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He wet his lips, swallowed and thrust his hands into his pockets. “That account was closed on Tuesday by Mr. Wicklow.”
“Kurt Wicklow was in here on Tuesday?”
He made a scratchy attempt at clearing his throat and carefully enunciated each word. “That’s what I said.”
“You’re sure it was Kurt Wicklow?”
“We need an ID to close an account.” He finally made eye contact. “I’m sure it was him.”
“Did he say why he was closing the account?”
“Even if he did, I’m afraid that would be confidential.”
Brenda Wright nodded in agreement. I could tell I’d get no further with either of them, so I transferred some funds from my meager savings account to give me some walking around money.
I collected Peanuts and drove to my office. First thing I did was call Gina Wicklow. The check Gina had given me had Kurt’s signature on it, but it was a signature stamp. Maybe she’d be more surprised about the closed account than I was. She wasn’t home, so I left a message. As soon as I hung up, I regretted my action. What with a missing husband and that bloodstain, she no doubt had other things occupying her mind. Even if that weren’t the case, she’d probably be embarrassed and flustered and I didn’t want to bring that on. I considered calling her back and telling her not to worry about it, but figured that would only compound my idiocy.
When I got home, I decided if I didn’t do my laundry I wouldn’t be fit for public interaction, so I hauled an overflowing basket down to the basement where Louise has her washer and dryer. She’s nice enough to let me use it at no cost. I pay for repairs. I was watching my shirts in the dryer when I heard the door at the top of the stairs open and Louise call down, “Are you decent?”
There’s a story behind that. I’d been living in the upstairs apartment about a month and was washing clothes at one-thirty in the morning. Since it was so late, and I wanted to start the next day with a clean slate, I took off the clothes I had on and tossed them in. The fact that this effectively trapped me in the basement didn’t bother me. When I do laundry, I have to stay with it throughout the dry cycle anyway. I don’t iron shirts. I stand by the dryer and wait for that precise moment when the shirts are dry enough but haven’t begun to wrinkle. Toward the end, I have to check it every few minutes so I can’t go far. Anyway, Louise must have wondered about the noise in her basement at that hour. She came down and found me sitting in a folding chair in front of the dryer, stark naked except for my Reeboks, reading a Ross Thomas novel. It’s to her everlasting credit that, instead of locking the door behind her and calling the police, all she said was, “Oh, you’re doing your laundry then. Be sure to turn out the lights when you’re finished.”
To this day, I might wonder if she even noticed my nudity if she didn’t preface every visit in the basement with: “Are you decent?” That plus the way she giggles when she says it.
“As decent as I get,” I called back up the stairs.
“I suppose that will have to do.” She began to make her way down the steps. Lately, she’s been taking them slowly. One of her friends broke her hip recently, and now Louise is scared she’s next. She instructed me if that ever happens to take her out in a field and shoot her. I don’t know what’s scarier about getting old—feeling your body’s decline or anticipating it.
When she saw me standing over the dryer, she shook her head. “I don’t mind ironing your shirts, you know. I rather enjoy ironing.”
We’d been through this before. “Thanks, Louise. But this is one of those little challenges life throws at me.”
“Yes, well.” She seemed distracted and when she started to fold my clean shorts, I didn’t stop her. I figured she was working something out in her head. If my underwear could help, then so be it.
“This is about Albert,” she finally said.
I hoped he wasn’t missing.
“It’s also quite awkward, I dare say.”
“How’s that?”
“Well, he’d be most disturbed if he knew I’d mentioned this to you.”
“I won’t say a word.” At this point, it was useless to plead for Albert’s privacy. We’d come this far; she was talking. “It’s a financial matter, actually.” I waited.
“Have you ever invested money in stocks or some such?”
I stopped the dryer and stuck my hand in to feel the shirts. Almost there. “No,” I said, shutting the door. “Never had enough to gamble.”
“Well, yes, I suppose that’s what it is, isn’t it?”
I leaned against the dryer and crossed my arms over my chest. “Not exactly. If you know what you’re doing, the risk is minimal. If you’ve got a broker you can—” I stopped, afraid of where this was going.
Louise continued as though she hadn’t read me at all. By now, she’d started a second pile of my shorts. “Well, Albert followed the advice of a friend who’d been quite pleased with this young man—a stockbroker, I presume. He recommended some fast growth investments.” She stopped folding and gave me a meaningful look. “When you get to be our age, long-term investments aren’t what you’d call practical. At any rate, Albert invested a good deal of his savings. That was, oh, I think about eight months ago. Well, Albert showed me some of the stock reports and, while they seem authentic, I suppose with computers the appearance of authenticity is quite a simple matter. Albert had some questions and rang up this man, but he’s not returning his calls. Albert’s getting quite concerned.”
“What about Albert’s friend?”
“He’s in even worse straits. He’s got to get his money out, but can’t reach him either.”
I asked the obvious question. “What’s the broker’s name?”
“Kurt Wicklow.”
She must have sensed something in my reaction. “What? What is it?”
“I’ve had some trouble collecting on a bill from him.”
“That sounds a bit ominous, doesn’t it?” She didn’t know the half.
“His assistant tells me he’s out of town,” I said. “That’s what Albert’s been told as well.”
“Maybe he is. I’ll look into it though.”
“Would you mind?”
I shook my head. “Not at all. In the meantime, I think Albert ought to contact the Securities and Exchange Commission. See if there’s any steps he needs to take.”
“You don’t think Mr. Wicklow has absconded with his investors’ money, do you?” It was as though this was the first time the possibility had occurred to her. Louise was not a naive woman. That scared me some.
“It happens.”
“Goodness. Albert lives in quite a lovely place a bit up north on the river. But the monthly assessment’s so high he’s come to depend on his investments. If he were to lose this, why, I’m afraid he’d lose his condominium. He’d have to go live with one of his children.” She shuddered. “That would be dreadful for all involved.”
After Louise left, my shorts and undershirts were neatly folded but my shirts had started to wrinkle. In light of Albert’s problem, I couldn’t feel too sorry for myself. While I slipped them onto hangers, I pondered how, in such a short space of time, Kurt Wicklow—dead or alive—had insinuated himself into my life and how rapidly he was establishing so many levels of deceit.
Chapter 7
After dining on a skimpy portion of chicken marsala, I decided the only way to counter a long, fruitless day topped with a mediocre frozen dinner was with a beer or two.
I hadn’t planned on taking Peanuts, but he kept getting between me and the door. Relenting, I clipped the leash onto his collar and we walked the mile or so to the Tattersall. I enjoyed the relative cool and he just seemed to enjoy being out of the apartment.
When we got to the door of the pub, I stopped to examine a white S-10 parked in one of the parallel spots in front of the Tattersall. The plates were blue on white with a wavy green line under “Missouri.” I couldn’t recall the license number I’d recorded. Probably too good to be true.
Although it was Friday night and crowded, I managed to grab a table near the bar. Peanuts stretched out underneath it, ensuring that as much of his body came in contact with the cool, wooden floor as possible. I felt his sigh against my foot. Neither of us really wanted to be home—him because of the cat and me because staring at four bare walls got to me after a while. Maybe instead of a beer, I should invest in some artwork. Yeah. A watercolor. I’d take it in trade.
I scanned the line at the bar, more out of habit than the belief that I could connect any one person to the S-10. But then I saw Brewster Plunkett standing there sucking on a long-necked bottle. Taller than the other members of the line, and wearing a khaki shirt with epaulets, he looked slightly out of place. Sort of like he’d ditched his scout pack. When he saw me, he did a slow double take. I’d noticed that Brewster had a languid way of moving—he wouldn’t be rushed.
“How’s it going?” he called out over the din. I shrugged.
He pushed away from the bar, grabbed a basket of popcorn, and headed for my table. I had mixed feelings. This might be my only chance to find out if he had business up in New Berne. But, if I had to listen to any more tales of Eddie Carver before I got an answer, I wasn’t sure it was worth the price.
Brewster peered under the table. “Who’s that?”
I felt my dog stir. “That’s Peanuts.”
“Peanuts?” He dropped the basket on the table, then pulled out a chair and sat across from me. “What the hell kinda’ name’s that?” He spoke with a smile pulling at a corner of his mouth.
“Named after Peanuts Lawry, outfielder for the Cubs back in the forties.” I gestured under the table with a nod. “You should see him shag Frisbees.” I spent so much time explaining my dog’s name, I’d begun to wish I’d named him Fido.
Brewster nodded as though that made sense. His chair scraped against the floor as he turned it sideways. Then he propped one elbow on the table and slumped back into the chair so he could bring his long legs out to the side. Helping himself to a handful of popcorn, he looked around. “Decent place.”
“It is.”
“You and your friend come here a lot?”
“We’re regulars. Dogs are welcome as long as they don’t bite any sober customers.”
Nodding his approval, he said, “Back in Cape there’s a place called the Sports Tap. Thursday nights between six and eight they got beers for a quarter.”
“Yeah, but do they allow dogs?”
“Don’t know. A buddy of mine tried to bring his hog in but the owner wouldn’t hear of it.”
I assumed he referred to a motorcycle and not Babe on a binge. But I didn’t know Brewster well enough to be certain. When in doubt, change the subject.
“That your Chevy pickup out front?”
His pale eyebrows drew together in a V. “How’d you know?”
“Saw the Show Me plates.”
He picked a popcorn husk out of a back tooth. “Yeah, it’s mine.”
“How do you like it?”
“It’s okay. I’d rather have a Porsche parked out there, but hell, a Porsche isn’t too practical in our line of work, is it?”
“You must have a thriving business in Cape Girardeau if the only reason you don’t drive a Porsche is because it’s too conspicuous.” I shook my head in frank admiration. “You’re doing a helluva lot better than I am.”
“You might consider expanding your line.” He wagged a knowing finger at me.
“How do you mean?”
“I’m also in the fugitive retrieval business.”
“Bounty hunter?” An image of Josh Randall, sawed-off Remington strapped to his leg, flashed into my head. When I was a kid I thought that Steve McQueen represented all that was right and honorable in this world. Then I learned it didn’t hurt to move your lips when you talked.
“Don’t knock it. It pays real good.”
“So I hear. Not many rules to get in the way.”
“That’s for damned sure.”
“You do all that in a Chevy pickup?”
“I’m quirky. Folks like that about me. They trust me.” He smiled again and this time I saw something cold there. “That can be a big mistake.”
Leaning back, his chair on its hind legs, he rocked slowly. “Getting so folks don’t trust the suits anymore. Who can blame them? I never wear a tie. Never order wine.” He held up his bottle. “Always the same brand. Never use a glass. I figure if a person’s gonna reject me outright because of that, the hell with ‘em.” He nodded in agreement, then toasted himself.
I followed suit, and said, “I try to never judge a man harshly just because he’s got lousy taste in beer.”
He sneered in mock insult. “I’ve killed for less.” Then he chuckled as he settled back into his chair. “I do tend to get a little self-righteous at times. What the hell, we’ve all got our faults. Right?”
I sure did, but I wasn’t about to start confessing them.
“You staying at Ed and Elaine’s?” I asked.
He shook his head. “Got a room at the Foxhole. You know, the place by the Dive Inn.”
“Ah, yes. The Foxhole.” I figured from the way the laugh lines gathered around his eyes, that he knew my history with Ellie. “Ed’s telling stories out of school, isn’t he?”
He shrugged. “It’s a good story.” He paused for a brief chuckle. “Especially when you look at it from the other side.”
“You been to the Dive Inn?”
“Can’t say that I have.”
I wasn’t even close to believing that Brewster Plunkett had passed on a bar that wasn’t fifty feet from his bed. I wondered if he’d been there last night when I’d met with Ellie.
Getting Brewster to talk seemed easy enough. Leading him in the right direction might be a challenge. “How long have you known Ed?”
“We met at Douglas U. Me and him and Danny lived in the same dorm freshman year.” He frowned as he laced his hands behind his head and consulted the ceiling. “Let’s see. That was Mitchell Hall. Ed’s a good guy.”
“Who’s Danny?” I recalled the sober way Ed had reacted to Brewster’s mention of his name yesterday.
“One of the guys we hung out with,” he replied. “He died ‘bout eight months ago,” and added, “Cancer.”
Brewster continued, “I tell you, Eddie can sure use a good woman like Elaine. Lord knows, Ellie never did anything for him.” He chuckled. “Good thing their names are almost the same. Easier to cover any slips, if you know what I mean.”
I did, but didn’t care to pursue it.
Abruptly, Brewster’s chair dropped level. Gesturing toward my mug, he said, “You want another?”
“Thanks.”
When he went to replenish our drinks, I noticed he was on a first name basis with Sammy, the owner.
When he came back with our beers (mine in a mug), he also brought two shot glasses, setting one in front of me and raising the other in a toast. “Single malt.”
“Think I’ll take a pass.” I hoped Brewster would let it lie.
“Suit yourself.” He downed his own and followed with a long pull on the bottle. Then he took mine and repeated the ritual.
When he resumed the conversation, I was a little surprised to find he hadn’t lost his train of thought.
“Ellie did nothing for Ed. Nothing. After he got out of the service, he finished college somewhere local. Couple months after he graduates, Ed got a real nice offer from some hotel chain out east. They were acquiring some new hotels, looking for someone to head up security. All set to head out to D.C. when Ellie tells him she’s pregnant. Not only that but there’s no way she’s gonna live in Washington D.C.” He mimicked her in an over-the-top whine. “ ‘Too humid. My hair’ll frizz,’ she says. So he stuck it out here.” He shook his head. “Goddamned shame.” Then he stared at the table, looking philosophical. “Ellie Miller got just what she wanted.”
“Why did Ed drop out of college?”
“Where’d you hear that?”
“I don’t remember.”
“Grades, I think.” He gave it another moment, shrugged and continued, “Anyway, Ed gets out of the ser- vice, gets his degree, and he’s looking around to start his life. There’s Ellie. She’s an old friend. Familiar.”
“Maybe he would have married her anyway.”
“Nah. He was sweet on someone else at the time.”
“Who?”
“Her name was Terry something. Never met her. Think she’s out west now. I was out of the picture then. But, good old Eddie, always gotta do the right thing.”
“How do you mean that?”
He paused and his focus seemed to drift off for a few seconds. Then he shrugged and said, “He married her, didn’t he?”
“Sounds like you’ve only heard one side of the story. Ellie might tell it different.”
He gave me an odd look. “What’ve you heard?”
“Nothing,” I lied. “It just seems to me you don’t give Ellie credit for much at all.”
“Maybe not.” He pondered that for a moment, then he shook his head. “Nah, you know what Ellie is?” He pointed the bottle’s stem at me. “You ever wonder where they dig up those folks you see on those talk shows? The ones that spill their guts along with all those deep, dark secrets?” He didn’t wait for my confirmation. “Well,” he continued, “that’s Ellie. Ed’ll be lucky if he doesn’t turn on the TV someday and see his ex-wife telling Jerry Springer about Ed’s peccadilloes.”
“How well do you know Ellie?”
“I thought about moving here after school.” He made a sour face. “Too civilized for me.”
He hadn’t answered my question. “Have you ever met Ellie?”
“Was at the wedding.” He took a pull on the beer. “Ellie and me never hit it off.”
“I gathered that.”
“Ed’s too good for her. And she knew it. So did I.”
“You’re a real expert on the subject of Ed Carver.”
“I don’t respect many people. Most don’t deserve it. I got a lot of respect for Ed.” He paused. “I owe him.”
