Death & the Brewmaster's Widow (13 page)

“Uh-huh. That's what I thought. How about coffee or iced tea? Or soda pop? Lemonade?”

“Tea will be fine. See?” he complained to Cap. “She doesn't let me get away with anything.”

“Yeah, I'm a real dominatrix,” Wren agreed, straight-faced. “You can have a beer if you'd like, Cap. Provided you're not on medication, of course.”

“Thanks,” the firefighter laughed, “but it would be cruel to drink in front of him when he can't. Tea would be great, thanks.”

Wren brought in the tea and a plate of sugar cookies and the three of them settled down around the coffee table. Cap sipped his tea and looked around the room, pensive and sad. “Place looks bare without all Bogie's crap all over the walls,” he said. “Rowdy tells me you're planning to sell. You could do a good business as a P.I. in the city, you know?”

“I know,” Death agreed. “I've already made a fresh start in East Bledsoe Ferry, though. And that's home to Wren. I wouldn't want to try to drag her away.”

“I can understand that. This city's going to miss you, though.”

“This city won't even know I'm gone.”

“It might not
know
it misses you, but it'll miss you just the same. The Bogarts have done a lot of good for this place.”

“That was more the rest of my family than me,” Death said, “but I appreciate the sentiment.”

“So have you figured anything out about that badge, then?” Death and Wren exchanged a glance.

“We've done a little digging around,” Death admitted. “Put together a few things. I swear, the more we learn, the less any of it makes sense.”

“How so?”

With Wren chiming in from time to time, Death outlined for the captain everything they'd learned. Cap's eyes narrowed when the former Marine admitted to going down into the caves, but he let them finish without comment.

“So you're thinking … what? That someone used the fire as cover to sneak into the brewery through the old tunnel and climb into the room just as your brother suddenly and unexpectedly died of natural causes, just so they could switch his helmet and pin a counterfeit badge on him? And did so before the bookcase collapsed? And then got away before we reached the room?”

“Well, when you say it like that, it sounds farfetched.”

“Say it so it doesn't sound farfetched.”

Death grimaced. “Yeah. That's the hard part.”

“Could it have been smuggling of some kind?” Wren suggested hesitantly.

“Helmet smuggling?” Cap asked. “Badge smuggling?”

“How about something hidden in the helmet? In the lining, maybe? Drugs or, I don't know, top-secret, spy-type information? Microfilm or microdots, perhaps?”

“Microfilm is pretty outdated, spy-wise, don't you think?” Death asked gently.

“That might make it a better method for passing secret information than ever. Who'd look for microfilm nowadays?”

Death glanced to Cap. “She's got a point. And, weird as it is, it's better than any theory I've come up with.”

“This is true. But how would Bogie have gotten microfilm or microdots on his badge or helmet?”

“Maybe he rescued a spy,” Wren said.

Death raised his eyebrows, thought about it. “Keep going.”

“Okay, so, he rescued a spy. And as he's carrying him—or her—out of the fire or car wreck or whatever, the spy sticks a microdot to his badge without him noticing. Then, they tell their contact or their enemy finds out or something, that the microdot is on Fireman Bogart's badge. Now the new spy has to come up with a way to get it back.”

“Why not the original spy?”

“Because whoever was trying to get it didn't know which badge it was on. That's why they had a regular badge
and
a helmet badge made.”

“Go on.”

“Well, they had the new badges made, but they got their information for the badge number from the newspaper picture of Randy from the school fire safety day. Because of the photographer's error, the number was wrong, but they didn't realize that until it was too late. Maybe they didn't realize it at all. They set the fire—you did say it was arson, right?”

Cap nodded.

“They set the fire and waited for Randy to come into range. Probably they were planning to knock him out or something. Obviously, whatever they were doing they didn't want anyone to notice.”

“Wait,” Cap interrupted. “How do you figure that?”

“If they'd just wanted the badges and didn't care who knew they had them, they'd have just stolen them at gunpoint or something. They had to take them without anyone finding out.”

Death drank some tea, rattled the ice in his glass. “Cap, would whoever set the fire at the brewery have known that 41's was going to show up?”

“It's a reasonable assumption. They could have even figured out, with a little research, that we'd likely be the ones sending a search team through the building. That's a job for truckies, and we have truckies. But how would they know Bogie'd be on the truck and not the box? And how could they be sure that he'd be the one to go into the room with the tunnel and not Rowdy?”

“Rowdy always goes left,” Wren said triumphantly. The two men looked at her.

“What?” Death asked.

“Rowdy always goes left,” she repeated. “It was in the fire safety day article. Randy gave a talk to some of the kids and the writer quoted him. Hang on.” She went to rummage through a box stacked in the corner with half a dozen other packed cartons, and came back with the fire safety day story. Settling cross-legged on the sofa next to Death, she paused to take a sip of tea, then read from the paper.

“He said, ‘the best thing you can do to help yourself and your friends in an emergency is have a plan ready in advance. Think about things that could happen and figure out ahead of time how you could best respond. For example, my friend Rowdy and I are responsible for searching for victims in burning buildings. We try to always stay together, but if we have to split up—say, if there are two victims in two different rooms—Rowdy always goes left and I go right. Because we know in advance who's going which way, we don't have to stop and talk about it. Also, it makes it easier to keep from getting lost in the smoke and confusion.'”

“Yeah, that's right,” Cap said. “Rowdy always went left. Bogie went right. They made a great team.”

“You said they thought they heard a noise but they couldn't decide where it came from, right?” Death said. “The spy, or whoever, could have hidden something that would make noise in both rooms, to get them to separate.”

Cap considered. “It's possible, I suppose. But if that's it, how are we supposed to ever find out what happened or who's responsible?”

“Well, if it was on his hat badge, they've got it and are probably gone by now. But we've got Randy's badge. We could always search it for microdots.”

“I'll get it,” Wren said. “You stay put.”

“Yes, ma'am!”

She went to get the badge, still in its frame beside Death's bed, and Cap drained his tea and rattled the ice thoughtfully. “If whatever it was
wasn't
on his hat badge, why haven't they, whoever they are, tried to get his other one back from you? It's been almost a year now.”

“Maybe they don't know what happened to it.”

“That's reasonable, I suppose.”

Wren came back and the three of them bent over the little object. “What does a microdot look like, do you suppose?” Cap asked.

“Like a dot,” Wren offered, “only … micro.”

Death pinched her and she yelped.

They looked closely at every millimeter of the badge and checked the frame in case something had fallen off, but nothing presented itself.

“You'd think,” Cap said, “that if all they wanted was Bogie's badges, they'd have just broken into the fire station while we were off and one of the other shifts was out and taken them then. It would have been a hell of a lot simpler.”

“Yeah, I know,” Wren agreed. “The spy theory is farfetched, at best. But the whole situation is farfetched, and right now that's the only explanation I can think of.”

thirteen

On Saturday evening a
car pulled up and parked on the street in front of Randy's house. Death was lounging on the sofa, feeling rough and trying to play it off. Wren, returning from the kitchen, stepped over and pulled back the curtain to look out. Her eyes grew wide and she clapped a hand over her own mouth.

Death frowned. “Who is it?”

Wren shook her head and held up one finger. Her face was red and her eyes danced. A knock sounded at the door and she went to open it, pulling it wide and stepping back so he could see out.

Madeline stood on the porch, dressed in a seductive little black dress. She wore spiked heels, her hair was swept up off her neck in an elegant French twist, and the rubies on her ears accentuated her dark-red lipstick. She wasn't alone. She had one arm possessively around …

Eric Farrington
?

Death bit the inside of his cheek and resisted the urge to check the alcohol content of his cough medicine. He recognized this game, of course. He'd known Madeline too long not to. She'd done this before they were married. Any time they had a minor disagreement or she didn't feel he was paying her enough attention she'd pick up the first guy she met and flaunt him in Death's face to make him jealous.

Back then there'd been a couple of differences. One was that Death had
cared
who she dated. The other difference was …

Eric Farrington
?

Death pulled himself up into a sitting position. “Come on in. Pull up a chair.”

Eric dropped into the nearest recliner and tugged on Madeline's hand so, off balance, she half fell into his lap.

Wren closed the door and came over to perch next to Death on the sofa. “So,” she said brightly, “you two are a couple now?”

“I wouldn't say a ‘couple',” Madeline hedged.

“You betcha,” Eric spoke over her. “I got
my
saddle on this little filly now and I'm going to ride her
all night long
!”

Madeline looked horrified.

Wren's shoulders shook with suppressed laughter. Death put his arm around her, tucking her in close beside him. “And what brings you to St. Louis?”

“Business, actually,” Madeline hastened to answer. “Eric has a seminar to attend next week and, since he offered me a ride, I thought it would be nice to visit my mother and let her see the baby.”

“What kind of seminar?”

“Telecommunications in modern police work,” Eric said. He
puffed up his narrow chest. “The chief is always sending me to these training opportunities. He can tell I'm gonna be a key player in the future of law enforcement.”

“Eric,” Wren said, “he'd send you to Mars if he could figure out how to sneak you onto a rocket ship.”

“What would he do on a rocket ship?” Death asked, interested.

“Well, if they ever wanted to study the effects of stupidity in space, Eric could be a payload specialist.”

“You shut up. You just don't know a good man when you see one. Not like my sexy little Maddykins, here.” He jiggled his knee and pinched her ass and she jumped and shot him a look that was more rictus than a smile. “He does have a certain
je ne sais quoi
,” Madeline offered lamely.

“Oh,
je
sais quoi,” Wren said. “But I'm not going to
say
quoi. Death still thinks I'm a lady and I'd hate to disillusion him.”

“So!” Death said. His cheeks were starting to ache from trying not to laugh. “What brings you to our door this evening?” Madeline and Eric glanced at one another awkwardly.

“Oh, well, you know,” Madeline said. “We're going out on the town tonight and we thought we'd see if you'd like to make it a double date. Wren probably doesn't have a thing to wear, though, does she?”

“That's okay,” Death said. “I like her even better when she doesn't have a thing to wear.”

Madeline pressed her lips together and turned red. Wren was already pink and shaking slightly and Death didn't know if there was a greater danger of her laughing hysterically or throwing punches. Eric tipped his head speculatively.

“Are you … suggesting some kind of orgy?” he asked, interested.

Death and Madeline both froze, speechless. Wren, though, erupted at the small man. She jumped up, got him by his lapels, and shook him. “NO!” she bellowed in his face.

“Well, jeez. You don't have to go all Godzilla on me. I was just asking.”

“Don't! Don't ask! Not ever again! Don't even think about asking. Don't even think about thinking about asking. Don't even think about thinking about thinking about … crap! I lost track of my thinkings.”

“It's okay,” Death said, laughing. He pulled her back down beside him. “I think he gets the picture.”

Madeline rose, trying to gather the tatters of her dignity. “Maybe we should go,” she said.

“That sounds like a good plan to me,” Eric agreed. He pinched her again, making her jump. “All this talk about orgies has got my engine running. I say we should just skip the restaurant and head back to your mother's for a little nookie in the basement.”

“Nookie in my mother's basement—” Madeline echoed with a sort of horrified fascination.

“Yeah! We can always order Chinese when we're done. We can ask your mom if she wants to join us.”

Death put his hand over Wren's mouth before she could say “for what?” and in a few minutes East Bledsoe Ferry's newest and oddest couple had gone. Wren closed the door behind them and turned to lean against it, finally laughing out loud. “You know what that was?” she said finally, and Death could hear a hint of vulnerability under the humor. “They were trying to make you jealous. They were both trying to make you jealous.”

Death smiled at her and let the warmth he was feeling seep into his words.

“The only way either of them could ever make me jealous would be if one of them somehow got you.”

_____

“How long have you had this cough?”

Talia pushed Death's shoulder, signaling him to lean forward on the couch, and pulled up his T-shirt so she could position her stethoscope against his bare back.

Wren was torn. On the one hand, she was relieved that an actual medical professional was taking an interest in Death's health. On the other hand, the pretty, blonde paramedic was climbing all over her boyfriend.

“Wren, could I get you to help me bring in another round of beer and junk food?”

With a reluctant glance at Death, now with his shirt completely off, Wren followed Annie Tanner into her bright, airy kitchen. She and Death had been invited over on this Sunday morning for a day of rest. Practically the whole fire crew was there, most with their families or significant others. There were plans for watching a string of baseball games on television and Rowdy and a couple of the other guys had set up three grills outside in the shade, ready to light when it got a little closer to midday.

“Tal's not hitting on your boyfriend,” Annie said, as soon as they were alone. Her voice was warm and slightly amused.

Wren looked back dubiously. Talia was practically sitting in Death's lap now, peering down his throat with a tongue depressor in one hand and a penlight in the other. “I promise,” Annie said. “She's in a committed relationship.”

“She's got a boyfriend?”

“Girlfriend, actually.”

“Oh.” Wren studied the pair in the living room again, reevaluated. “And you're sure she's not considering switch hitting?”

That made Annie laugh openly. “Believe me, I'm sure. Normally her girlfriend would be here, too. Trinka. She's a sound tech for a radio station and she's at work right now, though she may show up later. She likes to make inappropriate jokes to embarrass Tal and try to get the boot to blush.”

“She sounds great. I'd like to meet her.” Wren worried her lower lip with her teeth. “So, do you think she thinks Death is really sick? Talia, I mean? He's promised me he'll see a doctor tomorrow, but I can drag him to the ER right now if I have to.”

“She'll say if she thinks he needs to go,” Annie said, “but I wouldn't worry yet.” Her voice turned sad and introspective. “I think she's looking for redemption. She blames herself for losing Bogie, you know. Because she worked with him for years and never realized he was sick. Because she couldn't keep him from going down and couldn't get him back when he did.”

“It wasn't her fault,” Wren said, compassionate but yet a little exasperated. “There wouldn't have been any warning signs. There was nothing anyone could do.”

“I know. But she and Bogie were good friends. The guys at our station are all pretty cool, but not everyone on the fire department is
thrilled to be working with a woman, let alone a lesbian. Bogie stood up for her. He never let anyone give her any crap. Besides, she's a paramedic, that's just ho
w they are.”

“That's how big brothers are too.” Wren sighed. “Death was halfway around the world when it happened, critically injured, hiding in a dirty cellar from some really nasty people who wanted him dead on principal. But he blames himself for it, too. So does Cap, I guess because he was in command.”

“So does Rowdy,” Annie said. “He was Bogie's partner, and he was there when it happened. Hell, for that matter, I blame myself. He spent his last night on Earth under my roof. I cooked his last meal and made him eat it and I never noticed anything wrong with him.” The two women stood in silence for a long moment.

“Wow,” Wren said, finally. “This got really depressing, really fast.”

Annie wiped her eyes. “It did, didn't it? Here, let's get the mongrels fed and then we can find something else to talk about.” She started dumping assorted chips and snack foods into large bowls and Wren took over ferrying them in to set them on the coffee and end tables. When there was food on every available surface, Annie looked askance at a large cooler sitting under the table.

“I need to get one of the guys in here to take the beer in the other room.”

“It's in the cooler?”

“Yeah, but it weighs a ton.”

“I can probably get it. I'm stronger than I look.” The cooler was heavy, but Wren put her legs into it and managed to drag it into the other room. Annie followed her, looking impressed. Wren dropped the cooler at the end of one of the sofas and then she and her hostess retreated to the kitchen.

“Thank you,” Annie said. “You know, it's awfully rude of me, inviting you over and then putting you to work.”

“It's okay. I don't mind. I like being useful, and I like being strong enough to do things like that.” She laughed suddenly. “Death's ex came by his office last week when I was there and he wasn't. She tried the old ‘helpless female' routine. ‘I've got something for Death, but I'll have to wait for him to come carry it because it's heavy and I'm just a poor, weak, girl.' Thing didn't even weigh ten pounds, I bet.”

“I've heard stories about Madeline, but I never met her. What's she like?”

“She's hot,” a new voice said.

They turned to find Talia standing in the doorway.

“Sorry,” she said. “I just came in to see if I could get a glass of milk?”

“Oh, honey. You don't even have to ask. You know where it is. Help yourself.” Talia got a glass and poured herself some milk.

Wren sighed. “She's right, you know. Madeline is hot. Really hot. Like a super model, even.”

“I didn't know you'd met her,” Annie said to Talia, a bit accusingly.

“I haven't met her, but I've seen her. Bogie pointed her out at their parents' funeral, and he used to print out pictures of her a lot.”

“Really?” Wren asked.

“Oh, yeah. When their parents were killed, she pretty much just stepped back and left Death to deal with it all by himself. Bogie never talked to Death about it, but he took offense in a big way. For months afterward, if he was a little bit down about something or missing his brother, he'd cheer himself up by printing out her picture and finding creative ways to destroy it. He'd draw fangs and horns and tails on her, use it for a dartboard, blow it up with firecrackers—”

“Wow.” Wren smiled. “You know, the more I hear about that boy, the more I like him. Talia,” she said suddenly, worried, “is Death really sick?”

Talia smiled and it lit her face. “He's not that bad. I think it's just a cold, but, with his medical history and the state of his lungs, he needs to be extra careful. He said he promised you he'd see a doctor tomorrow.” Wren nodded.

“He should be fine until then. Don't let him wriggle out of it, though.” She sipped her milk. “Y'know, I'm surprised. I'd expected to find the two of you in here talking about auctions. Annie's an auction buff,” she explained to Wren. “Though I understand she's no longer allowed to bid on antique pump organs.”

“It's a long story,” Annie said ruefully. “Do you like auctions, Wren?”

“Didn't anyone tell you?” Talia smiled. “Wren's an auctioneer.”

_____

“You're on vacation,” Annie said. “I shouldn't be dragging you away to go bargain hunting with me!”

“It's okay,” Wren assured her. “I enjoy watching other auctioneers work. If they have a good technique I can always learn something. And if they don't, I can make fun of them later, behind their back.”

“Ooh. How catty! I like that.”

The Sunday paper was spread over the Tanners' kitchen table and Wren and Annie were poring over the auction listings. Death was settled comfortably on a couch with three paramedics keeping an eye on him. Rowdy had given their outing his blessing, if that's how one chose to interpret a vague wave and an absentminded, “Sure, Honey. Whatever.”