A Hard Bargain (3 page)
Jerry offered her a doughnut. “You might get the chance to work with him.”
She gave him another look and then glanced at me. “What’s shorty been up to now?”
“He thinks the house would make a good movie set.”
To my surprise, Nell agreed. She took a doughnut from the box. “Hadn’t thought of that, but it sure would. What kind of movie they making?”
“We don’t know, but it could be the start of something good.”
“Hmm.” Nell took another drink. “Oh, you had a call from your brother, junior. Wants you to call back. Something about a wedding.”
Jerry set his beer can on the table, his face suddenly serious. “Okay. Thanks.” He got up and left the kitchen.
Nell’s eyebrows lifted. “It’s a long story,” I said.
“Not your wedding, is it?”
“No.”
“So tell all.”
“Tucker’s getting married in a few weeks, and he wants Jerry to come.”
“What’s the problem?”
“The wedding is going to be at the Fairweather mansion. Jerry hasn’t been back home in over twelve years.”
“Family troubles?”
“Not exactly.” I wondered how much of Jerry’s strange history I needed to share with Nell and decided the answer was none.
She reached for a second doughnut. “So why don’t Tucker get married in a church?”
“I don’t know.”
“Seems like a fine detective such as yourself would find out.”
“It’s really none of my business.”
She chuckled. “Everything about that man is your business, and you know it.” From the first day, Nell had seen right through me. She finished her doughnut and her beer and tossed the can into the recycle bin by the back door. “I’ve got floors to sand.”
I thought of something I needed to ask her. “Nell, has Jerry paid you for all this work?”
“Yep. All caught up.”
“I’m a little concerned where he’s getting his money.”
“Ask him.”
“I have.”
She shrugged. “As long as I get paid, I don’t really care.” She cut her little eyes at me. “You think it’s dirty money?”
“I don’t know. I keep hoping he’ll tell me.”
“Probably shaking down Bigfoot for some cash.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of.”
Jerry was still on the phone, so I followed Nell upstairs. I admired the paint job she’d done in one of the guestrooms, a very nice light blue. Then I went to my room. The room’s very plain. I have a large bed, a dresser, and an old fashioned chair. The walls are still their original beige. I don’t spend a lot of time in it. I’m hoping to move across the hall into Jerry’s room.
Outside, a car horn honked. Movie people already? I went to the window to see who had come to visit. A tall rangy man with a hawk-like nose climbed out of a Buick sedan.
“Damn!” Rick Rialto, one of Jerry’s former partners in psychic schemes. Of all the people in the world, this was the last person I needed right now. The only word to describe Rick is “shifty.” He is shifty from his wiry black hair to his fake alligator shoes.
He came up the front porch steps and knocked on the door.
“Mac, can you get that?” Jerry called.
Oh, I’ll get that, all right. I came down the stairs and opened the door. Rick grinned that grin that never reaches his shrewd dark eyes.
“Hello, Mac, old pal.”
Jerry’s the only one who can call me Mac. I gave Rick my frostiest stare. “Rick. What are you now?”
“Rick Rialto, Animal Psychic. Where’s J?”
I continued to block the door. “He’s on the phone.”
“They told me in town this is his place now.” He looked over my shoulder at the living room, which had been gray and Victorian and now, thanks to Nell, gleamed a modern blue and white. “Nice, very nice.”
“Thanks.”
“And you two are what? Married? Living together?”
“Friends.”
He smirked. “Still friends after all these years. That’s so sweet.”
“What do you want?” I asked.
“Nothing. I was in the neighborhood and just stopped by to see my old pal.”
I didn’t believe him for a minute. “Celosia’s a little off the beaten track for you.”
“I’ll say. What a hick town. But that’s to my advantage.”
Jerry came up behind me and I had to stand aside. “Yo, Rick! What brings you to the country?”
“I kinda wore out my welcome in Charlotte.” The two men shook hands and smacked each other on the back. “You’ve got a great setup here, J. Nifty old house. Must be perfect for séances.”
“Thanks,” Jerry said. “We’re working on it. Come on in. You want a drink?”
Rick interpreted my stare and grinned again. “Nah, just stopping by to see what’s up. Anybody around Celosia got a troubled pet? Goldfish a bit peaked? Cat coughing up too many hairballs?”
“Not that I know of.”
“This animal psychic deal is the best. People will believe anything you tell them about their pets. You’ve got tons of room out here. We could do cows and sheep and everything.”
“We’re kind of hoping the movie folks will want to use the house.”
“Oh, yeah, I heard about that. More gold, pal. Those actor types are way into astrology. Some of them have their own personal psychics.” He snapped his fingers. “Hey! We could get on board with this crew, whadda ya say?”
“Sure.”
I’d forgotten how easily Rick could sway Jerry. Most of the time Jerry comes up with his own wacky ideas. He doesn’t need Rick’s dubious input.
“Can you stay for supper?” Jerry asked. “I’ve got a grill out back. We can do hot dogs, steaks, whatever you like.”
“Can’t stay tonight. Got a few things cooking of my own. Just touching base with you. I’ll stop by tomorrow.”
“Okay, great.”
I walked Rick out to his car to make sure he got in and drove away. He paused, one hand on the door. He grinned.
“You don’t like me, do you, Mac?”
“Not especially,” I said. “And it’s Madeline.”
He put on a little boy voice. “Gee, Miz Maclin, I didn’t mean to keep Jerry out so late. We were just riding our bikes backwards down Dead Man’s Hill.”
“Very funny.”
“It was Jerry’s idea to put that bag of flaming shit on Old Man Robbins’ doorstep, but I totally claim letting the air out of Coach Bob’s tires.”
“I don’t doubt it.”
He switched back to his own voice. “This is harmless, Madeline. All we have to do is tell people how wonderful they are. Actors are paranoid with low self-esteem. They love compliments.”
“But you take their money under false pretenses.”
“Always have, always will.”
“I don’t think Jerry should get mixed up in this.”
He shrugged. “I can do it with or without him. Just thought he might like a piece of the action.”
“He doesn’t need your kind of action.”
His grin turned into a smirk. “You’ve convinced him to go straight, have you?”
“Well, let me put it this way, Rick. I’ve convinced him to take up the piano again.”
The smirk disappeared. “No way. He was through with music.”
At that moment, the sweeping melody of “Till There Was You” came from the parlor. Jerry couldn’t have timed it better. Rick’s mouth dropped open.
“He’s playing for ‘The Music Man’ in town,” I said. “He gets in about two or three hours of practice every day. Sometimes he just plays for the hell of it.”
Rick looked at me with a new respect. “Well, I’ll be damned. Maybe you and I should team up. If you can do this, you can do anything.”
“I believe you were leaving.”
He gave me another grin and a salute and left. I went into the house, planning to sit in the parlor and listen to the music, but the phone rang.
“I’ll get it,” I said. I picked up the phone on the coffee table. “Hello. Eberlin house, Madeline Maclin speaking.”
“Oh, good,” a woman’s voice said. “You’re the very one I need to speak to. You’re the detective, right?”
“Yes. What can I do for you?”
“My name is Joan Ribileau. I’m head librarian at the Celosia Public Library, and I could certainly use your help. Do you suppose you could stop by some time today?”
Another case! Things were picking up. “Certainly,” I said. “I can come right now, if that’s convenient.”
“Wonderful. I’ll be at the front desk.”
I hung up and went to the parlor. Jerry brought “Till There Was You” to a close. “I’ve got another case,” I told him.
He took his pencil and made a mark in the music. “Told you things would get better.”
“The music sounds really good.”
“Thanks.” He turned the pages until he found “Lida Rose.” “I think this one’s my favorite.”
I wondered if he and Rick had something going he wasn’t telling me about. “Kind of odd for Rick to show up here, isn’t it?”
“Yeah, I haven’t seen him since we had the Take Your Picture With a Live Unicorn business.”
“This pet psychic thing sounds pretty lame.”
“Worth a try. I’d rather see what I can drum up with the film crew, though.”
“Everything okay with Tucker?”
He kept his expression neutral. “Oh, yeah. Everything’s fine.”
He started playing “Lida Rose,” but I know “Don’t Talk to Me About This” when I hear it. However, if he thought this was the end of our discussion, he was mistaken.
I waited a few minutes and then reached over and closed the book. “Jerry, if you want me to find out what happened to your parents, you’re going to have to be a little more helpful.”
He stopped playing. “I don’t know what to tell you.”
“Well, for starters, you could come back to the house with me and look around. You might remember something.”
“That’s the trouble,” he said. “I don’t remember anything about it except what Harriet told me.”
“Did she tell you you were responsible for the fire?”
He paused as if thinking back over the years. “I knew I’d done something very wrong, but she told me everything was okay. She would take care of things. She would take care of us.”
“But I don’t understand. Did you have your own flamethrower? Were you building fires in the living room?”
“I liked playing with matches.”
I took a deep breath. “Whew. Well, that’s not good.”
“I’d already been spanked for it twice.”
“So you think maybe you were playing with them again and started the fire.”
“I don’t know what else to think. There was a fire, my parents were killed, Harriet took what was left of our family and did the best she could.”
I sat down beside him on the piano bench. “Isn’t it possible something else caused the fire, and Harriet either didn’t know what it was, or knew and decided to cover up the truth?”
“But why would she do that?”
“That’s what I’m trying to find out, but you have to cooperate. You’re going to have to talk to Harriet.”
“Oh, man.”
“Unless there’s someone else who knows what happened.”
He finally managed a smile. “That’s why I hired you.”
“I’m not sure you can afford me.”
“Oh, yes, I can.”
“Which brings us back to your mystery bank.”
“It’s the Harriet Fairweather Savings and Loan.”
I was so surprised I almost fell off the piano bench. “What? Harriet sends you money?”
“She said she’d always take care of us, and she has.”
I couldn’t believe he told me. “But you swore up and down you didn’t want any of the family money.”
“And she made me swear up and down I’d never tell. So you’d better not let on.” I was gaping at him, so he said, “I’m cooperating here.”
“And I appreciate it. Does she bankroll Des and Tucker, too?”
“No, they have their own money.”
I was still trying to process this information. “She just sends you money.”
“Yes, every month. Fire insurance.”
“Jerry.” The fact he could make a joke, even a black one, was encouraging.
“Well, obviously, I need help.”
I thought there could be another reason Harriet felt the need to be generous. “You do need help, and I’m going to help you. Call Harriet and tell her to expect us very soon.” I opened the music book and smoothed the pages. “Then you can get back to ‘Lida Rose.’”
The Celosia Public Library was a plain beige building right across from the Post Office, and Joan Ribileau was a plain beige woman, her glasses pushed back on top of her dark hair. She smiled and got up from her seat behind the checkout desk.
“I’m so glad you could come. Let’s go back into my office. Bernice, will you watch the front for me?”
A thin woman with gray hair like a pad of steel wool looked up from a computer and nodded.
Joan Ribileau’s office was as neat and organized as the rest of the library. She sat down behind her desk and opened a folder. “I have all the information right here.”
I sat down in the chair across from the desk, wondering what sort of crime I needed to investigate for the library. Ms. Ribileau slid the folder across to me.
“These are the main offenders. I don’t know what else to do. Maybe you can reason with them.”
I looked at the list of names and titles of books. Beside each name was a date written in red. I felt a sudden sinking feeling. “Are these overdue books?”
She pursed her mouth. “Way overdue. I’ve tried calling, writing letters, email, everything.”
“And you want me to see if I can collect fines?”
“I really don’t expect any of these people to pay, but I do want to get the books back. If you could manage to get what they owe, that would be extra. It’s a nickel a day, except holidays.”
I almost got up and tossed the list back. Almost. Hang on here, I told myself. It’s a case. You need the money and the good public relations. Even if you got one or two of these books back, that would be something.
When I told Joan Ribileau my fee, she didn’t even blink. “I say it’s worth it.”
“I’ll get started on this right away,” I said. “The woman named Bernice who works here, is she Bernice Coleman?”
“Yes, she is.”
“May I speak to her for a minute?”
“Of course.”
Bernice Coleman was gluing the torn edges of a paperback book. She frowned as if resenting the interruption. “It’s about Kirby Willet,” I said. “I understand you told him Frannie Thomas had a spare room where he could store some of his things. She’s a little concerned he hasn’t returned for them.”
Her expression didn’t change. “I have no idea where he is.”
“When did you last see him?”
She set the repaired book aside. “Months ago.”
“Is he the kind of person who would just dump his stuff and go?”
She picked up a stack of index cards and began to look through them. “He’s not very dependable, if that’s what you’re asking, but I don’t think he’d leave his personal items behind.”
“What does he do? Does he have a job?”
“He flits from one thing to another. Last time I saw him, he was working for the paper.”
“As a reporter?”
She made two stacks of cards, doing her best to ignore me. “Nothing that grand. More like a paperboy. Or maybe he was going around getting all the quarters out of the newspaper stands. Something like that.”
“Is there anything else you can tell me about him?”
She kept her eyes on her cards and spoke curtly. “No.”
I hadn’t encountered this level of rudeness in Celosia, which made me more determined to continue. “Does he have a home here? Any kind of address?”
“Try the Wayfarer Motel. He stayed there sometimes.”
“Where did he usually keep his stuff?”
“I don’t know. He just said he had some boxes of things but couldn’t afford to store them. Frannie had this big empty room. I was just trying to do him a favor.”
“Why?”
I’d asked the question innocently enough, but Bernice Coleman finally looked up from her cards and bristled to the top of her wooly head.
“Because, unlike people in the big city, we try to help each other around here.”
By being snippy and prickly? “Seems to me that’s quite a favor. How long was he supposed to leave the boxes at Frannie’s?”
“There wasn’t a time limit.”
“He didn’t say, ‘Oh, I’ll be back for these in a couple of weeks,’ something like that?”
“No, he did not. As I said, he flits. He’s probably flitting around somewhere and just forgot.”
Something about this woman made me want to get a rise out of her. “How about if Frannie and I put the boxes out on the curb?”
“She’d never do a thing like that.”
“I would.”
She glared at me. “That wouldn’t be very good publicity for your detective agency, would it?”
Round one to Bernice.
***
I went down Main Street to the offices of the
Celosia
News
and inquired about Kirby Willet. Brandon Bergman, the editor, was in his office sorting through photographs of Celosia’s Clean Up Day. He had pictures of teens wading in the creek to fish out old tires and rusty cans, children gathering paper cups and cola bottles, and older citizens hauling away bigger piles of trash.
“Oh, yeah, Kirby. Worked for us a short while, mainly collecting subscription money. Haven’t seen him in a while.”
“Any idea where he might have gone?”
“Nope.”
“Did he ever mention any relatives? Friends?”
Bergman held up a picture of two teenage boys grinning from their pickup truck. “What do you think about this one? These guys carried off six loads of garbage from the high school.”
“I like this one,” I said, pointing to a photo of a toddler trying to use a broom.
“Yeah, there’re a lot of great shots.”
Now why would I find that particular picture appealing? I wondered. The toddler reminded me of the children in Bill’s photos, and I certainly didn’t want to think about children or Bill.
Bergman put the picture of the teenagers in the pile. “Getting back to your question, Madeline. Did Willet have any friends? Not that I know of. He wasn’t very friendly, to tell the truth. He did his job okay, but he spent a lot of time tinkering with things. He called them his inventions, but they usually screwed things up or made ungodly noises. I told him he needed to invent someplace else. Guess he took me up on that.”
“What kind of inventions?”
“Useless stuff. Something that would reshape paper clips that had been straightened. Who needs that? And one time he took the copier apart to see if he could improve it. We’re still getting toner out of the carpet.”
My gaze strayed back to the child in the photo. Maybe I’d been drawn to the way the light picked up the gold in the little boy’s hair. Yes, that’s it, I decided. I’m admiring it from an artistic standpoint and not from any latent maternal stirrings. “Bernice Coleman said he lived at the Wayfarer Motel.”
“That’s where we sent his last check. So, you like the shot of little Bucky and the broom? I’ve already got a whole page of kid pictures planned for Farm Festivities. I’ll have to use my dad’s favorite trick.” Bergman closed his eyes, let his hand wave over the desk, pointed a finger and brought it down on the photos. He opened his eyes. His finger had landed on a picture of a group of young people tidying up around the “Welcome to Celosia” sign at the city limits. “Perfect,” he said. “Works every time.”
Bergman’s method would save a lot of time and effort, I thought as I drove out to the Wayfarer Motel. The next time I have a complicated case, I’ll spread out pictures of all my suspects, close my eyes, and let my finger “finger” the culprit. A technique as reliable as Jerry’s Ouija board.
The Wayfarer Motel is a long cream-colored building with green doors, a plain building the owner has tried to spruce up with buckets of geraniums and hanging baskets of petunias and ferns. A picnic table and a swing set fill one corner of the front lawn. The other corner has an array of plastic chairs arranged around a small swimming pool. Two small children splashed in the pool while an elderly man in faded jeans and a baseball cap sat watching them and smoking a pipe. The man was Elijah Grimes, a retired fireman. I’d met him at Deely’s.
He tipped his cap. “Morning, Madeline.”
“Have you graduated to lifeguard?” I asked.
He took his pipe and pointed it toward the children. “Got my grandkids visiting from Pennsylvania. The pool at the park’s too crowded, so I brought them here. Tilda don’t mind.”
“That’s very nice.”
“Yeah, I can keep an eye on them better. Jennifer’s five, and her little brother Toby is almost four.” He raised his voice. “Jenny! Toby! Come here a minute.”
The children climbed out, shook themselves like puppies and trotted over. The little girl’s bathing suit was pink with purple flowers. The little boy had on neon green swim trunks almost too big for him. With their dark curly hair and dark eyes, they looked like twins.
“Want to meet somebody,” Grimes said. “Jenny, you know how you like to watch Miss America on TV? This is Miss Madeline Maclin, and she’s a real live beauty queen.”
For a brief shining moment, I thought he was going to say “real live detective.” I should’ve known better.
Jennifer stuck her finger in her mouth and looked me up and down. “Where’s your crown?”
“It’s at the cleaners.”
Grimes laughed. “She don’t wear it all the time.”
The little girl frowned as if this didn’t make sense. “I would, if I had a crown.”
“She loves beauty pageants,” Grimes said. “I’ve told her mother to enter her in one of them Little Miss contests. I think she could win.” He gave his granddaughter a hug. “What do you think, princess? Win some money and a big gold crown?”
She clapped her hands. “A lot of money!”
Her little brother wasn’t impressed by the conversation. He looked longingly at the swimming pool. “Can I go back in the water now?”
Grimes tousled the boy’s wet curls. “Sure can, sport. Say good-by and nice to meet you to Miss Madeline.”
“By nice to meet you,” Jennifer said and ran back to the pool.
Toby looked up at me. “Well, you are pretty,” he said as if doing me a favor, “but I want to swim.”
Grimes gave a hoot of laughter. “Go on then, you rascal.” He grinned as the two children hopped into the water. “They’re a sight, aren’t they? Never know what that Toby will say.”
Like Toby, I was ready to escape. I knew what Grimes was going to ask me. Sure enough, he asked it. “You think Jenny could do well in one of them contests?”
How to discourage this without hurting his feelings? “She might be a little young.”
He looked surprised. “I see babies winning on TV.”
“And it can get very expensive. Registration fees, pageant clothes, travel to different cities. Some people even hire coaches. The expenses can really add up.”
Now he looked doubtful. “Guess we’d have to work on that.”
If I didn’t change the subject, I was going to start having flashbacks to the horror that was Backstage At Little Miss. “Mister Grimes, do you know anything about Kirby Willet?”
“Kirby Willet. That’s a name I haven’t heard in a while.” He took a few puffs on his pipe. “He tried to fix the hose on Number Seven once. Thought we’d never find all the pieces. Tall fella, skinny, kind of absent-minded. Used to work here, I think.”
“Can you recall where you last saw him?”
Grimes shook his head. He called to the children. “Toby! What’d I tell you about no spitting? Don’t spit water at your sister. Sorry, Madeline. Maybe Tilda can help you.”
“All right,” I said. “I enjoyed meeting your grandchildren. I hope you have a nice visit.”
“I might be calling on you later if we decide to enter Jenny in a pageant.”
And I might be way out of town if you do.
The owner of the Wayfarer Motel, Tilda Sorenson, a large untidy woman with unnaturally red hair, was more excited about the possibility of Lance Henderson staying at her motel. She didn’t have a lot to say about Kirby Willet. She leaned her meaty arms on the front desk.
“He just worked here a few months, cleaning up, mostly. Took out trash, vacuumed. Didn’t cause any trouble.”
A younger woman in a maid’s uniform was cleaning out the ashtrays in the lobby. Her long brown ponytail was tied with a rubber band. I could see a large wad of pink gum as she chewed. “Well, he worried me,” she said. “Always taking things apart.”
“Yeah, well, he did that.” Tilda chuckled. “Got the drink machine all screwed up. Wouldn’t give out nothing but diet sodas and the occasional bag of chips.”
The young woman came up to the desk, popping her gum. “And he’d get me all upset about room sixteen. Said it was haunted.”
“He just didn’t want you going in there.” Tilda Sorenson turned to me. “See, I let him stay in sixteen ’cause it wasn’t one of my best rooms. Needed a lot of things done to it. He said he’d fix it up.”
The young woman wasn’t going to let go of her story. “He said somebody died in there. Killed themselves, he said.”
Tilda gave a snort. “Well, now, that’s a bunch of bull. Nobody’s died in my motel. Don’t you think I’d know it? Just some of Willet’s stories.”
“Could I see room sixteen?” I asked.
“Nothing to see. It’s just like the other rooms.”
“There might be something that could help me find him.”
“Go show her, Sue Ann.”
Popping and smacking, Sue Ann led me outside to room sixteen and unlocked the door. The room was a typical motel room, two beds, a long dresser, curtains in an ungodly shade of plaid.
“Watch this,” she said. She flipped the light switch and water ran in the sink. “You have to flush the toilet to get the light to come on, and the TV won’t play unless the air conditioner’s running, too. He’s got this room completely messed up, and I haven’t even started on the peanuts.”
“The peanuts?”
“Dry roasted peanuts. He ate them all the time, so I found them everywhere, on the floor, behind the cushions, even in the shower. I told Tilda it would attract mice, but she never did anything about it. He’d only eat Blue Ribbon brand. It was really stupid.”
“Why do you say that?”
She pulled out a long strand of gum and tucked it back in her mouth. “Because one time I was trying to be nice and bought a big old jar of Planters for him for Christmas, and he wouldn’t even open them. He was weird.”
“Or just extremely loyal to Blue Ribbon peanuts.”
She looked skeptical. “Maybe. Anyway, we got to hire someone to fix this room, and I still say it’s haunted.”