CUTTER'S GROVE Page 8

  Sonny looks sad. “Tough night, Lucas.”

  “I’ll get ya next time,” I, the eternal optimist, reply.

  Herb looks at me through the veil of smoke emanating from the ever present cigar clamped in his teeth. “Siddown, for Christ’s sake. I’ll spot ya fifty.” Once again, he’s the big winner tonight.

  “Thanks anyway, Herb, I’m done. I’ll see you boys around.”

  A chorus of ‘Night, Lucas,’ hails my departure.

  As I amble back to the garage I’m wishing it wasn’t so late. I want desperately to talk to Deborah about what I’ve deduced. I need to expound on possibilities, to hear rebuttals.

  I decide to walk by her house to see, if by chance, there might be a light burning in the window.

  No such luck. The place is blacker than a coalminer’s nose.

  I arrive home to Victor’s sleepy welcome. He’s a good old dog, and smart, too.

  But he doesn’t talk worth a shit.

  ****

  I’m up early the next morning. Sleep was intermittent and fraught with menacing dreams, none of which I can remember in any detail.

  At seven-thirty I phone Deborah. “Can we get together as soon as possible,” I ask after our hellos.

  “You sound upset,” she says.

  “Yeah. We need to talk.”

  “Meet me for lunch. I’ll make some sandwiches and we can drive out in the desert again.”

  “I’ll see you at noon.”

  There’s nothing in the way of work to occupy my time until my noon hour rendezvous with Deborah, so I join Sonny and we wander up to the diner. Beth looks happy to see me. “Hi, handsome. How’s my guy?” she says.

  “Any better I’d be perfect,” I tell her. What a phony I am. If I was any more uptight my internal organs would implode.

  We sit at the counter and she pours our coffees. Sonny says, “You just keep gettin’ better lookin’ every time I see you, Beth honey. Why don’t you and me blow this town? We’ll head for the bright lights a Vegas and spend my fortune on wild times.”

  “Spend your fortune, huh?” Beth says.

  “Yup, every last dime of it,” Sonny confirms.

  “Okay,” Beth decides after due consideration, “but what’ll we do the second day?”

  “Shot down again,” Sonny mumbles sadly. “Say, Lucas, why don’t you an’ me head out to the lake? We’ll do some leisurely fishin’ an’ some serious beer drinkin’.”

  “Sorry, old buddy, I can’t.”

  “How come?” he wants to know.

  I notice Beth’s waiting for my reply. I’m trying to think of something intelligent to say but nothing comes to mind.

  “What’s on your plate that keeps you from taking up such an enticing offer, sweets?” she prods.

  “Hmm? Oh, nothing special. Just ... a tune up coming in.” Good God, you’d think I could have come up with that remarkable reply quicker, wouldn’t you?

  She senses deception now. “Sure you’re not meeting some little filly on the side?” she asks in what I choose to consider a rhetorical fashion. Although the tone of her voice is playful I notice the look in her eyes is more serious.

  Despite my virtuousness, I find myself blushing a radical tone of crimson.

  ****

  Deborah is right on time. She hustles out of the pharmacy at our appointed hour and climbs into the Jeep carrying an impressive looking array of picnic items.

  “So,” she says, “I can’t wait to hear. What’s up?”

  As I head for the open desert I tell her about Thelma’s clues all pointing at someone in my poker group being Anne Marie’s killer. She hears me out. “My Lord,” she says in a whispery voice.

  “Can I be wrong?” I wonder. “Is it possible I’m misreading what Thelma said? Maybe these clues could just as easily apply to another set of circumstances.”

  “I don’t think so, Lucas. It’s too much of a fit. Six big men, businessmen, exchanging money, the diamond shape. Come on, it can’t be a coincidence.”

  “It’s always possible,” I say.

  “No. It isn’t,” she insists.

  “Alright, so what do we do?”

  “Brain storm.”

  “Okay, let’s review what we’ve got. Paco Alvarro is the father. Rugged outdoor type, loves animals. Seems to be a doting father from what I’ve seen of him. Not a very likely suspect in my opinion. Mel Hocking is a married family man, highly respected, and very wealthy. Again, not highly suspect. Arliss Beckman … good looking guy in his late twenties, quiet spoken. Seems too out of character to me. Herb Kripps - now there’s a suspect. He looks the type. Greasy, fat … a slob, let’s face it. Then Sonny. Sorry, but I’d have problems suspecting Sonny of anything more sinister than leaving bad tips.”

  Deborah is looking at me and frowning.

  “Have I forgotten something?” I ask.

  “Thelma said the number six was prominent to her. But before you joined the poker group there were only five. It doesn’t make sense.”

  “Oh, yeah, I forgot. One of the regulars died not long ago. That’s who I replaced. I don’t know who he was yet, though.”

  “When did he die?” Deborah asks, frowning.

  “I think it was within the last six months or so.”

  She ponders this for a moment. “It must have been Luther,” she says finally.

  “Luther?”

  “Yes, Luther Proctor. He’s the only one who’s died here in the last year besides Mabel Stearn.”

  “Well,” I say, “I think we can safely rule out Mabel. What do you know about this Luther?”

  Her eyes suddenly go wide. “He was a suicide,” she says in a whispery, falsetto voice.

  “No shit. Now that’s interesting, isn’t it?” We’ve reached a suitable picnic spot and I pull the Jeep over and park beside a creosote bush.

  “Very,” Deborah agrees. She digs into her picnic hamper and pulls out several packages of aluminum foil-wrapped sandwiches, handing one to me.

  “How old was he?”

  “I don’t know exactly … around sixty-two, sixty-three probably. He and Sonny hung out a lot together. They were always having coffee, going fishing. You know.”

  “Was he sick or anything?”

  “Yes, he was very ill as I remember.”

  “What was wrong with him?”

  “I think ... No, I’m not sure.”

  “We’ll have to find out. Any idea how we can do that?”

  “Easy,” Deborah says. “I can ask the pharmacist. He’ll know.”

  “Good, do that.” I unwrap my sandwich, noting there are enough ingredients in it to feed a chapter of the Seattle longshoremen's union for a week. “This looks good,” I say, examining the mound of three different cold cuts, lettuce, sliced tomato, grated cheddar cheese, dill pickle, cucumber, red onion, green pepper, and gray poupon, all encased in thick slabs of sourdough bread.

  “Thanks,” she says.

  “This Luther,” I say around a monumentally gi-normous mouthful of food, “what kind of guy was he?”

  “Nice enough, I suppose. He got to be kind of a crotchety old geezer near the end.”

  “The kind of geezer you’d suspect of being a child killer?”

  I ask hopefully.

  Deborah shakes her head rather adamantly. “No,” she replies, “not at all.”

  15

  I drop Deborah back at work with a reminder to speak to the pharmacist about Luther.

  “I’ll call you tonight,” she says.

  Seeing as I'm right here, I decide to catch up on some grocery shopping. On my departure from home this morning I noted Victor’s supply of Cocoa Puffs was dangerously low. I don’t want to chance arousing his ire; I’m convinced he could get mean if deprived of his daily intake of caffeine.

  The clerk who looks after me is nothing if not helpful. I’m in and out in a minute and forty-three seconds.

  On my way to the Jeep I see Bonnie Alvarro coming down the boardwalk toward me with her
two children. I can’t very well pretend I don’t see her so I stop. “Hi, Bonnie. How are you? Hi, kids.”

  Bonnie looks tired, her eyes are raw looking, and she seems preoccupied. “Hello, Lucas.”

  “Everything okay? If you don’t mind my saying, you don’t look so good.”

  “I’m fine,” she says. “Just not sleeping well lately.”

  I can think of nothing even remotely intelligent to say in response to this declaration. “Well, take care,” I say. She nods and continues on her way.

  I walk to the Jeep wondering if the reason for Bonnie’s sudden deterioration has anything to do with the fact that it's the one year anniversary of Anne Marie’s disappearance. I look back in time to see the Alvarros going into the general store. I wonder what goes through Bonnie’s mind every time she enters that place.

  One thing I’d bet big on: she doesn’t let those kids out of her sight.

  ****

  “Luther had lung and brain cancer,” Deborah tells me on the phone that night. “He’d been going steadily down hill for a year. He was drugged out on pain medication for his last six months. The pharmacist figures when the pain got to be too much for Luther, he decided to put an end to his suffering.”

  “Geez, it’s no wonder he got a little crotchety near the end, is it?”

  “I guess not.”

  “And it’s not much of a profile for a child killer,” I say.

  “I don’t think so,” Deborah agrees.

  “So that makes Herb our number one suspect.”

  “Maybe,” she says. “But we can’t really overlook anybody.”

  “That’s true. Well, give some thought to our next move. I’ll talk to you soon.”

  “Do you have plans for dinner?” she asks as I’m about to hang up.

  For some reason I’m not too clear on I’ve been reluctant to mention my relationship with Beth to Deborah. But the truth is I do have plans for tonight. Big plans, I hope. “Yeah, I do, Deborah.”

  “Oh, okay. Well … I’ll talk to you later then.” She sounds more disappointed than I feel entirely comfortable with.

  ****

  By Cutter’s Grove standards, the next day, a Saturday, is a biggie. It’s the annual spring fair. The whole town is involved in a kind of open street festival. There’s a country-western band, street dancing, horse-shoe throwing competitions, pie-eating contests, and lots of boozy celebrating for the entire day and most of the night.

  Beth, who spent last night at my place and has the day off, insists we start early and stay late. I’m forbidden to even consider doing any work at the shop.

  Who am I to argue?

  By noon, most of the men in town are already half bagged. I’m not much of a drinker but even I have trouble avoiding the flood of booze that cascades from every conceivable container in sight.

  As Beth and I wander around enjoying ourselves I spot the presence of each of my poker pals. Mel Hocking is with his wife, whom I’ve not yet met. I’m surprised by the fact that she’s a fairly plain-looking woman. Although Mel is not excessively handsome there is a rugged, take-charge character about him that many women find appealing and I had somehow pictured him as being hooked up with a real looker. When he sees me, Mel steers his wife over to us.

  “Hello, Lucas. Enjoying the festivities?”

  “So far, so good, Mel.”

  “Glad to hear it. This is my wife, Tracy. Lucas Tunney.”

  “Hi, Tracy. Do you folks know Beth Wunderlich?”

  “Sure,” Mel says smiling.

  “We’ve never actually met,” Tracy says, “but I’ve seen you at work, of course.” She, too, smiles at Beth.

  We spend a few minutes engaged in small talk and then part company. Beth surprises me by being something of a gossip. “Did you know Tracy is the one with the money in the family?” she asks as we walk away.

  “Really?”

  “Oh, yeah. The word is, that’s why he married her. She’s ten years older than him, you know.”

  “No,” I say, “I didn’t know.”

  “And, much to his chagrin, she keeps very tight controls on the purse strings.”

  “Very interesting,” I say. “You’re a veritable fountain of useless information, my dear.”

  “That’s me. It’s the only perk I get from working at that crummy diner. Eventually I hear everything about everybody.”

  “Well, I guess that’s a perk,” I mumble.

  Later we see Mel and Tracy again. This time they’re with a very pretty blond-haired teenage girl. She’s wearing low-rider jeans and a skimpy little halter top that barely manages to envelop her considerable assets, garnering the attention of pretty much every male in town. Some of the old farts don't even try to hide their lust. They just stand and gawk, awaiting the inevitable smack across the head or elbow in gut from Mrs. Old Fart. “Who’s that?” I ask Beth.

  “Their daughter, Alicia. Quite the looker, isn’t she?”

  “She’s a doll. How old is she?”

  “Fifteen, I think. Why? Gonna ask her for a date?”

  Once again, it seems to me Beth's question is posed much more seriously than it should be. “Not me,” I say, sliding my hand down the small of her back and rubbing it gently. “I’ve got all the action I can handle right here.”

  “And don’t you forget it, sugar,” she says.

  I find myself looking around somewhat nervously for Deborah. There is no reason I should feel guilty about having a platonic relationship with another woman but there’s not much doubt about the fact that, to some degree at least, I do. I wish I could talk to Beth about all this ghost business but I think I'm falling in love with the woman. The last thing I want to do is come off looking like some kind of raving lunatic in her eyes.

  Thinking about Deborah, my mind automatically shifts into sleuth mode. I’m watching Herb Kripps chatting with some cronies when it occurs to me that Beth’s ‘hear-it-all’ position at the diner could actually come in pretty handy. I could use her to get inside dope on all my murder suspects. Learn their innermost secrets. Discern motives, gather incriminating evidence.

  In fact, I might just be able to put a wrap on this case before ...

  Sweet Jesus, listen to me. I’ve morphed into Lieutenant Columbo.

  16

  Despite my best efforts to remain reasonably sober at the fair, I awake Sunday morning to the granddaddy of all hangovers. My head is pounding so hard the windows are rattling. Okay, that’s not possible, I don’t have any windows, but you get the idea. To make matters worse, the warm body snuggled up next to me belongs to Victor. He’s stretched out contentedly with his head on the other pillow, dreaming, and making little whining noises in his sleep.

  “Victor, get off the bed,” I order. My words sound harsh, issued as they are from a throat full of phlegm.

  He startles awake, does a little reconnoitering, then snuggles up closer and slaps me in the face with his tongue. Wonderful.

  I check my watch, astounded to see it’s after one p.m. I have no idea what time I eventually got home or even whether Beth was with me or stayed the night.

  Struggling to a sitting position on the edge of the bed, I vow I will never again take another drink. My mouth tastes like I’ve dined on a mixture of ashtray contents and pond scum. No amount of fun - little of which I can now remember anyway - could possibly justify how I feel.

  The ringing of the phone out in the office brings me reluctantly to my feet but, by the time I reach it, there’s no one there.

  I stumble into the shower and let the water run cold over my fevered body. I allow the icy flow to pummel me for fifteen minutes. Finally, I begin to feel half human; the seductive fantasies of suicide begin to abate.

  As I step from the shower the phone rings again. Wrapped in a towel I reach the office in time to avoid another hangup.

  “Hi, Lucas,” Deborah says when I grunt into the receiver. “Did you enjoy the fair yesterday?”

  “Oh yeah, “ I say, “it was peach
y.”

  “Is something wrong?”

  “Nah.”

  “You sound a little tense,” she says.

  “Suffering from a bit of overindulgence.”

  “I can believe it. You did look like you were having fun when I saw you .”

  “You were there?”

  “For a while, yes.”

  “You should have said hello.” Not really.

  “Well, you looked kind of occupied.”

  “Yeah, well. So, what’s up?”

  “Nothing. Just wondering if you’d come up with any ideas about what we should do next.”

  “I’m not sure my brain is up to much right now, Deborah. There was one interesting little bit of information that came my way yesterday though.”

  “Oh?”

  “I doubt it has any real significance but it’s interesting all the same. Did you know Mel Hocking’s wife is the one with the bucks in the family?”

  “No, I didn’t. Do you think it means something?”

  “Probably not. But she’s quite a bit older than him and - pardon my lack of gallantry - not much of a looker. Makes you wonder what kind of a guy he might be, doesn’t it?”

  “Maybe it means he’s not like most men - preoccupied with beauty," she scolds me. “Either way, Lucas, it’s hardly damning evidence of murder.”

  “True enough,” I concede.

  “But it’s information to file away,” Deborah says. “Maybe it’ll mean something down the line.”

  “You never know.”

  “Are you busy for dinner tonight?” she asks out of the blue.

  “No,” I say without thinking.

  “Would you like to come over? I’ve got a roast cooking. There’ll be more than enough.”

  I remember Beth telling me she was working late tonight. There's really nothing holding me back from accepting Deborah’s invitation - at least nothing other than my dubious conscience. “Okay," I say, "thanks.”

  Once again, so much for conscience.

  “I’ll see you at seven,” Deborah says.

  By seven o’clock I’m feeling much recovered. I even dig out a bottle of red wine I’ve got hidden away before hoofing it over to Deborah’s. It’s a pleasant evening and I decide to let the Jeep rest. “Come on, Victor,” I say. “It’s time you said hello to your true owners.”