Dead Guy's Stuff (21 page)

Stuart had told Nellie to call the tavern and tell everybody she was okay and that they shouldn't call the police, they should just sit tight and wait for instructions. Mel wondered what those instructions were going to be since he didn't want to have anything more to do with this old lady, who had been dusting and wiping and folding and yapping since they had gotten to the apartment. She reminded him of his grandmother, who never shut up either. She hadn't said a word in the car, no tip-off that she wasn't Jane Wheel, but now she was going full speed, hadn't stopped since they got here.

Frank is going to blame it on me,
Mel thought. Frank was always quick with the excuses and somehow grabbing this old lady was going to end up, according to Frank, being all Mel's fault.

"Got any food here? Want me to fix lunch?" Nellie asked, wandering around the small apartment. She had been able to see through the flimsy scarf they'd tied around her eyes, and she knew exactly where she was. There was a barnlike auction house just west of town, and a three-car garage adjoined the property. They were in an apartment over the garage. Pretty nice, too.
Three bedrooms and two full baths,
Nellie thought, even though she had only seen one of the bathrooms. It wasn't messy enough for all three of them to be using it though. Two at most had thrown towels around and brushed their teeth and combed their hair without so much as a tissue wipe up to make the sink look decent.

What was wrong with people that they didn't know that just a little effort, just a little commonsense wipe up after they'd used something, would save them time and energy later. No pride in their surroundings; no care for what people thought of them after they left. Nellie had stayed in motels only a handful of times in her life, but she was proud to say that the maids wouldn't have had a lick of work to do when they came in after her. Nellie had made sure the room looked just as spic and span when they left as when they had come. Truth be told, the rooms were
spiccer
and
spanner
after she had Nellified them.

This garage apartment had been one of Gus Duncan's rentals, she knew. Had to be since it was part of Amos Auction House, and she was sure Gus owned that building until Amos signed the papers last week and bought it, just like she and Don now owned the EZ Way Inn. Big deal, those papers. Meant something to Don, maybe, but not to her. Paper wasn't what made anyone own anything; she knew that. It was taking care of it for thirty years, that's what made something belong to somebody. Did Don really think that the big old iron stove in the kitchen where she cooked fifty hamburgers every Monday through Friday could belong to someone else? That grill she cleaned, scraped with a razor blade every day wasn't hers until they legally owned the building and its fixtures? She knew where to put the meat when she needed it to cook fast and where she could count on food to just stay warm. She knew the temperature of every square inch of that goddamn grill, and that's what made it hers and nobody else's.

What about the back screen door? Nobody had been able to fix the hinge on it so it would stay fixed, and Gus wouldn't buy them a new one, so she had taken a pair of old panty hose and woven them in and out of the spring and tied it off so the door had enough bounce to work. That made it
her
door, didn't it? Let Don and all the rest of them sign their papers and stick their deeds in a vault. She owned plenty. All the property she could handle belonged to her.

Now she had to figure out what these three bozos wanted, and she might as well start by cooking bacon. She didn't wait for any of them to give her an okay, she just started looking through the grocery bags and refrigerator and came up with eggs and bacon and potatoes and onions. Nellie checked the cupboard. Someone who had stayed here liked to cook. There was quite an assortment of spices and condiments.

She'd make a Pinks mess à la Nellie and get them all filled up and cozy. They had told her to call and get her daughter on the line, but it might be better if she could take a little more time with them. Maybe she could keep Jane out of this altogether.

Stuart stood up and looked into the kitchen. Nellie was using a small paring knife but didn't seem to have any ideas about fighting them. There didn't seem to be anything larger in there that she might use as a weapon; and as far as he could tell, she had no idea where she was or why she was there. Might as well let her cook for them. He was so tired of fast food.

Life on the road played havoc with your gut. He was sucking down Pepcids like candy. He could carry a hundred concealed weapons and use ninety-nine of them in a fight, but the thing that was going to do him in was the damn acid reflux. And Mel and Frank were no help. They just wanted McDonalds three times a day to keep them happy. He watched Nellie put bread in the toaster and check the refrigerator for butter. They stayed in this apartment fairly regularly, and he tried to keep it stocked with some healthy food, but it wasn't easy.

"Were you planning on frying those eggs in the bacon grease?" Stuart asked.

Nellie looked him in the eye, then gave him the once-over.

"How about I poach them for you, put a couple on toast? The bacon won't hurt you the way I do it, cook it slow until it's well done, then drain it really good."

Stuart nodded. The old lady could stay until after lunch, then they'd have to get her to call Jane Wheel and dump her somewhere. They could scare her into not identifying them. She wouldn't want her family hurt. This would be easy. Maybe they could even get Jane Wheel to say over the phone what she had done with the dead guy's stuff.

* * *

Jane sat by the phone in the backroom, waiting for it to ring again. She had screwed the hundred-watt bulb in again and could now see the letters clearly. She spread them out on the desk and read carefully. It made a difference, she realized, spreading one of the letters out flat on a smooth surface under a bright light. It must have made a difference to Lilly, too, holding onto that box, reading each letter carefully, using the box as a lap desk. Jane pictured her holding on for dear life as she read these thirty-year-old passionate love letters, filled with promises and pleas and desperation, addressed to "Dearest Gus" and signed from "his darling Lou."

Lilly hadn't found the stuff Crandall had been talking about. There weren't any payoff dates or dollar amounts or names in these letters. There was just the awful truth about her mother and Gus Duncan, the man everyone in town loved to hate. Lilly, alone in that shanty basement, finding out the truth about her depressed mother and the despised Gus and her baby brother, her sweet Bobby, whom she had come home to bail out of trouble over and over again, Bobby, who couldn't seem to get a break, who had depended on Lilly for everything. Jane tried to imagine what it must have felt like to find out that Gus was Bobby's father— and Gus knew it. He had read these letters and saved them along with all the other debris from his years as a despised slum-lord. And even though he knew Bobby was his own son, he kept collecting the blackmail money every month from Lilly and Bobby, screwing them just the same as he screwed everyone else in town.

Lilly must have read the letters, put them back in their envelopes, and taken the penicillin out of her pocket. She was allergic to it, she had told Jane in the kitchen of the McFlea. She knew exactly what it would do to her. She carried it in with her because she knew that if she found what she was looking for, she wouldn't want to go on anymore. Jane folded up the letters and put them back in her pocket.

These guys who had been following Crandall and following her, who had grabbed Nellie, who were they? Ponytail. Hadn't she just seen a guy in a ponytail? What was she thinking? Half the guys at sales had ponytails. Old hippies in blue jeans and dirty sweatshirts. How would she notice one more?

Jane stood up and looked out the back door. Three police cars were parked among the big old sedans that her dad's customers still drove. She smiled, thinking about how uncomfortable her dad was with smaller foreign cars and how hypocritical he thought the big SUVs were. His Buick, he'd always told her, was no more a gas guzzler than those…

Jane remembered. A big old dad car that had turned into her driveway the day she'd bought out so much of Bateman's stuff. They had asked her if she was having a sale. The driver had a ponytail.

Jane wanted to slap somebody, anybody, to jump-start someone with authority so they would head out, sirens blaring, and find her mother. Four local police officers talking quietly to the denizens of the EZ Way Inn was not what she considered action.

Pacing back and forth in the kitchen, Jane saw the photograph from Duncan's house. It was out of the frame, lying on the cutting board in the kitchen. She hadn't noticed her parents take it with them that morning. She waved it at her father, who was listening to the officer try to get Francis off pie and back to the men who had climbed into Jane's car after Nellie.

"Why'd you take it out of the frame?" she asked.

Don shook his head. "We didn't. That's our copy. Your mother dug it out of the backroom this morning."

Jane brought it into the barroom and studied it. Without the glare of the glass, Jane could see it much better, She held it close. That was Duff and Louella in the corner. Old Pink was holding up both hands, making Vs for victory, Jane figured, not flashing the peace sign in this crowd in that year. Don and Nellie looked so young, so attractive. Her mother was really spectacular: great figure, thick curly hair, a smile like a model. Those forties fashions didn't hurt either: peplum jackets with shoulder pads really flattered. In this photo of at least fifty people, Nellie was definitely the best-looking woman in the picture. Except for that blonde in the back. She'd give Nellie a run for her money. That slouch and the way she held the cigarette, her hair practically draped over one eye. Who did she aspire to be? Veronica Lake? Lauren Bacall? Mary Bateman?

Mary and Oscar Bateman, second row from the top, center.

Jane brought it to her father and pointed.

"Bateman and Mary," Don said. "Mary sure was a beauty, a beautiful woman."

"Didn't I tell you all this stuff I brought was from the Shangri-La? From Bateman's tavern in Chicago? Why didn't you tell me you knew him?"

Don shook his head. "I'm sorry, Jane. We didn't want to open up all the old stuff, so we just… I'm sorry. I have been wrong about all this from the get go."

Jane studied Bateman's pose. His arm was around Mary, but he seemed to have Gus Duncan in his sight. Their eyes were definitely engaged, and they were both smiling broadly. Both had cigars clenched in their teeth.

"They were partners, weren't they? Gus and Bateman?" Jane asked. She could see it all now. Gus didn't come up with all the gambling for the saloon keepers here; he was getting everything from Chicago. He was getting it from Bateman. That's why Don was so spooked by the punchboards from the Shangri-La; they were ghost objects.

"Detective Oh," Jane called him over. "If Bateman went to jail on some gambling charges, then threatened to name names— you know, higher-ups— would that be enough to make someone lose some paperwork? I mean if they couldn't make an open deal, do you think that would be enough to get him out of prison?"

"Possibly," said Oh. "Even more possible if he could name names of police or judges who had participated in the gambling."

"What would give him leverage? I mean, he was already in jail. They could leave him there and lose the key. Or kill him?" Jane said.

Oh looked over to where Crandall still sat at the bar.

"Records. Bateman and Duncan both protected themselves by hiding records," Jane whispered.

The phone rang again in the backroom. This time, Jane bolted for it and caught it on the third ring.

"Mom?"

"Took you long enough," said Nellie. "Now, listen to me. I got two of these boys to sleep, but I don't know how long it'll last. One of them went out to do something and took the car, and I fed the other two enough Valium to get them napping."

"You take Valium?" Jane asked, shocked. Uppers, maybe, but nothing had ever chemically slowed down her mother.

"Oh, for crying out loud, use your head," said Nellie.

"Do you know where you are?" Jane asked.

"Of course I do," said Nellie. "Now do you have anything in your car that they want?"

"I don't think so. Have they said what they're looking for? Exactly?"

"Duncan's list of names and dates, his blackmail files. And Bateman's stuff, too. I'll explain about that later, but…"

"I know, I know, but I haven't seen what they're looking for," said Jane, "at least I don't think I have."

"Where in hellfire is she?" Don shouted. The police came crowding into the door of the backroom.

"What's he want? Does the bar need washing?"

"Mom, where are you?"

"Shit…," Nellie said and the phone went dead.

Jane immediately dialed *69, and handed the phone to one of the policeman to take the number.

"They can find out the address from the phone number, can't they?" Jane asked Oh. He nodded. He was holding the list of buildings that Gus had sold. Jane reached out her hand.

"May I?" She scanned the names of the tenant/purchasers and the addresses and phone numbers of the businesses. The policeman handed her the phone number he had taken down. It didn't match any on the list. "This might be a private line because I'm sure they're at one of Duncan's places. Push Crandall on this. They've been following him; they would have told him how to get in touch."