Denton - 01 - Dead Folks' Blues Page 8

  “Okay,” I said. “Mr. Kennedy. I’ll keep an eye out for him. All I want to do is talk to the dude. See if what Rachel was telling me was right.”

  Lonnie got off the stool he’d climbed onto, came over to me, and poked me in the shoulder.

  “You watch your ass,” he said. “You’re a good driver. I’d hate to have to replace you.”

  “Don’t go dramatic on me, Lonnie. This is real life, not TV. I ain’t Jim Rockford, and this ain’t Columbo. I’m not going to do anything stupid.”

  “Yeah, well,” he said, picking up The Poor Man’s James Bond and flipping through the pages, “you be careful all the same. I hear tell Bubba Hayes is a real Mustache Pete, a forreal freaking gangster.”

  The Reverend Bubba Hayes, or Mustache Pete, or whoever the hell he was, was going to have to wait awhile. I needed to check the answering machine in my office, then get over to see Rachel as quickly as possible. Down Gallatin Road, a car pulling out of the Taco Bell got rammed by some old guy smoking a green cigar in a rusted blue Cadillac Coupe de Ville. That took twenty minutes to get past, and then there was a procession coming out of the funeral home. By the time I’d gone a dozen blocks from Lonnie’s, I was dripping wet and the Ford was overheating.

  For ten minutes, I drove around inside the three-story parking garage on Seventh Avenue, the one where my monthly rent gives me the right to look for a spot. Finally, on the top level, I found one subcompact slot left. I wedged the Escort into the tiny space and crawled out between the two cars. I made my way, sweaty and dizzy from exhaust fumes, down the concrete slab ramp to the street.

  Cars were lined up bumper to bumper in all four directions at the intersection of Seventh Avenue and Church Street. Horns blared, sweat poured, engines belched steam in the summer heat. Southern Fried Gridlock.

  I tiptoed between two cars out into the middle of the street, then jackrabbited onto the sidewalk just as two blue-haired little old ladies in a Chrysler New Yorker scraped a NO PARKING—TOW IN ZONE sign trying to get around the jam. I caught a glimpse of the driver’s face as the car went by: thick glasses, too much rouge, false teeth bared like a dog in combat.

  I walked into my dusty, rundown building, past the watch repairman’s office, and climbed the stairs to my office one shuffle at a time. By the time I got to the top floor, I was ready for another trip to the emergency room. Down the hall, I could hear Slim and Ray arguing over whether the second line in the chorus ought to be “Hey, baby I’m coming back home!” or “Hey, darlin’, you’re on your own.…” I decided to forego dropping in for my usual chat.

  I silently opened my office door and quickly slid inside. With a little luck, no one would bother me for a while. I was feeling pretty antisocial, what with a lousy night’s sleep, a bum ankle, and an aching set of butterfly closures on the crown of my head.

  The red light on the answering machine was firing away like popcorn in a hot-air popper. I loosened my tie even further and opened the top two buttons on my shirt. If I pulled my necktie down any lower, I was going to trip over it. I settled back in the chair as the answering machine began reciting.

  Message number one was from my old newspaper: “Hey, listen, friend. I know we’re probably the last people on earth you want to talk to, but we could sure use an interview with you on the Fletcher killing.” The voice was Ed Gibson’s, the city editor. Ed had been sorry to let me go; had, in fact, always been decent to me. He was told to fire me. They made him do it. He’s got three kids, was only doing his job. I understood.

  Screw him.

  The second message was from Channel 4, the third from Channel 2, the fourth from Channel 2, the fifth from Channel 2, the sixth from Channel 5, which finally got through when Channel 2 gave up.

  Three more messages from the media types, then Rachel’s voice: “Where have you been? I’ve been trying to reach you all day, and you’re phone’s either busy or I get this blasted machine. Please call me.”

  I opened my notebook and flipped through the Fs. I punched her number in, then waited through two rings.

  “Hello?”

  “Yes, Rachel Fletcher, please.”

  “I’m sorry, Mrs. Fletcher’s unavailable right now.”

  I could hear the voice fade as the hand on the other end of the line headed toward a hangup.

  “Wait!” I yelled. “Could you tell her it’s Harry Denton. I’m returning her call.”

  Too late. A loud click, then a dial tone. Wonder who that was? Sounded like an older woman. Probably figured I was another reporter. My mail was still in a pile on the floor where the postman had stuffed it through the mail slot. I’d picked up the stack: my liability insurance bill, phone bill, and six pieces of junk mail. Whoopee …

  Nothing to do but deal with it. For some reason or other, I was hesitant to go to Rachel’s house. Maybe it’s because I failed her. Maybe Walter was right; she was available now. Was I sleazy enough to go after a grieving widow? Or maybe she wasn’t grieving at all. I didn’t want to think about that alternative.

  The prospect of climbing back to the top of the Mount Everest of parking garages was no erotic fantasy either. But it was nearing late afternoon, and the rule around here is that rush hour starts right after lunch, and the longer you wait, the worse the traffic’s going to be.

  I threw my coat over one shoulder and walked back out into the heat. At the intersection, the play was still the same, only the actors had changed. I slithered between the bumpers and the blaring horns and made my way over to the parking garage. The Ford had been there barely long enough to cool down. And now we were going out into the mother of all traffic jams.

  It wasn’t that bad, actually. Thirty minutes later, I made the turn off Hillsboro road onto Golf Club Lane. This part of town was my old hangout, back when I was married and had a job making steady money. That seemed like a hundred years ago, and I realized that one of the reasons I’d been putting off seeing Rachel was that I simply no longer felt comfortable on this side of the tracks.

  The houses lining Golf Club Lane aren’t mansions, but try telling that to the Laotian families on the other side of the river who live fifteen to a two-bedroom duplex that doesn’t meet codes. I slowed, watching the numbers on the houses, until I got to a huge black mailbox with the Fletcher’s address in proper chrome figures.

  Holy Hannah, doctors do well, don’t they? A long black driveway stretched maybe two hundred feet up a well-coiffed lawn to a three-story brick house with a chimney at each end. A screened-in front porch on the left side of the house was bigger than my whole apartment. Wrought-iron yard furniture off to the left sat in the middle of a tiny, well-kept English garden. Something the Newport crowd would appreciate.

  There were a half-dozen cars in the jet-black driveway, not a single one of them a six-year-old, oil-burning Ford Escort. The tackiest car in the lot—mine excepted—was about a twenty-five-thousand-dollar Buick. Probably the cleaning lady’s.

  I wondered if they’d call the police before I had a chance to identify myself. I pulled all the way up the driveway, figuring they’d be less upset if I parked behind the house where my car wouldn’t be visible from the street. I only hope I didn’t drip too much crankcase oil on the asphalt; that would be the automotive equivalent of breaking wind on a crowded elevator.

  Then I saw it, a white Crown Victoria, one with unmarked car written all over it. If they wanted to call the cops on me, they wouldn’t have far to go.

  The Ford’s door made a screeching sound as I pushed it open. I looked back over the wooded back lot, maybe twenty yards to an eight-foot-high fence that ran around the back. A combination carriage house-garage-office was just behind the house, with a stone and brick courtyard between it and the back door to the main house. All in all, some mighty nice digs.

  I debated going around front, then decided it would be okay to enter through the kitchen. I jumped the two steps to the door and knocked once. The huge wooden door with stained-glass insets swung open to reveal the glowering
stare of a Green Hills dowager.

  “And what do you want?” she demanded. She had a deep aristocratic Southern accent, a faint hint of orange in her thinning hair, and makeup caked on so thick it was cracking in places. She stood tall, though, and was determined to put me in my place.

  “I’m Harry Denton,” I explained. “I came to see Rachel.”

  “Mrs. Fletcher is not speaking to the news media today. You could have saved yourself a trip by phoning first.”

  “I did, and you hung up on me. But I’m not with the newspaper. I’m a friend of hers. She left a message on my answering machine.”

  A painted-on eyebrow rose. Diamond earrings bobbed. “I’ll go see if Mrs. Fletcher is willing to see you. Step in here.”

  I stepped into the kitchen. “Stay right there,” Madame Dowager ordered.

  I stood at attention. “Yes ma’am.”

  My maternal grandmother had that effect on people; could, in fact, drop you in your tracks with a change in tone. It gave me a shudder to think about it.

  I looked around the kitchen: Garland stove taking up a good part of one wall; stainless-steel restaurant refrigerator just short of walk-in; butcher’s block island the size of a twin bed; polished Mexican clay tile on the floor. This was a lifestyle that would be hard to support on the income of an established surgeon late in his career. Wonder what it was like for a guy my age? Conrad was doing all right, but how was he managing to pay for all this? Especially with a so-called gambling problem.

  My questions were interrupted by Rachel’s entrance. Her face was drawn, her hair pulled behind her tightly. Madame Dowager hovered behind her, like she expected me to run up and hump Rachel’s leg. And she had the wadded-up newspaper ready.

  “Harry,” she said, her voice tense, strained. “Where have you been? The police are here. It’s been awful.”

  She lunged and was in my arms in a second. I hugged her close, tighter than I would have expected. Her hair was freshly shampooed; everything about this woman was clean, scrubbed, still young after all these years.

  “I saw their car. Sorry it took me so long to get here. The police kept me most of the night, and I’ve been putting out fires ever since.”

  She pulled back, looked me directly in the eyes. “Are you all right?” She tipped my head toward her. “I heard you got hit.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “I’m okay. No stitches or anything. It was just a long night.”

  Rachel looked at the back of my head. “God, it’s a nasty cut. But it looks like you’ll be okay. I’m so relieved.”

  I stepped back, put my hands on her shoulders. “Rachel, I can’t tell you how sorry I am about Conrad. If there was anything I could have done to stop it, I would have. But it was too late when I found him.”

  Her eyes welled, as if for a moment she’d been able to stop thinking about him, and now I’d brought it all back. “You did everything you could have, Harry. I realize that.”

  “Rachel, there are a few matters we need to discuss.”

  “Later,” she whispered. “After the police leave.”

  She turned around to the dowager and held out a hand toward her. “Harry, this is my neighbor, Mrs. Goddard. She’s a good friend and has been helping me out today, keeping the reporters off the property. Mrs. Goddard, this is Harry Denton, an old friend. We were all in college together.”

  “Hello, Mrs. Goddard,” I said, extending a hand to her. The dowager took it gracefully and rocked it ever so gently.

  “I didn’t mean to be so cold to you out there, Mr. Denton. For all I knew, you might have been another of those blamed reporters.”

  “No, ma’am. Not me, but I imagine you’ve had them around all day.”

  “Like flies to a chamber pot, son.” She gave me a sharp grin. Maybe Mrs. Goddard the dowager had a wicked side to her, or at least naughty.

  I heard voices far off in the living room, female voices melded into high-pitched insensibility.

  “God,” Rachel said, “the neighbors. The police. I swear, I can’t take much more.”

  “Where’s Spellman now?”

  “I’ve got them in the den. They’re questioning me about where I was, Harry. As if I had something to do with Conrad’s death.” There was fear in her voice, desperation, exhaustion. Her skin was pulled tight over cheekbones, her eyes tense, the purplish hollows under them deep.

  “Rachel, maybe you should have a lawyer here.”

  Her eyes darkened even further. “You, too, Harry?”

  “Rachel, I—”

  “I don’t need a lawyer, damn it.”

  She turned and charged past Mrs. Goddard into the hallway. I followed her to the den. Spellman and some other investigator I didn’t recognize stood about awkwardly.

  “Hello, Lieutenant,” I said.

  “Denton,” Spellman said, nodding.

  “Harry, these gentlemen presume I had something to do with my husband’s death,” Rachel said, straining to maintain control.

  “That’s not what we said, Mrs. Fletcher. It’s just routine in cases like thus to check the whereabouts of all the parties involved.”

  “As Mrs. Goddard has confirmed, I was here all night. I never left the house.”

  “That’s right, Lieutenant,” Mrs. Goddard said from behind him. I turned. The dowager didn’t seem the kind of woman who’d lie to save anybody’s butt. “We played bridge until eleven. When Mrs. Russell, Mrs. Winters, and the other table left, I stayed until eleven forty-five helping Mrs. Fletcher wash dishes and clean up because I only live two doors away.”

  Her voice was stern, solid. If this lady said she was playing bridge with Rachel until almost midnight, you could put it in the bank. I felt something inside me loosen, and it became a bit easier to breathe.

  “So you see, Lieutenant,” the dowager continued, “there were seven of us here with Mrs. Fletcher all night. She couldn’t possibly have been in two places at once. Even you can understand that, can’t you?”

  “Now, Lieutenant,” Rachel said, “if you’ve finished accusing me of murder, I’d like to get on with grieving my husband’s death.”

  “Mrs. Fletcher,” Spellman said defensively, “we—”

  “I think you should go now,” Mrs. Goddard said. It was not a request. Spellman flipped shut his notepad, made brief eye contact with his partner, and took two steps toward the door.

  “Aren’t you going to tell me not to leave town, Lieutenant?” Rachel demanded bitterly.

  Spellman turned. “No, ma’am, I’m not going to tell you that.” It was rare, I thought, to see a homicide investigator leave a room with his tail between his legs. Kind of fun, actually. It’s not that I didn’t like Spellman; I just took a certain perverse delight in seeing the mighty put in their place.

  “Why don’t I let you two young people talk alone? I’ll go see if they need anything out there.”

  Rachel kept her back turned to me, following Mrs. Goddard out of the room with her eyes. When she was safely out of sight, Rachel turned to me, her blue eyes wide open, relieved.

  “I’ve been so worried about you. What happened at the hospital last night?”

  “I heard a noise,” I whispered. “I went into the room. It was dark so I fumbled for the light. When I got it on, I saw Conrad stretched out on a bed. He was still breathing, though. I bent over him to see how badly hurt he was. Somebody came up behind me and knocked me silly. That’s all I remember for a few seconds, which was just enough time to give the other person a chance to get away.”

  She held a hand up to her mouth, palm inward, almost in horror. “Oh my heavens. The police didn’t give me much in the way of details. Most of what I’ve been able to get has been out of the newspaper.”

  “That’s not what we need to worry about now, Rachel. I need to know exactly what you know about Conrad’s gambling. I think I may have a line on who he owed money to, but we need to—”

  “No. I won’t have it.”

  “Won’t have what?”

 
“You’re through, Harry. I want you to stop this.” Her voice was tight as she strained to be forceful without being heard by her company in the other room. “I don’t want whoever killed Connie to get a shot at you. I can’t bear that. You have to quit.”

  “Rachel, I can’t quit.” I put my hands on her shoulders without thinking, an unconscious, spontaneous motion. I squeezed her gently; her shoulders were knotted up like cordwood. “Not now. I’ve got to find out what really happened.”

  “You’ve got to quit. I’m not going to have you get hurt in this, too.”

  “Rachel, I—”

  “We’ll talk about it later. We can’t now, not with all these … old biddies … here. Come by tonight, late. I’ll be up.”

  I stood back from her. “Are you sure that’s a good idea?”

  She put her hands on her hips, jaw clenched, eyes wide. “Of course, it’s all right. We are adults, aren’t we? We don’t need a chaperone. I’ll have the lights off. Just come up the driveway and park where you are now. The back door’ll be open.”

  “Rachel, are you positive this is okay?”

  “I just don’t want to hear any gossip from this crew. They think they’re helping, but the truth is they’re driving me crazy. My parents are due in tomorrow night, and Connie’s are going to have to fly back from Europe.” She pulled some blond bangs off her forehead. “God, it’s going to be a long week.”

  “I know you’re exhausted. Are you sure you wouldn’t rather be alone?”

  She looked up at me, her forehead wrinkling. “Eleven tonight,” she said. “Be here.”

  I pulled out into the thick traffic on Hillsboro Road still wondering just how in blazes Connie Fletcher was paying the mortgage on that place, not to mention the requisite cars, vacations, clothes, parties, landscaping, cleaning lady, and the assorted paraphernalia that go with maintaining that kind of lifestyle.

  I pulled left onto the road almost by instinct, crossed the I-440 bridge, and found myself heading back toward the university hospital. I kept thinking that there had to be some way, some contact, somebody I could put the bite on to find what was really happening with the dear departed Dr. Conrad Fletcher and his professional life. If he was in hock to his bookie, maybe he told someone. A friend, perhaps, if he had any. Judging from the reactions of people I’d met in the hospital, Conrad Fletcher wasn’t a man with a wealth of friends. On the other hand, maybe I could find somebody he’d hit on for a loan, or a shoulder to cry on, or just somebody he’d shoot the breeze with. He was human, right? Even doctors need somebody to talk to, rather than at, every now and then.