Dead Letter (7 page)

“Meat and I were talking about a note his father wrote him—the only note his dad ever wrote. Meat came across it stuck in his mom's cookbook. I asked him what the note said, and he started to tell me—he knew it by heart—but he couldn't finish. I think he was afraid it was going to make him cry. And for some reason Meat has the stupid notion that he can't cry in front of me! I've cried in front of him lots of times.”

“Boys,” her mom said with a shake of her head. She smiled down at the top of Herculeah's head.

Herculeah was looking down at the sheet of paper. “I know that's what this is, because it starts out ‘Dear Albie.' Meat got that far. He told me his dad called him Albie.”

Herculeah looked up at her mother. “Do you want to hear it?”

“I'd like to very much—if you don't think Meat would mind.”

“I don't. Here goes. ‘Dear Albie, I'm sorry, Pal, that I had to leave without saying good-bye. But when a man gets his big chance, he has to take it. Mind your mom now and don't ever forget me.' And it's signed ‘Sweet old Dad.'”

“So, Dad,” Herculeah said, “I was hoping you'd wear that tie. It's my favorite.”

“Actually, it's my third favorite.”

“You've only got three.”

“Four, if you count the Snoopy tie you gave me last Christmas.”

“Which you never wear.”

Herculeah and her father were in a Chinese restaurant, waiting for their food to be served. Herculeah did not want to talk about ties. Her only interest was the note that had been in the lining of her coat, but now she felt reluctant to discuss it. She was sure her father would sense she was too interested and would make her promise not to get involved.

“I'm sorry I wasn't at the precinct when you called yesterday, Herculeah. Was it anything important?”

“No, not really.”

“DiAngelo said you sounded upset.”

“Well, I was, a little.”

“So?”

“Well, something happened that afternoon that sort of bothered me.”

“Such as?”

“You aren't going to like this.”

Her father looked less relaxed. He sat up straighter. “You haven't found another body, have you, Herculeah?”

Herculeah tried to ignore her father's disapproving tone. It wasn't her fault she'd discovered poor Madame Rosa murdered, or almost fallen on a body in that abandoned house, Dead Oaks.

“No.”

“Well, that's a relief.”

She added, “At least I hope not.”

“What's that supposed to mean?”

“Just what it says.”

“Go on.”

“Well, you remember that money you gave me?”

“Yes, I remember the money I gave you. You called me up and said, ‘Do you have any extra money?' Herculeah, nobody has extra money. There's no such thing as extra money. Even millionaires—”

“Don't give me the extra-money lecture. This is too important.”

“Well, get on with it.”

“I went into this store called Hidden Treasures. It's where I buy most of my stuff—my binoculars came from there and those little round glasses that help me think—but this time something drew me to the coat-rack, which surprised me because I do not need a coat. Nobody I know even wears coats. Everybody wears jackets.”

“Are we at the important part yet?”

“We're getting there. Dad, I was drawn to this coat. I put it on and it fit perfectly. I took it to Meat's to show him, and he said it makes me look Russian—did you think so?”

“I'm not up on Russian fashion.”

“Anyway, I noticed there was a piece of paper caught in the lining of the coat. I got it out and it was really ... well, it scared me. That's why I called you.”

“What did the note say?”

“It was written by a woman and she said somebody was going to kill her.”

“Where is the note?”

The note was in Herculeah's pocket, but for some reason she was hesitant about bringing it out.

“What did the note say—exactly?”

Herculeah sighed. She felt she was making a mistake, but she pulled out the note.

“Read it for yourself,” she said. She pushed the piece of paper across the table.

Her father read the note and looked up at her, his expression serious. “And you found this in the lining of the coat?”

“Yes.”

“Where'd you buy the coat?”

“I told you—Hidden Treasures.”

“Did the woman who sold you the coat know where it came from?”

“Not exactly—just that it was in a box of horse stuff—you know, like bridles and whips.”

“Did you discuss this with your mom?”

“I couldn't. She was on a case.”

Her father now gave a sigh of disgust. One of the reasons Herculeah's parents had divorced was because her father belittled her mother's career as a private investigator.

Herculeah went on quickly. “She wouldn't tell me what the case was because she doesn't want me to get interested.”

“Well, that's the first smart thing your mom's done in a long time.”

“Dad, the reason I called you was because I wanted to ask you to pull your Dies—you know, for unsolved deaths—for murders that could have been made to look like accidents.”

Her father turned the note over.

“The woman, the victim, would be a woman exactly my size. You know how big I am, don't you? I weigh the same as mom and I'm as tall as you.”

“I know how big you are.”

“So will you please do it? Please? This is very important to me. I feel some sort of kinship with this woman.”

“Yes, I'll look into it. I've already got some thoughts on it.”

Herculeah leaned forward eagerly. “Like what?”

“Well, I take it from the appearance of the coat—I mean, that is not a cheap coat, Herculeah—”

“I know. I paid six whole dollars for it.”

“I'm talking about the original price. What I'm getting at, Herculeah, is that the owner of that coat was not some bag lady.”

“No.”

“The victim, if she turns out to be one, which frankly I doubt—”

“I don't.”

“The victim was fairly well-off and probably lived in a nice section of town.”

“Probably a very nice section of town,” Herculeah said, remembering the houses that had once lined Elm Street.

Her father glanced at her sharply, and she said quickly, “Go on. Don't pay any attention to my comments.”

“I'm trying not to.”

“Dad, are you going back to the precinct tonight?”

“Give me a break, Herculeah.”

“Are you?”

“Maybe.”

“And will you pull your files?”

“Maybe.”

“And will you call me? I know the answer. ‘Maybe.' Oh, great, here comes our food. Let's eat up so we can get out of here and you can get back to the precinct.”

Herculeah picked up her chopsticks. “And I bet I know what my fortune cookie's going to say. ‘An important question will be answered.'” She smiled.

“Or ‘Keep out of matters that don't concern you,'” her father said.

And he was not smiling.

“I expected you to call me last night,” Herculeah said to her dad.

Chico Jones had stopped by the house on his way to work. Herculeah was having breakfast.

“I got busy.”

“That's good. What did you find?”

“Let me get some coffee.” Herculeah watched him cross the kitchen. “Mim, you got any coffee?”

“By the stove.”

Herculeah waited impatiently while her father poured himself a cup of coffee. He sat across from her, and she leaned forward over her cereal bowl.

“So what did you come up with?”

“Two names.”

“Only two names? You mean there are only two unexplained deaths in this whole city?”

“Yes. Two. Be grateful. In the past twenty years—and that's as far back as I went—there have been two women who fit the picture you've given me. Two is far too many unexplained deaths for me.”

“Yeah, sure, I didn't mean it that way.” She put her elbows on the table. “So. Who are they? What are their names?”

Her father pulled out a piece of paper. He read from it. “Ethel Alice Stackmoore, 38, height 5'7”, weight 124, was found dead of a gunshot wound, October 21, 1992, in her residence. No weapon found, no arrests.”

“Where did she live?” Herculeah asked.

“In Marietta. I've got all that down here, including the addresses.”

“Marietta,” Herculeah said thoughtfully. She shook her head. “I don't think so. Too far away. Who's next?”

“Holly Forthright Downing, 24, height 5'7”, weight 128, cause of death, brain injury caused by fall down the basement stairway at her residence. Ruling by the court was accidental death, but the case is not closed.”

Herculeah put one hand to her throat. “Where was that?” she asked quickly.

He slid the sheet of paper across the table to her. Actually, it was only half a sheet of paper.

She checked the address. “Griffin?” Her shoulders sagged. “Griffin's miles away from here.”

He nodded. “Is there any cream, Mim?”

Mim Jones took a carton of skim milk from the refrigerator and set it on the table.

“I can't believe this is it,” Herculeah said. She kept staring at the paper in disappointment.

“What did you expect?”

“I expected better things of you.”

“I hear that all the time.”

“Herculeah, you're going to be late for school.”

“I'm leaving right now.”

Herculeah went into the hall, put on her coat, and picked up her books.

“Aren't you even going to say thanks?” Chico called after her.

She stuck her head back into the kitchen. “Yes, thanks for trying, Dad.”

“You're welcome, hon.”

Meat was waiting for her across the street. She ran to him. “Oh, Meat, disappointment. My dad came up with nothing, absolutely nothing—one woman in Marietta and one in Griffin—both of which are too far away. Here. See for yourself.”

“Yeah, right. Well, I guess that's the end of it.” Meat was not disappointed in the results—actually he was relieved.

“It is not the end of it,” Herculeah said forcefully. She looked down. “Oh, I forgot my library book and it's due today. Wait for me.”

Herculeah entered the house and picked up her book from the hall table.

In the kitchen, her parents were talking quietly—not arguing. Herculeah paused. She didn't want to disturb them. She loved it when her parents were like this, drinking coffee together, talking. She could almost believe they had once been in love.

“I wish you hadn't given her those names, Chico,” her mother was saying.

“Why?”

“Herculeah takes too many chances—you know that. She gets too caught up in things that don't concern her.”

“I wonder where she gets that from?”

“Both of us.”

They laughed. In the hall, Herculeah smiled.

“You don't have to worry, Mim.”

“I can't help it.”

“One of the names I gave her was in Marietta, the other in Griffin.”

“Well, that makes me feel a little better, though a matter of miles wouldn't stop Herculeah.”

“This is the one I didn't give her.” Herculeah heard her father take a sheet of paper from his pocket—the other half of the sheet of paper, probably—and hand it to her mother.

“Elm Street,” her mother read.

Herculeah waited, her heart in her throat. How lucky it was that she had not told her mother the black car had been on Elm Street.

“Amanda Cole.”

Herculeah took a deep breath. She clapped one hand over her mouth to keep herself from whooping with triumph. She slipped quietly out the front door and flew across the street.

“I got it, Meat! I got it!”

Meat paused. Herculeah's face was so flushed he thought she was talking about a disease.

“What?”

“The name! The name!”

“What name?”

“The murdered woman's. Her name was Amanda Cole. Aren't you excited, Meat? This means we're almost there.”

“Where?”

“To the murderer, Meat, to the murderer.”

“I'm getting tired of looking at obituaries,” Meat said.

“Well, I'm not,” Herculeah answered.

“They're depressing.”

“Not to me.”

“I bet they are to the people they're about.”

“The people they're about can't read them. They're dead.”

“Well, I've got to take a break. Let me know when you find something.”

Meat's break consisted of leaning back in his chair and closing his eyes. Still, he had to glance at Herculeah occasionally to see how it was going.

Herculeah and Meat had come right to the periodical room of the public library after school. The city newspaper was on microfilm, and Herculeah was now threading in the reel for 1991, January-June. Herculeah was peering intently at the screen.

“What month are you on now?” he asked.

“Open your eyes and see.”

“I'm on a break.”