Beer Money (A Burr Ashland Mystery) (8 page)

Without warning, the iron gate slowly began sliding open. When it clanged into place, I pulled through and drove slowly toward the house.

Eighteen

The driveway, made of old brick fastidiously placed to look quaintly haphazard, wound its way through the winter-thinned trees and spilled its travelers out onto a semicircular drive. In the center was a giant fountain that looked like a Roman sculpture created by an ancient artisan in the last stages of hemlock poisoning.

I pulled the Audi directly in front of the house's main entrance, four huge wooden doors that looked like something out of medieval times. I half-expected them to lower like a drawbridge. Upon closer inspection, the house wasn't massive. It was gargantuan. It was without a doubt the largest private residence I'd ever bullied my way into. I craned my neck in order to look toward the roof, and felt like I was at the bottom of a mountain, wondering how I would ever be able to achieve its summit.

I looked back toward the massive doors and looked for a doorbell, probably some kind of giant iron knocker. I caught sight of the small video camera nestled between two giant wood beams that supported a small overhanging roof and knew there would be no doorbell or iron knocker. The alarm and security system on the house would be extensive to say the least.

With perfect timing the big doors opened and instead of a stony grate, there was a faint whisper of frequently oiled machinery. The man appeared again. His coat was gone revealing a stiffly starched white shirt. A nurse, most likely.

Albeit a nurse with broad, thick shoulders and powerful arms. Two beady blue eyes hovered above his nose that had been broken at least once, if not several times.

His face had apparently been chiseled from the same type of stone that was used in the driveway fountain.

"Come this way," he said to me, his voice smooth and metered. He turned and walked back through the large doors, not bothering to wait for me. I walked up the three steps that led to the doors, then walked through them, and saw that the man had in fact waited for me just inside, his fingers resting on a level of sorts that acted as a switch for the giant doors. I had the idea that he may have considered throwing that switch a bit early and catching me in the middle.

Once I passed by, he threw the switch and the doors closed. He turned and breezed past me. I caught a faint scent of cheap cologne and industrial strength mouthwash. I followed him as he walked down a long hallway that was so cavernous and cold that it reminded me of caves bored by molten lava, straight out of National Geographic.

I peered at the walls, trying to see if it was plaster or stone.

The man ahead of me, his back still to me, said, "The walls are stone. Imported from Germany."

"Shipping costs must have been exorbitant," I said. The man made no response and simply kept walking.

Halfway down the hallway was the first giant portraiture, an original work in oil. It was of a stern-faced man with a long gray beard. In the background was a dark rendering of the Milwaukee harbor. The man wore a dark suit, his prominent belly forced the vest to jut out, displaying the elaborate pocketwatch that encircled his paunch. There was no nameplate.

My guide continued up ahead and I hurried to catch up, passing more paintings along the way, all of them stiff people who, just before they posed, looked like they'd had terribly large bugs shoved up their asses.

The nurse opened another heavy door and we entered a startling room. It was relatively small, but with at least an eighteen foot high ceiling. Tall windows adorned one wall, their impressive lengths bordered by gold crepe curtains. The room itself was painted a burgundy red, with olive green frieze borders. The ceiling was painted as well, a bright mosaic resplendent with gold edges and ivory diamonds. A thick beige carpet covered the floor. My feet felt as if they were sinking in quicksand with each step I took.

The man gestured toward a chair and told me to sit.

"Would you care for tea or coffee?" he asked.

"I’ll take a beer, please,” I said. Then added, "Thanks."

He left through a different door, one that seemed almost to be camouflaged by its proximity to one of the large windows. I got the feeling that there were lots of secrets in the house, not just having to do with hidden doors.

An ancient clock on the wall tick-tocked. The house had a strange smell, equal parts musty history and fresh Pine Sol. I wondered how big a cleaning staff a house like this required. At least ten, perhaps twenty.

Several minutes later a short, squat woman with bright red hair and decked out in an old-fashioned maid's uniform entered with a sterling silver coffee pot and one cup and saucer. And a bottle of beer. She popped the top to the beer, and poured it into a beautiful pilsner glass. She handed it to me. Then she poured a cup of tea. She added a dollop of cream to the then plunked in two sugar cubes. She stirred with an equally bright sterling silver spoon. The whole time she never looked me in the eye. When she was done, she turned to go and I said, "Thank you." Like the man, she gave no sign that she heard me, other than a slight hesitation in her step.

I took a drink of beer and heard soft footsteps on the carpet, looked up, and saw an ancient woman standing in front of me.

Startled, I rose, and sloshed a little beer onto the tabletop. Halfway up, I reached back down and mopped up the spilled beer with a napkin that appeared to have a higher thread count than the most expensive bed sheets I'd ever bought. I felt my face flush red at my clumsiness.

"Oh, God, I'm sorry, look at this." I dabbed, but now the beer was on my hand. I wiped off my hand before extending it. "Hi, I'm Michael Ashland," I said.

She was old, to say the least. Tall, with erect posture, her skin hung on her in folds. Her gray hair was thin and despite an attempt to cut it stylishly, was a mess. She had on a powder white dress, with a necklace of dark pearls. A very old necklace that was probably worth a yacht or two.

She extended her hand to me, which I took. It felt like leather.

As we shook, her eyes swirled.

"Are you..." I started to ask.

"I'm the woman," she said, "to whose films you've no doubt been masturbating."

Nineteen

For want of a witty comeback, I sat back and sipped my beer as she sat down across from me at the small table.

"Yes, I'd love some coffee, thank you," she said. Her hand shook slightly as she reached for her cup, and I detected a twitch in her face.

"Excuse me, I don't know where my manners are," I said. "Any gentleman knows to offer a lady coffee, especially after she's just accused you of masturbating."

"Tell me, Mr. Ashland," she said, ignoring me, a fact to which I was rapidly becoming accustomed to in this house. "Are you married? Or are you a whoremonger?"

"No, I am not married," I responded.

"Ever been?"

"Married? No. And you?"

"Never," she said. "I've been asked a few times, but the concept of sharing a life with someone seemed such a dreary idea. Our life is all we have, why share it? I want it all for myself. What do you do, Mr. Ashland?"

"I'm a private investigator, Ms. Schletterhorn. What are you?"

She sighed and looked up at the ceiling mosaic, as if she could divine a simple answer from the complex pattern.

"I'm curious, Mr. Ashland." She lolled her head to one side, then fastened her gaze on me. As she did, I became sure of one thing. Mary Schletterhorn was insane.

"Curious about what?" I asked.

"Everything, but at this time, I'm curious what you are doing here."

I pulled out the still frames and set them on the table. I looked at the one of the young girl, then looked back up at Mary Schletterhorn. Even though time had taken its toll, I could see a resemblance to the fresh young face in the photograph.

I watched as her eyes lingered on the photograph of the man. Her eyes seemed to darken with emotion, her mouth parted and her hands shook. Her chest heaved as she breathed faster. She caught me looking at her, and closed her eyes. She spread her hands flat on the table, her fingers were long and slender. A giant diamond ring sat on her right ring finger. A gold bracelet encircled her left wrist. It too was covered with small diamonds.

"I'm here because a friend of mine was murdered,” I said. “And the film of you and this man had something to do with it."

"You are a dullard," she said, seemingly unaware of the fact that I'd just said my best friend had been murdered. Or had she already known?

"That’s the first time I’ve ever been called that,” I said. I drank the rest of my beer and looked for some kind of ringer button to get another one.

She gestured toward the pictures on the table. Her face was flushed, and her throat worked without emitting a sound.

We sat there for several minutes while she contemplated. The sound of the clock on the wall grew in intensity. I wanted to crack a window. The fresh, chilled air would be a welcome relief from this mausoleum of a house, filled with dead memories.

Suddenly, she snapped up the picture of the man with both hands. Her lips trembled with anger. Red spots appeared on her sagging cheeks. "You cretin!" she yelled at it, a big gob of spit hung from her lower lip. The photo began to collapse in her hands as she squeezed it, trying to choke the image of the man’s face in her hands.

Then, just as suddenly, she dropped it to the floor where it landed between her feet. She lifted the hem of her dress, looked at me, a challenge in her bulging eyes. Then she closed them.

And a long yellow stream of urine shot out onto the picture.

It splattered on the photograph, sounding like a spring shower on the rooftop. I sat there, unmoving. Not believing what I was seeing.

I looked at the picture, then back up at the old woman. She met my eyes. "I don't mean to rain on your parade," she said and giggled, her chest shaking with convulsions.

The male nurse appeared behind me and placed a hand on my shoulder. The sound of the urine diminished, like a faucet being turned off. I stood and decided not to ask for the picture.

Mary Schletterhorn let go of her dress and it dropped back down over her scrawny legs. She plopped back into her chair.

The nurse led me from the room. The old woman shouted obscenities at me as I left.

Outside, it was cold and gray. But I couldn't have been more relieved than if it had been seventy-five degrees and sunny. I stood there for a long time, taking deep breaths.

I got back in the car. Took a last look at the giant mansion. I drove off, the hint of a snowstorm hanging in the air.

Twenty

I wasn’t really sure how much jail time could come from a charge of obstruction of justice, or withholding evidence, or even evidence tampering. I supposed it would depend on the judge, and the mitigating circumstances. Maybe how good my lawyer was. Or how pissed off the cops were. I did know, however, that I didn’t want to go to jail. A week behind bars was too much, let alone five to ten years. That’s right where Tim’s killer would want me, so that my investigation would stop.

I had a bottle of Point beer in front of me. I was at a bar just around the corner from Hoopin’ Productions. Which would make the whole transaction simple and efficient. I had a feeling it wasn’t going to be painless, though.

Homicide detective Gabby Engel walked through the door like she was breaking the finish line at one of her races. She had on dress slacks and gray overcoat. Which looked sexy as hell, for some reason.

She sat next to me. “Bottled water, please,” she said to the bartender.

"So this isn’t your kind of place?” I asked.

“Off-duty, maybe. On-duty, no.” She looked around the place. “Actually, not even off-duty.”

I lifted a box from beneath the table and set it in front of Gabby.

“Ooh,” she said. “For me?”

“A few days ago, my friend Fred Pip received this in the mail. They were from Tim Bantien. Not knowing what they were and if they might have anything to do with Tim’s death, he didn’t look at them right away. This morning, he dug them out, called me, and together we looked at them. After I saw them, I called you. Immediately.”

“Okay, okay,” she said. “You called me right away. I know that whole timeline is probably bullshit, so just get on with it.”

“It may be bullshit, but it’s bullshit that’s on the record, am I right?” I still had my hand on the box, like I could run out of the bar and throw it in the lake.

“Yes, it’s on the record,” she said, rolling her incredibly cute eyes.

“They’re old eight millimeter films,” I said. “I had Fred digitize them and put them onto DVDs for you, as well as a zip drive. You’ll want to take a look at them right away.”

She took a sip from her water. “What’s on them? Reruns of Family Feud?”

“Why don’t you just watch them. It’ll probably be similar to your typical evening.”

“Just tell me what’s on the tapes,” Gabby said.