a friend? What am I missing?"
