Death & the Brewmaster's Widow (14 page)

“So where shall we go?” Annie asked.

Wren scanned the ads and her eye fell on a familiar name. “Einstadt Road! Like the brewery. It must be named after the brewing family, too.”

Annie leaned over to look. “Oh, yeah. That's the road that runs past in front of the brewery, actually. The factory's on one side and there are a bunch of fancy old houses on the other. The auction must be at one of them.”

“We should go to that one, then!”

“Are you sure?” Annie frowned. “I try not to go to that part of town. I haven't been by there since … you know?”

Wren touched her shoulder sympathetically. “I know. But Death thinks the Greys, the Einstadt heir and his wife, are involved in the thing with Randy's badge. They live on that road. The auctioneers will have spent time there getting ready for the sale, and probably some of the neighbors will stop by out of curiosity. This could be our chance to learn something.” The fireman's wife looked dubious, but acquiesced.

“Don't tell Death exactly where we're going,” Wren said. “If he knows, he's apt to want to come with us. I'd rather have him here taking it easy and being looked after.”

_____

The auction looked and smelled and sounded like a thousand other sales Wren had been to in her life, though it was a little weird to be part of the crowd rather than part of the staff. It was well under way by the time they arrived. Annie parked in the brewery lot amid a flock of other vehicles and kept her eyes averted from the dark, looming building as they made their way across the street and followed the sound of calling and the inevitable scent of barbecue.

An hour and a half later, with the afternoon sun beating down on their heads, they made their way to the cash tent. Annie had scored a nice wooden toy chest for her children's play room, several boxes of toys, a 1970s-era record player, and a random collection of odd records. Wren had a jar of assorted buttons; a small jewelry case; and a vintage 1930s tuxedo with tails, in excellent condition, that she was positive would fit Death with only a few small alterations.

The line was short and after they'd paid Wren struck up a conversation with the women working the cash box. “I'm an auctioneer myself, from the other side of the state.”

“Are you looking to transfer?” the older of the two women asked. Her name tag read “Madge” and her tone was a mixture of skepticism and interest.

“Oh, no. I'm just here on vacation with my boyfriend. I work for a small, family run business, Keystone and Sons out of East Bledsoe Ferry.”

Madge perked up. “Good Lord! Roy Keystone?”

“Uh, yeah. Roy and his brother, Sam. You know Roy?”

“I was at the Missouri State Auctioneers' Association potluck dinner year before last. Yeah, I know Roy.”

“Oh,” Wren grinned. “The crawfish pie. Right.”

“Crawfish pie?” Annie asked.

“Once or twice a year, usually, the state auctioneers' association gets together for a big meeting/convention kind of thing. Year before last they did a potluck dinner and asked everyone who attended to contribute a dish. Roy promised them a crawfish pie they'd never forget.”

“He was right about that,” Madge said wryly.

“The night before the dinner, Roy and his wife Leona made up a pie crust. They put the bottom crust in the pan, filled it to heaping with dried navy beans, and then draped the top crust loosely over it, after scoring the rim to make it look like it had been sealed. They baked it and then dumped the beans out and wound up with a beautiful, empty pie shell with the top crust loose. They took it to the dinner and, just before they got there, they filled it with live crawdads and put the top back on. Then they just set it in the middle of the table and waited.”

“Bob DeVrie was one of the association officers that year,” Madge said. “You probably don't know who he is. He's from down south somewhere and he was running for some minor public office at the time. He decided to give an impromptu benediction and campaign speech while he had a captive audience. So everyone's standing around waiting to eat, and the food's getting cold, and no one's really happy, and then somebody's little boy called out, ‘Look, Mommy! The pie has legs!'”

“Naturally, everyone looked to see what he was talking about. Leona had cut ventilation holes in the top crust,” Wren explained. “Real pretty ones. They looked like flower petals. And, if you looked, you could see things moving inside the pie. Then a long, black, insect-like leg came poking out of one of the holes. Then the whole top crust started shifting.”

“It was pandemonium.” Madge was giggling and she had to stop and wipe her eyes on her sleeve. “People were running and screaming. It was like a scene from one of those old Japanese horror movies.”

“The Thing That Came Out Of The Pie!” Wren gasped.

“Oh, that's classic,” Annie said. “Hey! Do you think they'd mind if I stole their idea? There's a fire department picnic coming up in a couple of weeks.”

“Knowing Roy and Leona,” Wren said, “I can assure you they would be honored if you used their special crawfish pie recipe.”

A delicate but very pointed cough interrupted their conversation and Wren turned to find another woman had entered the tent. Wren had noticed her earlier, standing a little apart from the rest of the crowd, carefully not touching anything and looking over the items on sale with an odd mix of longing and disdain. “Excuse me,” she said now, “but is this where I pay?”

“Yes, ma'am, “ Madge said. “What do you have?”

The woman offered the square of card stock with her number on it and Madge checked their records. “I'm only seeing one item, an antique steamer trunk. Is that all?”

“Yes, that's it.”

Annie made as if to move toward the tent opening, but Wren caught her arm and gave a tiny shake of her head. They hadn't found out anything about the neighbors or the neighborhood yet, but her senses were tingling. They waited quietly while the woman paid by credit card. Wren had to bite down on a triumphant grin when Madge handed over the receipt and said, “Thank you, Mrs. Grey. You have a nice day, now.”

Alaina Grey just stood there, looking bewildered. “Don't you need to know where to deliver it?” Madge blinked and exchanged a brief glance with her coworker.

“Ah, ma'am, this is an auction. We don't deliver. You're responsible for removing your own purchases.”

“But that's absurd. How am I supposed to get it home? Do I look like a delivery man to you?”

“Look, it's right there on the auction bill. ‘All items must be settled for before being removed.'”

“Right. And I settled for it. Now remove it for me.”

“We don't do that!”

Wren nudged Annie and stepped into the conversation. “Excuse me, but maybe we can help. Where do you live?” Alaina tipped her pretty head delicately to the west. “Three houses that way.”

Wren turned to Madge and gestured toward the back of the tent. “If I could borrow that two-wheeler and a cargo strap, we could help this lady get her—steamer trunk?—her steamer trunk home.”

Madge, relieved, waved a hand in the general direction of the hand cart. “Go for it.”

Wren fetched the two-wheeler and she and Annie followed Alaina out of the tent and across the yard to where a steamer trunk stood open on the grass. The sale had been and gone from this section of the property and the display was reduced to a random assortment of holes where merchandise had been and a scattering of things waiting to be called for.

“This is a nice trunk,” Wren commented. “Good exterior without too many dings or abrasions and the lining is faded, but completely intact. Did you notice that it's been modified to hold a larger-than-normal selection of cosmetics and accessories? If I had to guess, I'd say this was used by a vaudeville performer. It's the right era. These trunks were popular for that and an actor or actress would have needed the extra space for props and stage makeup.”

“Yes, it's very nice,” Alaina said. “That's why I bought it. Can we go now?”

Annie scowled but Wren just bit the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing, more amused than insulted by the woman's hauteur.

“Just give me a second to get situated,” she said. It was standing upright, on one end, and it took a bit of maneuvering to get it closed without trapping too much grass and dirt inside. “Give me a hand here, Annie?” she asked, when she had it latched. “I'm going to tip it forward. If you can push the two-wheeler under the back, I'll use the cargo strap to fasten it on and it should be quite manageable.”

It was heavy, but not terribly so, and when she had it strapped to the two-wheeler she could move it easily.

“I can't see a thing from back here,” she said. “I'll push the trunk, but you'll have to guide me and keep me from running over anyone.”

They left the auction in a group, down the walkway to the sidewalk and then up the sidewalk to the mansion three doors away. The yard was ringed by a wrought-iron fence with an elaborate gate and a white brick gazebo was visible in the backyard. The walk led up to a set of stone steps that proved a challenge, but with Annie's help Wren got the trunk up on the porch and Alaina unlocked the door to let them inside.

“Careful,” Alaina said. “Try not to scratch my floor with that …thing.”

“Right,” Wren said cheerfully. “So, where do you want it?”

The smaller woman considered. “Probably best to just leave it in the foyer. I'll have the gardener fumigate it before he takes it upstairs.”

Wren set it down gently and was unbuckling the strap when she heard Annie give a small, pained gasp. A quick glance showed her friend staring at something out of Wren's line of sight, so she maneuvered the trunk around and set it down gently in such a way that she could look where Annie was looking and Alaina, for the moment, couldn't see her face. She followed Annie's gaze and felt herself grow a little lightheaded.

“So,” Alaina said, a trifle awkwardly, “is there a fee for the delivery?”

Wren swallowed hard and forced herself to act normal. “We don't work for the auction company,” she said. “We're just helping you. To be nice.” She tipped the trunk away from her and slid the two-wheeler free, draping the cargo strap over the handle.

“Oh. Okay. Well … thank you?”

“Right. You're welcome. So, um, that's a lovely picture. Is it your wedding?”

Alaina turned to look up the stairs and smiled. “Yes, that's my husband and I. I was a lovely bride, wasn't I?”

“Yes, very. Hey, maybe your husband can move the trunk for you when you need it moved again.”

“Andrew can't do physical labor. He had a stroke. He's been very ill, poor dear.”

“Oh, I see. Well, I'm sorry to hear that. I hope he gets better soon.”

“Thank you. So …” Alaina was looking between Wren and the door, clearly wondering how to get rid of them.

Annie had tears in her eyes and looked like she was about to burst into hysterics. Wren got her by the arm, turned her toward the exit, and beat a hasty retreat, dragging the two-wheeler behind them. Out the door, down the steps and the walk and up the sidewalk they went, the handcart rattling on the concrete behind them. She didn't stop until they were back in the yard of the house where the auction was, huddled out of the way among the low branches of a young peach tree.

Annie leaned against the tree trunk. She was gasping for breath and Wren wished she had a paper bag in case the other woman hyperventilated. Her own mind was working a mile a minute.

“Did you see?” Annie demanded. “Did you see what I saw?”

“Yes, I saw. Listen! We can't tell Death about this. Okay? Not yet. We've got to figure out what it means first. He's been through too much already. I'm not going to let him get hurt again.”

“But you saw it, right? Tell me you saw it.”

“Yes. I saw it.” Wren squeezed Annie's shoulder, put her other hand on the back of Annie's neck, and made the other woman look her in the eye. “I saw, okay? Except for his hair color and that silly little beard, when that picture was painted Andrew Grey was an absolute dead ringer for Randy Bogart.”

fourteen

“What brought this on?
Do you have any idea?”

Death shifted on the exam table and the paper cover crinkled beneath him. In the last year, he'd seen a lot of doctors' offices. James Gregory's was pretty average, with oil paintings and plants in the waiting room and the examination rooms sterile and barren of personality.

“My girlfriend and I went caving over the weekend,” he admitted a bit reluctantly, paranoid that Gregory would guess which caves they'd been in and why. His cough had worsened in spite of Talia's administrations and the infection had climbed up into his upper respiratory passages. Gregory stared at him.

“Caving?” he asked. He swiveled his chair to look more directly at Death and tapped the tablet computer on his knee. “Caving in the Mississippi River Valley? With your lungs? Really? Do you have a death wish, Mr. Bogart?”

Death blinked. “What's the big deal about caving?”

“Have you ever heard of caver's lung?”

“I cannot say that I have. What is it?”

“The proper name is histoplasmosis. It's a fungal infection caused by coming into contact with bird or, especially, bat guano. Most cases occur in the Mississippi or Ohio River Valleys.”

“Is it serious?”

“Normally, no, but under some circumstances it can be and it can even prove fatal. The damage to your lungs puts you at a greater risk for things like this. You really need to put more thought into things. If you're going to go caving, for example, wear a filter mask and make it a point to avoid any chambers that have been colonized by bats.”

“I didn't know that,” Death said. “I'll be sure to be more careful in the future.”

The doctor fiddled with his tablet for several seconds, scrolling up and down, frowning here and there. Death waited and tried not to fidget.

“I'd like to go ahead and run a couple of tests to see if there's any evidence of histoplasmosis. I'll forward the results to your regular doctor and you should follow up with him, especially if this infection doesn't clear up within the next couple of weeks. I'm also going to give you a prescription for an antibiotic. Histoplasmosis is usually asymptomatic in the early stages, but it can co-exist with a bacterial infection, and you almost certainly have one of those.”

He scrolled up on his tablet and read some more.

“Are you still doing your breathing exercises and cardio?”

“Of course.”

He nodded, touched his finger to the screen. “I see you have a prescription for an antidepressant. How's that working?”

“Oh, that.” Death shifted uncomfortably. “Yeah, I don't need that anymore.”

Gregory lowered the tablet and gave him his full attention. “Mr. Bogart, this is a new prescription. It's just over a week old.”

“Uh, I told my doctor that I was coming to St. Louis to settle my little brother's estate. He thought the drugs were a good idea.” That wasn't exactly the truth. Certainly not the whole truth. But it was enough, in Death's estimation, to be sharing with Gregory. “It didn't do anything but make me sick to my stomach, though. And, anyway, I got a better antidepressant. A redhead.”

“Having supportive people in your life is excellent, but it doesn't mean the drugs can't help you, too. Depression is an illness. You've got to understand that. It's not a sign of weakness or something to be ashamed of. Clinical depression involves specific chemical imbalances in your brain. That's what this medication is for. To correct that concrete, physical problem.”

“I just don't see how puking my guts up is supposed to cheer me up,” Death countered, a bit defensively. Discussing his mental health wasn't on his agenda this morning. He'd gotten the prescription after the incident at the shooting range, taken it twice, given it up, and forgotten about it.

“It'll take your body a week or two to get used to the medication. You have to give it time to work.” He fiddled with the tablet, tapping it on his knee, turning it in his hand. “Your redhead, does she know you're supposed to be taking antidepressants?”

“Of course not.”

“Why ‘of course not'? Don't you think she'd like to know?”

“I just don't want to worry her, that's all.”

“If she cares about you, don't you think she's worried anyway?”

Death had no answer to that and the silence stretched out between them for several seconds.

“You know,” Gregory said finally, “I have conversations like this with my own sister. Her husband isn't doing well. Frankly, I don't expect him to be with us much longer. At this point, I'm just trying to make him comfortable and prepare her for the inevitable.”

“I'm sorry to hear that.”

“My point is, life hands us difficult times, sometimes, through no fault of our own, and all we can do is use whatever means are at our disposal to get through them.” He sighed. “You know, I remember when your brother passed away. Alaina and I attended his memorial, in fact.”

“I didn't know that.”

“He died on her husband's family property. It seemed a show of respect was in order. It was a lovely ceremony. I understand you were unable to attend yourself ?”

“Yeah, I was in a military hospital in Germany. In a coma.”

“Several of the firefighters gave eulogies and a charming little girl of about seven sang James Taylor's ‘Fire and Rain'.”

“That was his goddaughter, Miranda.”

“She has a lovely singing voice for one so young. It's a pity you couldn't be there. Funerals and the like are for the living, Mr. Bogart, and I think you're probably the one who needed it most of all.”

_____

“
Ohmigod
!”

Wren winced and moved the phone away, putting it on speaker. Cameron shrieking like a little girl had her ear ringing.

“Wren! Ohmigod! You're not going to believe what I found!”

She exchanged a glance with Annie Tanner. While Death was at the doctor's office, she and Annie were at the Tanners' house, she on her laptop and Annie on her PC, researching Andrew and Alaina Grey. “You found a picture of Andrew Grey and he looks like Randy,” Wren guessed.

“No! I found an old picture of Andrew Grey and he looked just like Death's brother! Wait … you knew?”

“My friend Annie and I talked our way into the Greys' house yesterday. We saw a painting on the wall. We're trying to find out everything we can about Andrew Grey now.”

“Annie who? And how? And what did Death say?”

“Annie Tanner. Her husband was Randy's best friend. I'm at her house now and I've got you on speakerphone. Cam, this is Annie. Annie, this is my friend Cameron. He's a newspaper reporter back home in East Bledsoe Ferry.” Cameron and Annie said hi to one another and Wren gave Cam a quick rundown on how she and Annie had gotten in to see Alaina and Andrew Grey's wedding portrait.

“What did Death say?”

“Uh, yeah. About that. We didn't tell him.”

“
What
? You have to! This is his brother you're talking about. I mean, there's got to be a connection! You know that!”

“Yes, I know. And I'm going to tell him. But I want to find out everything I can about Andrew Grey first, try to figure out what's going on. Death's been hurt so much, Cam. I'm just trying to protect him as best I can. That's why I'm not going to tell him for now. And that's why you've got to promise not to tell him either.”

“I think you're making a mistake,” he said. “But, if that's what you want, okay. You've got to let me in on this, though. Or else I'm telling.”

“Blackmail?” Wren asked, amused.

“Absolutely!”

“Well, it isn't necessary. We're counting on you to use your journalistic skills and contacts here.”

“Do we have any theories about what happened?”

“I suggested they murdered Andrew,” Annie said, “then switched him with Bogie to get rid of the body without anyone suspecting anything. But Wren pointed out that Bogie wasn't murdered. He died of natural causes. And they'd still have to get rid of Bogie, so they wouldn't have gained anything.”

“Bogie?”

“Randy,” Wren clarified. “His friends here call him Bogie.”

“Oh. Got it. Hey! Andrew Grey's kind of a local celebrity, isn't he? How come no one ever noticed how much he and Randy looked alike before?”

“I thought about that,” Wren said. “I think it's because they didn't look the same at the same time, you know? That picture where Andrew looks like Randy is ten years old. In current pictures they don't look alike at all, really. Andrew's gone completely gray, for one thing, plus I think he's had some plastic surgery and it's kind of distorted his features. And when he did look like Randy, Randy was in high school and then he didn't look like Randy.”

“Maybe Randy was really Andrew Grey's secret son,” Cam suggested excited. “And they set up the whole thing with the fire and the secret tunnel to kidnap him so he could take over Grey's empire after Grey had a stroke?”

Wren stared at the phone. “Cameron, that theory doesn't make any sense at all. And I'm sure Randy wasn't Andrew's son. Death's parents were totally in love. There's no way his mom would have cheated on his dad. Besides, you've seen the pictures. Death and Randy both look like their dad.”

“Not as much as Randy looked like Andrew. And maybe she didn't know she cheated on him.”

“You mean, like, she didn't notice it wasn't her husband she was having sex with? Are you saying Andrew disguised himself as Liam Bogart, like Zeus disguised himself as Alcmene's husband to father Hercules?”

“What?” Cam asked.

“What?” Annie asked.

Wren sighed. “Classical mythology? Never mind.”

“Maybe he made a clone of Liam, but with his own DNA.” Cameron was on a roll. “The Grey family is into some pretty cutting-edge medical research—cell splitting and cryobiology and such. Maybe he made a clone and it fathered Randy and when Randy hit a certain age they needed to study him—for science—so they made another clone and dressed it up in a firefighter costume and switched it with the real Randy so they could take him back to their lab and experiment on him. Only they got the badge number wrong.”

“It would have to have been a clone that had the same dental work done that he did,” Wren pointed out, exasperated. “They ID'd Randy by matching his dental records, remember?”

“I like it,” Annie said unexpectedly.

Wren stared at her.

“Oh, I don't believe for a minute that that's what really happened,” she agreed. “But I wish it was, because then Bogie might still be alive.”

_____

With Cam enlisted and sworn to reluctant secrecy, Wren and Annie settled down to their research.

“Andrew Grey has a Wikipedia entry,” Wren said. “I've never
actually known of anyone in real life who had their own Wiki entry.” She read, “Andrew Stephen Grey, son of … grandson of … blah, blah, blah, three times great-grandson of 19th century brewing icon Aram Einstadt. Sole heir to the Einstadt family fortune, married five times. He has two children, I didn't know that.”

“Right, by his third wife,” Annie said. “She was the one who lasted the longest. Ten years and two days. His kids would be,” she did the math in her head, “the boy's fifteen and the girl's eleven. Their mother has full custody. He doesn't even have visitation rights.”

“That's a little unusual, isn't it?” Wren asked. “I wonder why not.”

“Well, according to this, she divorced him for infidelity and conspicuous cruelty after he was caught in a scandal involving an orgy at an S and M fetishist party.”

“They were at an orgy or he was at an orgy? There's news stories about orgies? Where are you finding this?”

“In
On the Scene Magazine
.”

“Oh, I saw some links to articles on that in Google, but they were in the archives and you had to be a member to access them.”

Annie blushed. “Okay, so I'm addicted to trashy celebrity gossip magazines.”

“Well … great! Only, um, how reliable are they?”

“Probably not terribly, at least if you take them individually. For example, if you believe this magazine, Kate was pregnant for about two and half years before Prince George actually popped out. If a story is repeated across a lot of the magazines, though, there's a lot higher chance that it'll be true.”

“So we need to see if the orgy story is repeated elsewhere.”

“It is. I actually found it first on
Look at the Starz
. I came here to double check. It's all hearsay and anonymous sources, but the story is pretty much identical. Andrew already had a reputation as a playboy. His first wife was a socialite, like him. They got married in their early twenties, all satin and lace and respectability. A couple of years later she filed for divorce on the grounds of infidelity. As soon as the divorce was finalized, he married his mistress, but that one only lasted three years. Then he married wife number three. She was a model like numbers two and five. Four was an actress.”

“So what was the scandal? Just that he got caught having an orgy?”

“It was a kinky, S and M fetish party, and the hosts called the police on him after he refused to honor one of his partners' safe word. When they investigated, it turned out that the girl he'd brought to the party with him had a fake ID. She was a minor. He claimed he didn't know how old she really was, but no one believed him. I think that's what lost him custody of his kids.”

“He sounds like a charming fellow.”

Wren went back to her laptop, adjusted her search terms, and tried again. “The third wife was Leilani Moran, right? She's the one who sued for access to him after he had a stroke.” She clicked the link. “This is confusing. I'm getting the news stories all out of order.”