Bubbles Ablaze (14 page)

“I think I'm in love,” Genevieve moaned.

“I think I need to leave,” said Jane, who was turning green. “These gasses are making me sick.”

Jane and Genevieve returned to Pete's house while I poked
around the burning landscape. It fascinated me, the way the earth was literally on fire. I tried to relate what Pete had just said to Stinky's claim that my story had missed the crucial point. Had McMullen violated its permits so it could dip into the Mammoth Basin? Perhaps. I was more intrigued by the location of Price's casino over this humongous coal deposit, the fact that Price had bought the land and its mining rights from McMullen at a discount and that Price was now dead, murdered in one of McMullen's own mines.

I strolled up to St. Ignatius Church for a better view. The church must have been abandoned years ago. The stained glass in the front windows had been smashed by rocks. Faded red, blue and green pieces lay on the burnt grass, also melted into lumps like the beer bottle shards a few feet away. In happier days, Limbo couples had been married here; they'd baptized their children in this church and memorialized their dead. And now . . . now it was such a waste. All because bureaucrats were too petty to take responsibility.

A car door slammed behind me. I turned to see a man locking his blue Saab and walking in my direction, almost stumbling. His tie was askew, his beautiful tan Burberry coat was seriously creased and his eyes were wild.

Hugh McMullen on a bender.

“N
ot here,” he said, stepping into the church. “In here. Sanctuary.”

I hesitated, not sure what to do, and then I found myself trailing behind him. As my eyes adjusted to the dim light inside, I distinguished the crucifix over the altar and a blue and pink statue of Mary weeping by its side.

What I did not see was Hugh McMullen.

“Hello?” I called out.

“Use the stairs,” he replied. He must have entered the door by the altar. I took a few steps and tripped on a deep crevice that ran straight down the middle aisle between the worn pews, as though the church had been ripped in two by an earthquake.

“Jesus Christ,” I exclaimed, grabbing a pew to stop myself from falling. The disheartened figure on the crucifix hung forlornly, severely disappointed by my language.

“Whoops!” I covered my mouth. “Sorry.”

I traced the fissure to where it opened widest in the middle. Kneeling down, I carefully extended my hand, only to pull it out quickly in pain. The crack was steaming. A very faint stream of white smoke rose from its interior, sending up a foul incense of fuming sulfur and wood. It was a miracle that the entire church wasn't ablaze.

The saints who had remained intact smiled benevolently from the stained glass windows, their fingers held up in signs of peace and patience—attributes of which I suddenly felt in mighty short supply.

Keeping a lookout for more cracks and potholes, I tiptoed
toward the door by the altar and descended the carpeted stairs. It was even darker down here. Warmer, too.

At the bottom I could make out several closed doors off a short hallway. There was the smell of chalk and crayons, poster paint, paste and paper. Sunday school rooms. At last I arrived at a door with a faint golden glow underneath.

Gently pushing the door open, I was surprised to find Hugh praying in a tiny chapel, his back turned toward me. Two candles were lit. It was stifling hot in there. And it reeked of cigarettes.

“Mr. McMullen?” I asked softly.

Hugh McMullen pivoted mechanically. The candlelight had done nothing to soften his appearance. His hair was ragged and his face unshaven. He had tossed his rain coat carelessly over the pew and thrown the tie there with it. My eyes dropped to his preppy loafers.

“What happened to you?”

Hugh McMullen pushed back a lock of wavy hair that had fallen over his forehead. “I've been through the ringer, that's what's happened to me.” He fumbled in his khakis and brought out a maroon box of Dunhill cigarettes. Give me a break. Dunhills?

“Did anyone come with you?” he asked. His hand shook as he tried to light the cigarette with a silver lighter.

“Why?” I said. “And why are your clothes a mess and why did you want me to follow you here?”

“I had to talk to you. In private. Without the other reporters finding out.”

“You had your chance last night when I left a message at The Inn in Glen Ellen asking for a comment.” I stepped back to get some air. Ugh. I waved the smoke away. “If you have a problem with my story today, call my editors at the
News-Times
.”

Wait. What was I saying? Bad idea. The editors were probably drafting my pink slip right now. Drafting it with glee and permanent ink.

“I don't give a damn about that story.” McMullen perched his
butt on the communion rail. “I don't give a damn about mining permits or union contracts or coal. Period. I detest this business. I inherited this company from my father and he inherited it from his father who inherited it from his father. I never asked to be a coal baron.”

I watched him suck on the cigarette. Spoiled child, I thought. Life handed to him on a silver platter and it wasn't good enough. He should be spanked and sent to his room. “So, you didn't know about your own company digging beyond its permits? Or fudging maps to escape the regulators?”

“I could care less. That's why I have people working for me, to keep an eye on shit like that. You know what I told the state when they asked me why the company dug three hundred feet into the Dead Zone? I told them maybe the miners didn't know they'd gone that far. It's dark down there.”

I choked back a laugh, appalled as well that he was blaming his company's crime on the workers.

“Lookit, I have to get in touch with Carl Koolball,” he said, tossing the cigarette onto the chapel floor. (The chapel floor!) “You're the only one who's had contact with him since Price's murder. How do I find him?”

My jaw dropped. “How did you know that—?”

“If I don't get hold of Koolball,” he interrupted impatiently. “I am in some deep, deep shit.”

“For digging under the Dead Zone?”

“Nooo.” McMullen massaged his temples. He was barely, barely tolerating me. “For a separate matter altogether. For something that I am absolutely not discussing with a two-bit, Podunk reporter named Bubbles Yablonsky.”

“For shooting Bud Price in the chest.” I held my breath and mentally crossed my fingers.

McMullen dropped his hands. “Don't tell me the press knows already. Donohue said he wouldn't make it public.”

It was my turn to say, “Nooo. I guessed. And you fell for it.”

“Bitch.”

“You say that like it's a bad thing.” I'd seen that on a bumper sticker once and I'd been waiting to use it on the next man who cursed me out. “Why don't you fill me in on what's going on and, when we're done, we'll talk about Stinky.”

“Hard ass,” he said.

I patted my rear. “Thank you. Now that you mention it, I have been Sommersizing.” I pulled out my reporter's notebook and pen. “Let's start with the first question. Did you murder Bud Price?”

“If my lawyer were here—”

“You wouldn't have a chance in hell of getting hold of Stinky Koolball.”

He folded his arms and glared at me. “No, I did not murder Bud Price. Like I said, I don't give a damn about the coal business. I just stay in it because it earns me over a million dollars a year. Tell me, would you give up a million-dollar paycheck for doing nothing?”

I ignored that. It was insulting to a hardworking single mother like myself who was barely raking in twenty grand despite two jobs. “Then, why does Donohue suspect you?”

Hugh got out that pack of Dunhills again. “Because—and I have no clue as to how this happened—the Keystone cops here claim that the bullet that killed Price allegedly came from my gun, a Smith and Wesson, which last I knew was locked up in my house back in Pittsburgh.”

“Where is it now?”

“Out of the case. Missing. Wouldn't be surprised if Chief Donohue took it himself.”

“Yup.” I wrote this down. They were going to have to start calling me Bubbles Blockbuster Yablonsky around the newsroom.

“Were you in Pittsburgh the night of the murder?”

“Actually, there's been some misunderstanding about that. I was here in town, staying with a friend I've known for years.”

“Friend's name?” I positioned my pen.

“Is none of your business.”

“Funny name, ‘none of your business.' Isn't none of your business providing you with an alibi?”

“That's why I'm in this hell hole with you.” He lit another cigarette and exhaled. “That's why I look this way. That's why I need Koolball. My friend is scared. The cops in this town have threatened to lock her up in jail if she sticks by me. So she finked. Friends will do that, you know.”

Not mine. “How can Stinky save you?”

“You figure it out.” He approached me, his mouth set and mean in a schoolboy-tantrum way. “I've answered enough of your stupid questions. You said you'd tell me how to find Koolball.” He grabbed the back of my neck. “Now tell me where he is.”

I blinked and tried to remain peaceful. McMullen had just crossed into the brink of some psychotic hostile territory. In short, he was flipping out.

“Calm down, Hugh,” I said, putting my hand on his. “Calm down. I'm not exactly sure how to find Stinky myself. Not right now.”

“What?” He shook off my hand and raised his fist. I covered my face and prayed he wouldn't hit me. I don't like getting hit. It's so . . . painful.

There was a crash as one of the wooden chairs went flying.

“You bitch! And I mean that like it's a bad thing.”

“Hit me, Hugh. Lay one finger on me,” I said, lowering my hands, “and Donohue has a legitimate reason to throw you in jail right now. I never said I'd bring Stinky to you, only that we could talk about him. Stinky's in hiding. If I see him, I'll tell him you need to speak with him.”

Hugh stamped out his cigarette and snatched up his coat and tie. “I'll find him myself.” He gave another chair a kick and then put his fist into the chapel wall before flinging open the door and stomping out, making sure to slam it hard as he left.

Whew! I let out a long sigh and collapsed onto one of the hard
wooden chairs that McMullen hadn't broken. What a brat. My knees were shaking so hard the chair was rocking.

Outside the door came the shuffling of footsteps. Oh, super. Baby Hughey was back to lay into me. The shuffling stopped. There was a sound by the floor, as though someone were trying to slip something under it. And then came the click. I don't like clicks.

I blew out the candles, felt my way along the wall and put my hand on the knob. Just as I feared. Not only was the knob locked—it was hot.

“When in danger or in doubt, run in circles, scream and shout.”

That was the children's rhyme that ran through my mind as I broke two nails and completely ruined my fifteen-dollar manicure for nothing while attempting to pry open the door. It was sealed shut. I deduced that some evil devil had stuffed the space between the bottom of the door and the basement floor with a heavy cloth. Perhaps a coat.

A coat like the one McMullen had been wearing.

I put my trusty old cheerleading talents to good work by screaming my head off until my throat burned. Then I began to get lightheaded and dizzy. A distinct buzz grew in my ears. It was sickening and at times I was close to throwing up Mona's Wonder Gobbler with Slime. I grabbed a chair, sat down and put my head between my knees, which were shaking and weak.

Carbon monoxide poisoning. Odorless. Invisible. CO. Who had told me about its symptoms? Donohue. Donohue had listed all the ills—headache, dizziness, nausea. He said it started off like the flu and you ended up either dead or debilitated. I did not want to be spoon-fed pudding at the nursing home. I did not want to die, either, for the record. All I wanted was sleep.

My eyelids drooped heavily and a nap became a top priority. I could assess this situation much better after a few winks. That's
dangerous, Bubbles. Go to sleep and you may never wake up, a voice in my head said.

She was right, that voice in my head. She'd been right eighteen years ago about not skipping up to that Lehigh fraternity party where Dan the Man lay in wait, slurping on a funnel of beer. She'd been right about the Radio Shack clerk with whom I shared five minutes of sexual deviance in the back of my Camaro.

Even though she was right, I had to sleep.

Leaning against the wall for support, I shoved my hand into my purse and pulled out my wallet. Okay, credit cards were a long shot, but I'd seen Stiletto work them on a door in Dutch Country. I yanked out the infamous Visa and tried to focus.

Rolling along the wall, my hands slid down the crack in the doorjamb. Wiggling the card into the slim space, I let out a weak cry of joy when the Visa, so flexible after years of overuse, broke the seal in the lock. The door popped open.

Vaguely, I was aware that whatever had been stuffed against the door was not a coat. It was a blue plastic tarp. Super, I thought, not really caring, just wanting to sleep.

The hallway outside had fresh air but even so I couldn't take another step. A little nap wouldn't hurt now that I was out of danger. I threw my purse on a musty smelling loveseat in the hall and collapsed, drifting into a haze of worries. Where was Jane? What had happened to McMullen? Why wasn't Stiletto here? And finally, what was my name?

My name. I could not remember my name. What was my name? It was something sophisticated that befitted a journalist like myself, Diane Sawyer or Maureen Dowd. Of that I was pretty positive.