A Fatal Four-Pack

by P. B. Ryan

  He spoke slowly, holding back his own anger. “I’m offering to help you ‘til you get back on your feet. No strings attached. If you’re too damned proud—” Richard broke off, struggling to regain his composure.

  “Look, I don’t want to fight about this. That’s the last thing you need right now. All I ask is that you seriously consider coming back to Buffalo with me—at least until you recover. After that, you can do as you please.”

  I’d exhaled raggedly, defeat seeping into me. Sick, hurting, and broke, I had nowhere else to go.

  “Okay. I’ll consider it.”

  Neither of us spoke for long minutes, then Richard grabbed his coat.

  “I’m going to find something to eat. Want me to bring you a sandwich?” I shook my head. “Okay. See you later, right?”

  “Yeah, right.”

  Richard shuffled toward the door, but paused. “I’m sorry, Jeff. I hoped things could be different.” Genuine regret colored his voice. I felt like a heel. Then he was gone.

  I sank back in the bed. Dr. Klehr said a head injury like mine can lower all defenses. He’d been right. For the first time since my wife’s death, I buried my face in the pillow and let the tears flow—like I had all those years ago when my mother died, when I first found myself totally on my own. It took a while before I could think rationally.

  So, I’d finally told Richard off. Instead of feeling better, shame burned within me.

  I hauled myself out of the bed, my arm aching. Leaning against the window sill three floors above the street, I stared at the bleak winter sky. The shit was just piling higher and higher.

  Richard was right. What kept me in Manhattan, anyway? No job, no significant other, no close friends. The city held nothing but bitter memories. Richard was the only family I had. He was all I had on my side—if I hadn’t just blown that, too.

  A noise at the doorway interrupted my thoughts. I turned to see Richard, hands thrust into his coat pockets.

  “I—I came back to apologize.”

  “What for?”

  He inched closer. “Because maybe part of me thought I could come down here and play savior for you. It was arrogant of me. I’m sorry.” Eyes downcast, he stared at his polished shoes. “I guess I still think of you as that skinny fourteen-year-old kid who desperately needed a home.”

  This was a Richard I’d never known—had never bothered to get to know.

  He met my gaze and continued. “I came here because I’m sincerely worried about you and thought I could help. I hoped that after all these years maybe we could be friends. I don’t know about you, but I can always use another friend.”

  My throat tightened until I thought I might choke. “That’s funny. I was just thinking the same thing.”

  Richard moved forward, his arms open to capture me in a hesitant, gentle hug. And for the first time in my life, I hugged him back. Then suddenly we were standing face-to-face, embarrassed and uncomfortable.

  “Please come to Buffalo. There’s nothing for you here. Besides, I’ve got Bills season tickets, and Brenda hates football.”

  “Okay, but I’ve got to have my own space. And when it’s time to leave, I don’t want an argument.”

  Richard raised a hand. “Fine.”

  A cheer broke the quiet—and the buzzer signaled the end of the first period on the bar’s TV.

  I took a sip of my club soda. I owed Richard a lot, yet bitterness gnawed at me because the tentative trust I’d put in him—and he’d shown in me—had been so easily erased.

  I couldn’t let Richard browbeat me. If I didn’t pursue my own investigation, Sumner’s murderer might go free. And then there was the small boy who’d witnessed that terrible crime. It was his mental SOS, his fear, I’d experienced—not Sumner’s. I’d never gotten anything from the victim—as though he had expected to die....

  The door opened and closed and the light tap of footsteps interrupted my reverie. “Do you have a phone?” a woman asked.

  The bartender pointed. “Over there.”

  I looked over my shoulder, surprised to see the woman from the bank. She dropped a couple of quarters in the slot and dialed a number off a card in her hand. She caught my eye and I looked away.

  I gazed into my drink. My arm itched. I wished I’d brought the chopstick.

  A minute or two later, she joined me at the bar. “Hi, remember me?”

  “Maggie Brennan.”

  She nodded and sat down on the stool beside me. “And you’re Jeff.”

  She remembered.

  “Car trouble?” I guessed.

  “I hit a pothole. My right front tire blew. And wouldn’t know my cell phone is dead.”

  I proffered my broken arm. “I’d like to give you a hand, but—”

  “That’s okay. Triple A will be here in a while.”

  “Can I buy you a drink instead?”

  She eyed my glass. “I’ll have what you’re having.”

  I caught the bartender’s attention. “A club soda—with a twist—for the lady.” Somehow, she didn’t seem surprised by my order. Moments later, the bartender put a fresh napkin on the bar and set down the glass. I left another dollar for him and indicated a table in the back, away from the noisy TV.

  Maggie draped her coat over the back of the chair that I’d pulled out for her, then sat down. “Thanks. I’m taking a writing class at Daemen College. I was on my way home when I hit that damn pothole. I’ve never even been in this place before. I’m glad you were here.”

  “But you don’t even know me.”

  She shrugged. “At least you’re a familiar face. Hey, you got your hair cut. It looks good.”

  I raked a hand over my head. “Thanks. I’ll feel better once it all grows in. In the meantime, I don’t feel so much like a freak.”

  She gave me the once-over. “You don’t look like a freak.”

  “But what if you’d walked in here and hadn’t known me, and I’d tried to hit on you?”

  “Would you?”

  I felt a smile tug at my lips. “Maybe.”

  She took a sip of her drink. “You told me a fib the other day.”

  “Me?”

  “You acted like you were sick.”

  “It wasn’t much of an act. If you hadn’t caught me, I really would’ve keeled over.” I gazed into her pretty blue eyes. Something about them inspired tranquility.

  “What were you really doing at the bank?”

  I stared into my glass. The bubbles on the side had just about dissipated. “Hanging out with my brother.”

  “Doctor Alpert? But your name’s—”

  “Resnick,” I supplied, and she nodded. “We’re half-brothers. Bet you wouldn’t know that by looking at us.” She frowned, and I regretted the smart remark. I looked back down at my glass and sobered. “Okay, I’m looking into Matt Sumner’s death.”

  “Are you a cop?”

  “It’s a personal matter. Can you tell me more about him? Who his friends were? How he spent his time away from work?”

  She leaned back, her face growing cold. “I didn’t know him well, and I didn’t want to know him any better.”

  Great. My only remaining source on the man had just dried up.

  Her expression softened. “But, maybe I’d like to get to know you a little better.”

  I gave her what I hoped was a reassuring smile. “That would be nice.”

  The corners of her mouth rose—a really nice smile.

  “So, tell me about yourself,” I said.

  “I’m thirty-nine and not ashamed of it. Depressed some days, but not ashamed. Like everyone else these days, I’m overworked and stressed-out. I’m also divorced and childless. How about you?”

  “I’m an unemployed insurance investigator, a widower, and currently sponging off my wealthy older brother.”

  “Widower?” she asked, as though not hearing the rest. “I’m so sorry. How long ago?”

  “Two years.”

  She hesitated, curiosity getting the better
of her. “H ... how—?”

  “Cocaine. At first she’d have a hit or two on weekends. Then it was a couple of times a week. I worked late—trying to keep my job while downsizing went on all around me. She got fired as a travel agent when she was arrested for selling coke to an undercover cop. After that, she promised me she’d stay clean, but she was already too far gone. Six months after she left me, the cops found her dead in a bathroom at Grand Central Station. Shot execution-style. They figured she tried to rip off her supplier.”

  Hey, I’d told the entire tale—albeit much abbreviated—and hadn’t gotten angry. I was making real progress.

  “How awful for you.” She tapped the cast on my arm. “You said you were mugged?”

  “All I remember is that baseball bat coming at me. They took my wallet, my keys, ransacked my apartment, took everything I had that was worth anything, and ruined just about everything else.”

  “Oh, Jeff!” Again, the compassion in her eyes captivated me.

  “Anyway, my brother rescued me and here I am.” My God—I was spilling my guts to a virtual stranger—but she was so easy to talk to. I leaned back in my chair. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to dump all this on you.”

  She took a sip of her drink. “My husband was gay. Only he didn’t tell me that until we’d been married eight years. After he left, I’d get myself tested for AIDS every six months. I didn’t know anything about his secret life, or how many men he’d been with.”

  I nodded. “Came the end, Shelley would sleep with anyone for cocaine. It scared the hell out of me. For a while, celibacy was my way of life.”

  She reached across the table to shake my hand. “Amen.”

  Her fingers were warm. I held on longer than was absolutely necessary. Our eyes met and an odd sensation passed through me, an unexpected sense of well-being, yet my heart pounded.

  “Um ... my hand.” She smiled. “Didn’t we just go through this at the bank?”

  Embarrassed, I relinquished my hold and felt a tug inside me. She hadn’t told me everything. But then why should she?

  “You live around here?” she asked.

  “Down on LeBrun. I’m just staying with Rich until I get back on my feet.”

  “Doctor Alpert is older than you, isn’t he?”

  I nodded, draining my glass. “Twelve years. My mother was a staunch Catholic. She married well the first time. Richard’s father was handsome and an heir to millions. He didn’t expect to die young and leave his wife penniless. Mom had a nervous breakdown and ended up in the State hospital. They didn’t even have the decency to put her in a private hospital.”

  “Who?”

  “Richard’s paternal grandparents.” I shook my head. “While Mom was in the hospital, they got legal custody of Rich, saying she was unfit.”

  “Where do you fit in?”

  “Years later, Mom married Chet Resnick, a Jewish dry cleaner. He left us when I was four. My mother wouldn’t talk about him—except to say he gambled and drank. I heard he was dead.”

  “So, how did you and your brother ever get together?”

  “He found out Mom had cancer and came by the apartment the Christmas before she died. He was in his first year of residency at the time.” A lifetime ago. “She was really proud of him. He was curious about us, said he’d like to get to know us. But two months later, Mom was dead. He took me in.”

  “How long did you stay?”

  “Four long years.” I paused. “Can’t we talk about something else?”

  She nodded and took another sip of her drink. “You said you were looking into Matt’s death. What does that mean?”

  “Right now, nothing. Claudia Sumner sicced the cops on me. Now I won’t be able to talk to their kids.”

  She studied my eyes. “This is really important to you, isn’t it?”

  “Yeah. It is.”

  “Why?”

  Because I got whacked on the head and now I know things I’m not supposed to know, and I’ve seen things I wasn’t supposed to see. And I’m probably crazy or stupid—or both—and I have a ridiculous debt to repay to Matt Sumner, but I have to find out the truth for myself.

  “It just is.”

  Guilt darkened her eyes. “I didn’t tell you everything I know about Matt. I mean, I don’t know what might be of use to you. But I like you. You seem ... trustworthy.”

  “And I’m not even wearing my sincere suit.”

  Her smile disappeared. “This may not be important, but Matt recently fired one of the loan managers. The police have been digging around and it came up. To tell you the truth, I’d almost forgotten about it.”

  “What happened?”

  “They said Don Feddar was approving loans without the proper documentation. There was a big blow-up and Matt fired him.”

  “How long ago was this?”

  “Just before Christmas.”

  “That’s a possible motive for murder.”

  “But Don’s a sweetheart. He’s not capable of doing what was done to Matt.”

  “That’s probably what people thought about Jack the Ripper before his first crime.” She conceded the point. “Does this guy have kids? A little boy named Jackie?”

  “I think he has three daughters.” She looked up, her attention caught by flashing yellow lights in the parking lot. “Hang on. The tow truck’s here.” She snagged her coat and went out to talk to the driver.

  I watched while the guy changed her tire. It wasn’t until he finally climbed into the cab to leave that she came back into the bar. Her cheeks were pink and her hair was windblown. She looked terrific.

  “Well, I guess I should get going. Do you need a lift?”

  I didn’t want to go home. I didn’t want her to go, either.

  “Sure.”

  I took our empty glasses over to the bar, left a two-dollar tip for the bartender, then shrugged back into my jacket. Outside it must’ve been twenty degrees as a light snow still fell. Maggie unlocked the passenger side door of her Hyundai and I got in.

  The drive to LeBrun was awkward. I’d felt so at ease with her in the bar, yet now I was tongue-tied. I studied her features in the strobing lamplight as she navigated through the slick streets. Why couldn’t I think of something—anything—to say?

  She turned onto my street, slowing. “It’s halfway down,” I told her. “There.”

  She pulled into the driveway, then turned to me. It seemed like she wanted to say something, but she didn’t speak. So I did.

  “Can I call you?”

  She reached for her purse, her smile radiant. Tearing a sheet from a notebook, she jotted down her number. It took all my willpower not to kiss her right then. I took the paper from her. “I’ll call.”

  Then I was out of the car, standing in the silent falling snow, watching her little blue car pull out of the driveway. She waved before she started off toward Main Street.

  Hot damn, I liked Maggie Brennan.

  Chapter 11

  I knew when I showed up for breakfast the next morning that it wasn’t the time to announce I’d made a couple of new friends. Brenda and Richard weren’t speaking, and I more than half suspected I was the cause.

  Richard announced he’d made an appointment for me at UB Medical Center with an orthopedic specialist for that afternoon. I didn’t argue.

  Plaster is old-fashioned. My new physician gave me the option of a fiberglass cast—in designer colors, no less—or a removable plastic-and-Velcro brace. I chose the latter, glad to be rid of the anchor-weight cast. An x-ray showed my ulna to be healing nicely.

  No one mentioned sending me to a shrink.

  Even so, I wasn’t feeling cocky as I left the doctor’s office. Something was definitely up with Richard.

  We walked in silence back to the car. Richard had accompanied me to the clinic, and sat in the waiting room until I’d finished. He didn’t ask how things had gone.

  He touched the button on his key fob and unlocked the car doors before walking around to the driver’s sid
e, and climbing in. He turned the key in the ignition and cleared his throat. “Anywhere you want to go?”

  I shook my head. “Let’s just go home.”

  Snowflakes began to fall, dancing on the windshield before being blown away, replaced by new ones. I gazed at the traffic whizzing by and remembered what Richard told Brenda days before: “He’s different.”

  He was right, I was different. And I looked at everything in a new, harsher light—especially myself.

  I didn’t like what I saw.

  Minutes later we were home. Richard stopped the car in the driveway, letting me out before he parked the Lincoln in the garage. I started for the house, but paused. I couldn’t let this go on. Pulling up my collar, I waited for him. Although it was only three o’clock, the sky had darkened to the west—a storm was brewing.

  The garage door closed and Richard came out the side door, shoulders slumped, head down. He looked as bad as I felt. He glanced up, surprised to see me.

  “Wanna take a walk?”

  He took in the sky. “In the snow?”

  “Why not? Besides, I want to talk.”

  He blinked at me. “You never want to talk.”

  “I never had a crack in my skull before, either.”

  “Do you think that makes a difference?”

  “Yeah, I do.”

  Richard shrugged. “What’s the point?”

  The defeat in his voice scared me. “Are you giving up on me already?”

  “No. It’s just—I don’t like things being so awkward.”

  “That’s kind of what I wanted to talk about.”

  We started down the driveway at a snail’s pace. Awkward was a good description for how I felt. And he was right. Expressing myself was something I’d never been good at.

  I took a breath for courage.

  “Back in New York I said something I’m not proud of. That you’re always rubbing my nose in the fact that you have a lot of money. It isn’t true. You’ve never treated me with anything other than kindness. In return—”

  “Jeff, don’t—”

  “Let me finish. In return, I’ve been an ungrateful son of a bitch, too proud to accept your generosity gracefully. I’m sorry.”

  “You’re my brother. You’ve been through hell.”