Loonies (11 page)

“You’re not about to kiss me are you?” The chief laughed, but he seemed nervous.

Brian couldn’t help but crack up at this unexpected joke from Noah. “No,” he replied.

“Good, because, I like you, but in a working kind of relationship. And I like your wife, too.”

“I just noticed something I hadn’t before.” He looked deep into the chief’s brown eyes. In the right eye, there was a spot of orangish-yellow mixed with the brown.

“Your eye color,” Brian said. “You have a spot.”

“Oh, the fleck. Yeah.”

“I’ve never noticed it before.”

“Always been there. Born with it. It’s called Heterochromia. It’s hereditary. Nothing that unusual.”

“I just wonder why I didn’t see it before.” Brian stepped back, out of the chief’s space.

“It’s because you’ve become obsessed with eyeballs now.” He started to walk away backwards. “You’ll go cross-eyed if you don’t watch out. Good luck.” He turned and headed down the sidewalk.

A bell jingled as Brian pushed open the door and entered the taxidermy shop.

A tall, slim man with combed-back white hair and a white goatee approached.

“Good afternoon,” the man said, extending a knobby hand. “Jonas Fitchen.”

Brian shook his hand, introducing himself, thinking he had seen the man either at church or the pub, or maybe both.

“Looking for something?”

“Not quite,” Brian said. “More of a curiosity.” He gestured toward the window display. “I see you carry a lot of glass eyes.”

“Why yes.” Jonas walked closer to the display and Brian followed. “I have an even larger assortment in the case out back. Every size and color imaginable for whatever your taxidermy needs require. Something to stuff?”

Brian shook his head. “Nothing like that. I was just wondering. Are there people in town who purchase glass eyes from you?”

Jonas Fitchen’s eyebrows raised in confusion. “Of course. People buy them all the time. I put them in the animals I stuff for them.”

“Oh, no,” Brian said, grinning. “You misunderstand. I meant do people in town buy them for themselves?”

Jonas scratched the side of his head, trying to dig out a thought. “I guess there are a couple fellas I’ve sold eyes to who do their own stuffing. Not as many as there used to be.”

He wasn’t getting it.

“No,” Brian said. “What I mean is, people who buy glass eyes for their own eyes, in their own heads.”

Jonas Fitchen’s eyes widened in comprehension and then shook his head, almost starting to laugh, but then hesitating. “Of course not. These eyes,” he gestured toward the display, “are not fit for human use.” His expression grew serious. “They are only for animals. Not people.”

When Brian got home from downtown, Darcie was in the kitchen, putting flowers in a vase. He stopped short as he watched her, his heart a little weak in his chest. She didn’t know he was standing there and was startled when she turned around.

“Who are those from?” he asked, knowing his tone was accusatory.

“Don’t jump to conclusions.”

“Are they from him?”

Her eyes narrowed and her face flushed, but not with embarrassment, more with anger.

“Why would you say that?”  She appeared on the verge of either rage or tears. He couldn’t tell which.

“I’m just asking.” He thought she was avoiding the question, but maybe she was only mad about what he was insinuating.

A year before they got married, Darcie started to get doubts about their relationship. The summer that year, she wanted some time apart. He wasn’t very understanding. They had been dating two years, and she was suddenly having doubts? She had said she just had been feeling in a rut and wanted to make sure that she really wanted a future with him.

“So you want time away from me?” he had asked, sitting on the couch at her apartment—it came out like a sad plea.

“Just a break, to figure some things out.” She had tried being soothing.

“I don’t understand.” He was pouting and knew she hated that, but he couldn’t help himself.

“I just don’t feel that you’re very passionate about me.”

That stunned him.

“Passionate.” He was dumfounded. “Of course I’m passionate about you. How can you not see that?”

“I see you’re passionate about your job.”

“That’s what this is all about. My job, isn’t it? You don’t like my job.”

“It’s just that you’re always running off, all times of the day and night. I never know when you’re going to be there for me.”

“I’m always there for you,” he said angrily. “Even if I’m not right there. It’s my job, for Christ’s sake.”

“You don’t have to swear.”

He jumped up from the couch, pacing back and forth. “It’s my job. I have to do my job.”

“I just wish you’d pay me the same attention.” Her voice was raised, as her tone adjusted from sympathetic to displeased.

“I pay attention to you.” He tried to remain calm but wasn’t very successful. “When I’m here.”

“That’s right,” she said, almost spitting it out. “When you’re here.”

Before he left that night, she gave him a half-hearted hug.

“I just need some time to think things over.”  It was summer, so she wasn’t teaching. Though she did a bit of tutoring on the side, she had a lot of free time. So did the other teacher. Brian didn’t know his name at first but soon found out.

Brian didn’t see her for most of that summer. One night Brian went to see her to talk about the situation. He saw a bouquet on her kitchen table. When he asked who they were from, she finally told him about her co-worker. They were friends, she said. They had worked together for several years and got along well. She was sure she had mentioned him to Brian, and maybe she had, but it was nothing he would have paid attention to. Her world at the school was foreign to him. She had never invited him to work-related functions or activities, always saying that he’d be bored and feel out of place. Maybe now Brian knew the real reason.

“Are you spending time with him this summer?”

“Yes,” she said, not looking directly at him.

He left her apartment angry, thinking the relationship was over, though she pleaded with him to stay and talk. He went to the bar where most of his newspaper cohorts hung out and got really drunk. This is where I belong, he thought, among the lonely journalists whose jobs took precedence over relationships.

It was a couple of weeks before he finally spoke to her. She tried to explain, but he wasn’t very receptive. He was more than willing to give her the space she wanted. As long and much as she wanted. She kept in touch, but he didn’t make any effort in return.

Before the summer ended, she came back to him, professing her love and desire to have a future with him. And Brian felt relieved, figuring she had found the answers to her doubts, though spawning some in himself.

“Then, who are they from?” he asked about the new flowers.

“I don’t know,” she answered with a whimper.

“What do you mean, you don’t know.”

“I found them on the front steps.” She paused, trying to gain her composure. “Someone placed them there.”

He didn’t understand. “Why?”

She looked at him with moist eyes.

“Don’t you get it?” she said, and now her lip was trembling. “It must be from the mother of one of those babies found in our house.” And now she did begin to cry.

The next day, Brian took a break from getting some of the final inside pages done, including the pieces on the Women’s Garden Club tour and the Boston Post Cane award.  He walked to Mrs. Picklesmeir’s flower shop on Main Street, which was sandwiched between a couple empty stores. He smoked a quick cigarette during his walk over, thinking there was no chance Darcie would be wandering around downtown and catch him. She would be furious if she did, but the cigs helped calm his nerves, and dealing with Mrs. Picklesmeir put him on edge. He wasn’t sure why. He stamped out the cigarette butt and deposited it in a trash can before entering the flower shop.

He was assaulted by fragrances as soon as he pushed through the front door and he had to catch his breath. Thank god he had no allergies. The shop was bright, almost hurting his eyes. Big glass cases bloomed with vases filled with colorful arrangements. One case contained bright red roses.

A slim young woman with long hair stood behind the counter. He saw no one else and smiled, thinking he had caught a break. He approached the counter and greeted the woman, who offered a friendly smile in return. But before he could even get two words out, a large form stepped through an open doorway behind the counter.

“I will handle this customer,” spoke the deep voice of Mrs. Picklesmeir. The young woman gracefully excused herself, disappearing into the back room.

“What a surprise to see you, Mr. Keays. What brings you here? Flowers for the Mrs.?”

That actually wouldn’t be a bad idea, he thought, but then remembered that she had fresh flowers, which was the reason he was here.

“What I actually was hoping for was some information.”

“Let me guess,” she said. “You need some background on the Women’s Garden Club to go along with that nice feature of the tour you’ll be displaying in this week’s edition of the paper.”

He flashed a smile. “Not exactly.”

“I can’t tell you how excited the members of the club are to see the article and beautiful color photos of those nice gardens.”

An image flashed in his head of the page he had just finished. It was not on a color page and he only used one photograph.

“I’m sure they will enjoy the write-up, but as you may be aware, it’s been an unusually busy week of news in town.”

“Oh, you mean those terrible events from several days ago? Yes, very dreadful. I saw all about them on the television news already.” Her eyes on her large face narrowed. “I can’t imagine there is much more to say on the topic.”

Once again he chuckled, trying to stave off his annoyance with the woman. “Well, television doesn’t always devote the time to divulge all the details of a particular incident. I’m sure there are many details you will find interesting when the edition comes out. I don’t think you will be disappointed.”

“I certainly hope I’m not disappointed.”

“What I came in here for is some information about a bouquet of flowers left on my doorstep yesterday by an anonymous person.” He pulled his notebook from his back pocket where he had written down the names Darcie had given him of the types of flowers in the bouquet. He had pretended to be interested in them, not giving his wife the real reason for wanting to know the names. “There were red snapdragons, some daisies, purple lilacs, and chrysanthemums.” He looked at her, hoping the bouquet would register with her.

“And what do you wish to know about the flowers?”

“Well, I was hoping to find out who left them.”

“There was no note?”

She knew the answer; he had told her they were anonymous. She was toying with him.

“No,” he answered. “They were anonymous. No note or anything.”

“Were you expecting flowers from someone?”

“No.”

“If they were anonymous, then it appears that whoever delivered them did not want to be identified.”

“Yes, I understand that. But I was hoping to thank the person, and would really consider it a favor if I could find out the person’s name.”

“I see,” she said, leaning back and crossing her arms. “But I really can’t divulge the confidentiality of a customer, especially if their intent was to remain anonymous. It just wouldn’t be ethical.”

What does she think she is, he thought, a doctor? “I appreciate your concern, but I was hoping you would make an exception for me.”

“I see.” She looked deep in thought for a moment and then leaned forward on the counter on her big beefy arms, her face inches from his. “And I would appreciate it, as a favor to me, if the Garden Club tour is prominently displayed on the front page.” She smiled.

Blackmail, he thought. That’s what she’s resorting to. His mind drew up an image of the front page he had laid out, with the fire, the murder, and the latest on the trunk full of skeletons. There was no way he could ruin that layout for some little bit of information.

“Of course,” he lied. “I see no reason why that can’t be done.”

She leaned back and smiled.

“Now if I could just have that name,” he said, almost pleading.

“Let’s say we wait till the paper comes out Thursday morning. Come back and see me then, and I’ll see what I can do for you.” Her cheeks grew even larger as her grin reached the ends of her fat face.

As soon as he left the flower shop, he lit another cigarette.

In the middle of the night, Brian was awakened by his emergency scanner. Darcie lay beside him, long accustomed to sleeping through the static, tones, and dispatch calls. Brian awoke to the slightest chatter, an innate reaction from his years as a reporter. It was a fire call, but didn’t sound serious. Turned out to be a dumpster fire at the old shoe factory, a vacant four-story brick building at the beginning of Main Street, where the road branched off State Route 113.

The factory had closed down decades ago, and Brian remembered it being the topic at several Board of Selectmen meetings. Most townspeople wanted the structure torn down. It was an eyesore, they complained. It often was the scene of vandalism and teen parties. The selectmen were hesitant, hoping something good would come of the building. Selectmen Chairman Eldon Winch was behind a proposal to renovate the building into housing for the elderly or low income families, maybe even with shops on the ground floor. He had been CEO of the shoe factory before it closed down and probably still had a vested interest in the facility. But with the economy being the way it was, many people in town thought it wasn’t a wise investment. Besides, they said, there were enough empty storefronts downtown; it didn’t seem practical to open businesses on the edge of town.

With no consensus on what to do with the property, it remained abandoned, windows shattered, bricks crumbling, and the interior wooden beams and floors rotting. The railroad tracks beside it, paralleling Route 113, hadn’t seen a train in decades, either freight or passenger. It was the same rail line Rolfe Krimmer had worked for, long before he became the oldest resident in town, back when passengers actually rode the rails.