Loonies (9 page)

In the house, he made a pot of coffee. While waiting for it to brew, he heard a noise on the front steps. He figured it was Darcie back from the supermarket and went to open the door for her and help her with the bags. But before getting to the front hallway, he heard a second sound—the slight clink of metal.

When he entered the hallway, he saw a small envelope on the floor below the mail slot. He bent down to pick it up and saw the familiar writing: “Mr. Editor.”

Not taking the time to open it, he flung open the front door and stepped outside. There were no cars on the street. A squirrel scampered across the road and raced up a maple tree on the other side. A couple houses down, three girls played jump rope. The two swinging the rope were chanting, while the third girl skipped over the swinging rope.

“Don’t try and hitch a ride with your thumb,” the girls chanted, “’cause the Knackerman will get you and turn you into bubble gum.”

He looked the other way. Nothing. Nobody. How could someone get away that quickly?

He looked at the envelope and opened it in a rush, his hands shaking. He looked at the lines printed on it:

What was the Somnambulist doing up on the ridge?

The Silhouette

Brian made two quick phone calls. The first to the police station. Wanda said the chief had left for the day but that he was going to stop at Cully’s Pub before going home. The next call was to Darcie’s cell phone. He told her he had to run out.

“But I’m on my way home with dinner,” she said, exasperation in her voice.

“Something important came up,” he said, glancing at the message in his hand, wondering what the hell it meant.

“There’s always something important lately.”

“And you thought this was going to be a nice quiet town.” He waited to hear laughter in response to his wisecrack, but there was only silence on the phone. “I’ll try not to be too late.”

“Okay,” she muttered, and clicked off without saying goodbye.

He got in his car and drove the short block to Main Street and then around the corner to the pub across from the news office. The chief’s car was parked out front. Once inside, he saw the place was about half full, a good crowd for a Saturday night. The place did its best business after work during the week. Brian looked around for Noah.

The pub was dim, with dark, barn-board walls, the wooden floor scuffed and worn. Dim lights from ceiling fans cast faint glows over the round tables. The long bar was at the back of room, before the kitchen. The walls were covered with old framed photos of Smokey Hollow from fifty or sixty years ago, revealing a thriving downtown with shops and restaurants when the town was in its heyday.

Eldon Winch, the selectmen chairman, sat at one table with Leo Wibbels. They were engaged in conversation when Brian walked in, but now both men eyed him. Laughter distracted him and his gaze shifted to a table where Fire Chief Shives, Assistant Chief Runck, and a couple other firefighters sat, still in uniforms, off-duty for the night. Simon Runck had his puppet, Marshall, at the table. At another table toward the end of the bar was a slim woman with luscious long, blonde hair. She sat alone, sipping a glass of white wine. It surprised him that such a young woman would be by herself.

Brian glanced around the rest of the people at the other tables—some he recognized, others he didn’t—before he looked over at the bar. He saw his sports editor, Isaac Monck, at the bar sitting next to a dirty-faced man who looked familiar. It took only a second for Brian to recognize him as the chimney sweep. Noah Treece sat by himself at the bar, and Brian headed in that direction.

He brushed past the firefighters’ table, nodding but not wanting to stop.

“What’s the rush?” Marshall said. “Where’s the fire?” The men at the table burst into laughter.

Brian stopped and turned to face the puppet and couldn’t help but grin.

“Just trying to catch Noah,” he said, without realizing he was addressing the puppet. He quickly shifted his eyes to Simon.

“Any break on the case?” Simon asked. “We haven’t gotten anything more from the state fire marshal’s office.”

“Nothing I’ve heard.”

The puppet’s head turned toward him, and its mouth dropped open. “That was quite a scene at the House of Dijon,” Marshall said.

“What? Where?”

“Dijon mustard,” the puppet said. “The Mustard House.” The puppet’s mouth jittered as laughter emanated from it, or at least it appeared to Brian that it was coming from there, though he knew it really wasn’t. Shives and the two young firefighters chuckled.

“Oh, yeah,” Brian said, still trying to remember to look at Simon when he responded, but it was difficult. “It certainly was a show.”

“And I had to miss it,” Marshall exclaimed, “because these jerkos left me behind.” He gestured to the others at the table.

“Marshall,” Simon said. “You know you can’t get too close to fire. You’re made of wood.”

Marshall turned to look at his master. “But you know how much I like fires. You’re the one who’s afraid of them.” He looked back at Brian. “Why he ever became a firefighter I’ll never understand.”

“We’ve discussed that,” Simon said.

“I would have gone by myself,” Marshall said, “but my feet can’t reach the pedals in the fire truck.”

The young firefighters forced laughter, as if trying to appease their bosses. Or maybe they had enough beer for it not to matter.

“Maybe you can make the next one,” Brian said to Marshall and turned to go.

“Hey, Clark Kent,” Marshall said, and Brian stopped and turned to face the puppet.

“Next time you go to a fire,” Marshall said. “Stop by and pick me up, cause these schmucks won’t take me.”

“Sure,” Brian said.

As he made his way to the bar, he passed by the blonde woman’s table, noticing now he was closer that he was wrong about her age. She was not a young woman. The thick, shiny blonde hair that tumbled in waves down nearly to her waist had fooled him. Up close he could see the creases on her face and lines around her eyes and realized she was probably in her sixties. He was sure the hair was a wig.

He greeted Noah as he sat down beside him at the bar, the laughter of the firemen continuing behind him. The bar owner and namesake, Hale Cullumber, a fat, greasy haired man who also tended bar, came over, and Brian ordered a beer. He knew the chief didn’t drink and noticed a glass of lemonade in front of him.

“Tough day at the office?” Brian asked.

The chief smirked. “Enough for me to warrant needing one of these.” He lifted his lemonade.

“Talk to Steem?”

“Called him after you left, told him about your photo. He’s going to be paying you a visit.”

“Can’t wait.” Brian took a swig from his beer. It was borderline warm. “Cully,” he said to the bartender. “Turn the cooler down a couple notches. Jesus.”

Cullumber waved his bar rag at him in a gesture of disgust, but it could have easily been the white flag of surrender. Brian had harped on the bar owner before that his beer wasn’t cold enough, but it had no effect. He guessed that since Cullumber had the only drinking establishment in town, it didn’t really matter to him.

“So what brings you down here?” Noah asked.

Brian pulled the envelope out of his pocket and waved it in front of the chief before setting it on the bar between them.

Noah glanced at the writing on the envelope and looked up at Brian. “And?”

Brian told the chief about the first letter he had received, apologizing for not bringing it up when he stopped in the police station.

“I wasn’t sure if it meant anything. And when I got this one, I still debated telling you, because if some anonymous source wanted to communicate with me, I should keep it between the two of us.”

“But?”

Brian looked at Noah. “With this note, I think I might need some help.”

“What does it say?”

“I’m not quite sure,” Brian said, taking the note out of the envelope and handing it to the chief. He studied Noah’s face as his eyes rolled across the short message. When he was done, Noah’s eyes met his.

“Do you know this Somnambulist?” Brian asked.

“Yes,” the chief answered. “His name is Sherman Thurk. He works for the city Sanitation Department, rides on the back of the garbage truck, picks up the trash barrels. Has a little problem with sleepwalking.”

“Little problem?”

“Yeah.” Noah nodded. “Kind of wanders around town at night asleep. Never causes too much of a problem. Usually wakes up at some point and just walks home.”

Brian thought for a moment, remembering the man who almost bumped into him the night they opened the trunk. “Is he a tall, lanky kind of fellow? Big hair?”

“Yeah,” the chief said, smiling. “That’s him.”

“I think I’ve seen him a couple times.”

“He’s pretty harmless.”

“But what would he have been doing up by the Mustard House?”

“When he’s sleepwalking you never know where he might end up. I’m sure it’s just a coincidence.” The chief took a sip of his lemonade.

“Does he remember anything when he’s in that state?”

“You mean, if he saw something up there?”

Brian nodded.

Noah shrugged. “I don’t know. It’s usually a pretty deep sleep. Sometimes my boys have had to pick him up and give him a ride home. He rarely remembers anything. I’d be more concerned about who it was who saw him up there.”

Brian waved the note in his hand. “This person thinks it’s worth mentioning.”

“I can let Captain Steem know about it.”

Brian dropped his head. That was the last thing he wanted. How could he get Noah to be more excited about investigating this case on his own? Where was his drive?

“I don’t think you should,” Brian said.

“It’s his investigation.”

“It’s still your town. There’s no reason you can’t check this out.”

“Don’t you mean ‘we’?”

Now it was Brian’s turn to grin. “Of course I’d like to go, too. And if anything comes of it, we can let Steem know after.” Brian finished his beer. “Do you know where this Thurk guy lives?”

“Yeah, at a rooming house over on Cheshire Road. We can take a ride out there now, before he goes to sleep.” The chief grinned.

A hand clasped Brian on the shoulder, startling him as he was getting off his bar stool. He turned to see Selectman Winch.

“Good evening, Mr. Keays,” Eldon said, smiling. “Nice to see you.”

“Same here, but I’m just leaving.”

“No problem. I just wanted to let you know how I’m looking forward to your coverage of the garden tour. I hope a lot of this other nasty stuff happening doesn’t distract too much from the kind of things people want to see in the paper.”

Brian had to keep from chuckling. “I will certainly try to give everything its fair play,” he said, without really giving the chairman a direct answer. He bid Eldon farewell, and he and Noah headed toward the exit.

“It’s our chief and Jimmy Olson on the case,” Marshall yelled out as they went by the firemen’s table.

Brian glanced back as the puppet laughed along with the others. The only one not laughing was Simon Runck. Except that since he was really the voice of Marshall, he kind of was laughing.

The two of them didn’t have far to go. Just a block after the newspaper office was Willow Street. Brian followed the chief in his car as he turned onto Willow, which led to Cheshire, a curved lane that looped around. Noah pulled up in front of a two-story house with a front porch topped by a second-floor porch. It was set back from the road and fronted by a long lawn. Brian stopped his car behind the chief’s, and the two men walked up a stone walkway that cut through the middle of the lawn.

“Eldon Winch owns this place,” Noah said, as they strolled side by side up the walkway.

Brian noticed a familiar face up ahead. It was Rolfe Krimmer, and what he was holding wasn’t his newly acquired Boston Post Cane. The old man stood on the lawn wearing a white tank top and work pants. He held the long handle of a sledge hammer in his hands, dangling it in front of him, his legs spread. Rolfe swung the hammer back and forth, like a pendulum, its arc getting higher with each stroke. The old man’s arms were surprisingly muscled. Sweat beaded up on the tip of his nose till drops fell one by one.

“Good evening, Rolfe,” Noah said as they approached.

The old man set the sledge hammer down and nodded, too out of breath to actually speak.

“What’s this?” Brian said, curious about the strange scene.

“Just my,” Rolfe started to say between puffs of breath, “daily exercise…routine. Way to…keep my…strength up.” The old man smiled.

Brian wondered why Rolfe hadn’t told him about this when he interviewed him about his secret to longevity. He supposed he could still add it to the article, though with all the news that had happened since, there might not be too much interest in the old man’s story.

“Keep up the good work,” Noah said as he and Brian ascended the front steps to the boarding house. The chief pressed the button next to a nameplate that read: S. Thurk. Brian glanced back to watch Rolfe Krimmer and his exercise regimen.

A wheelchair was parked on the front porch. Its occupant was a short man wearing a white Panama hat, his long, stringy gray hair flowing over his collar. His right leg ended at his knee, the left leg missing its foot. His left arm was missing everything below his elbow. He waved at the two of them with the three fingers he had left on his right hand.

“What’s up, Doc?” Noah said, returning the gesture.

The wheelchair man grinned but did not speak. He was missing a couple teeth.

“Hello?” came a sleepy voice from the intercom.

“Chief Treece,” Noah said. “Just wanted a minute with you.”

There was no response at first, and then a buzzer sounded.

Brian followed Noah in and up a narrow flight of stairs. Down a hallway at the top of the stairs, a door opened before they even got to it. A tall, lanky man stood in the doorway, bent a little so the nest of hair on his head didn’t brush against the lintel.