Mike Reuther - Return to Dead City (5 page)

“He’s a private investigator Reba,” Miller said, glancing nervously at his wife.

“I guess it’s no secret why you’re here.” Those steely eyes held me for a few moments. Almond-shaped and hazel, they were eyes that didn’t miss anything. Reba Miller, I decided, was nobody’s fool. This was a woman who knew the rules and how to get exactly what she wanted. It’s funny how you can size up a person so well in a matter of moments. Eighteen years of police work can do that.

“You may as well come in,” she shrugged. “I’ll make some coffee.”

Her husband couldn’t believe it. He started to say something before moving aside to let me pass. I gave him a smile and stepped inside.

I was struck first by the crystal chandelier hanging from a round skylight in the foyer. It sparkled from the sunlight bursting from above. On the one wall was a painting of horsemen in snooty English hunting outfits chasing down a fox. An archway led through the opposite wall into a high-ceilinged room. It was there that Miller led me.

We sat at an angle from each other in high-backed chairs making small talk, mostly about some of the accouterments of the room. There were lots of trappings of the rich. I have to say that. I noted several paintings of a local artist named Dave Arbor which hung on the walls. Arbor had gained some national recognition painting scenes of the rolling countryside around Centre Town. He was supposed to be good, but I could never see it. Not that I had an eye for art but pictures of old barns and Mennonite women doing quilts just don’t do it for me. Miller said the pictures were originals. I was impressed with that. The guy had to have put out some bucks for them.

His wife arrived with the coffee in a few minutes. The tray and the cups looked to be china. Everything matched, of course. I suddenly felt like I was at a damn tea party.

Miller’s wife put the tray down on a glass coffee table and sat down in a love seat
abutting her husband’s chair.

“You’ll have to excuse us if we seem a bit abrupt with you Mr. Crager,” she said. “But murder is not something we find easy to discuss.”

“Especially when it’s one’s brother,” added Miller.

I sampled the coffee. It was good stuff all right. Probably an expensive Columbian brand.

“Let’s just talk about you two for a few moments,” I said.

Miller raised a brow.

“Us, Mr.Crager?” Reba uncrossed and re-crossed her long, ivory legs and brushed back from her one cheek a few strands of red hair that had unloosened from the neat heap on the top of her head.

I looked at Miller. “He was your brother. Were the two of you close?”

He stared down at the plush red carpeting. When he raised his head, his eyes were
misty. “You must realize that this is hard for me.”

Reba sat with a stone-faced expression watching her husband.

“We were fifteen years apart,” he continued. “So, no. I suppose you could say we were never close.”

“Did you keep in contact through the years?” I asked.

Miller reached for his coffee on the table. His hands shook as he brought the cup to his mouth. He may have tasted a drop or two by the time he placed it gingerly back on the table.

“Christmas cards. A phone call every few years,” he said, brushing some lint from his trousers and clearing his throat.

“How about this summer?” I said. “He was back in town playing for the Mets. Didn’t you two find time to get together now and then?”

Miller leaned back in his seat. He seemed to be gathering his composure now. “He didn’t have much choice now did he?”

“I’m sorry
?
”

“He was the hometown boy, Mr. Crager. And I was his older brother, the owner of the ball club. Naturally, we got together. It’s good public relations all around.”

“You scratch my back; I’ll scratch yours,” said his wife scornfully.

“So, the two of you found yourselves thrown together at team functions. Things like that.”

Miller nodded. “Such as they were. There were very few of such activities.”

“Didn’t I see you and the missus here at the ball game last night?” I asked.

Miller and his wife looked at each other.

“That’s right,” she said.

“But you left before the fifth inning?”

“We had to attend a fund-raising banquet,” said Miller.

“Why go to the game at all if you had to cut out early?” I asked.

“I was there to throw out the first ball,” Miller said.

“I guess I missed that. I didn’t get to the game myself until the bottom of the first.”

I finished off my coffee and set the empty cup on the table. His wife asked me if I wanted more. The pot was this delicate looking piece of china with a big spout, and as I reached for the pot I had the uneasy feeling of them both watching me as if I was the hired help being asked to break bread with them for the first time. Naturally, I spilled a bit of the coffee on the rug as I poured the stuff into my cup.

“Sorry,” I said, feeling more foolish than anything.

Miller’s wife shrugged. “Never mind. Ronald and I are getting used to having soiled objects around our home.”

“Reba,” Miller said through clenched teeth.

“Don’t worry dear. I’m sure this gentleman isn’t interested in your failing business
enterprises.”

Miller shot his wife this kind of hurt puppy look for just a moment before shaking his head. His wife, for her part, just sat there with a cruel sort of smile as if she were enjoying every moment.

“So you were there to throw out the first pitch,” I said quickly. “For what purpose?”

“I guess that’s an easy enough question,” Miller said, raising his eyes from the floor. “I wear two hats. In addition to owning the team, I’m president of the downtown chamber of commerce. The business community raised funds through the summer for the statue, so they found it appropriate for me to perform that rather ceremonial task.”

“The statue? You mean that thing that rests in the lobby of the Spinelli?” I asked.

His wife threw me a curious look. “You’ve seen it Mr. Crager?”

“Yeah. I got a look at it last night.”

Miller’s eyes began to flutter. “So…That is to say…You were over at the hotel last night?” He and his wife exchanged glances.

“Now I wouldn’t be much of a detective if I wasn’t. Wouldn’t you say there Miller.”

Miller managed a pinched smile.

“Who’s the statue supposed to be?” I asked.

“I don’t suppose you were familiar with the late Jack Hastings?” he said.

Anyone who lived for any length of time in Centre Town was familiar with that name. At one time, he owned half the town. At least, that’s what I’d heard growing up in this burg. The many business enterprises revolving around the Hastings name were no secret. Those damn
radio jingles for Hastings Fuel Oil Service were the same ones I’d heard as a kid blaring over the air waves twenty-five years ago. And the Hastings name was in other little business ventures too
‒
like real estate. He’d been notorious as a slum landlord but
his most noted land holding had been a whorehouse over on Walnut Street. In daylight hours, it appeared like any other respectable clothing store
,
but at night a whole stable of girls made a fortune off horny men and a gaggle of teenage boys looking to lose their cherries. Of that I knew first hand. Secrets from a misspent youth.

“Why would they build a statue to that crook?” I said.

Miller’s wife suddenly couldn’t seem to stop from smiling. I was beginning to warm a bit to Reba Miller. Her husband, though, was taking it all very seriously.

“Jack Hastings was the person
most
responsible for bringing baseball back to
Centre Town,” he said sharply.

I decided I’d heard enough on that subject.

“Okay. So you went to this
swanky
dinner Saturday night to pay tribute to one of Centre Town’s shining citizens. What time did you leave the dinner?”

“I don’t know,” he said. “Ten o’clock, I suppose.”

“Sounds like an early night,” I said.

“They cut the evening’s activities short,” Miller said. “The murder you see…” His voice began to trail off.

“Yeah. Right,” I said.

“What other business are you in Miller?”

He was running a finger up and down the seam of his trousers. “I own and operate The Henry House.”

“The department store downtown?”

He nodded.

I knew the Henry House all right. A five-story relic on Pine Street that in the old days threw at shoppers everything in the way of household appliances, furniture, clothing, toys. The merchandise was everywhere, practically spilling into the aisles. At Christmas time, Henry House was like Macy’s. It was our Macy’s. That was the Henry House. Nowadays, it looked all but deserted. Even without asking Miller I knew damn well he was losing his ass to the Ocyl Mall.

“My husband’s been involved recently in the sale of the building.” Reba Miller said.

“Oh yeah,” I said.

Miller suddenly stood up from his chair. “Will that be all Mr. Crager?”

“Sure,” I said. “At least for now.”

They glanced at each other and then his wife asked, “Have you spoken with Jeannette about any of this?”

“Who’s Jeannette?” I said.

Miller gave his wife a look that suggested she’d already spoken too much. That was hardly going to stop this woman though. She once again broke into that cruel smile. “She’s supposed to be his ex-wife. But I wouldn’t buy it.”

“Reba.” Miller’s voice had grown testy. The information was clearly too juicy for his wife to resist, however.

“Where should I start?” she said. “There was the time…

“Reba please,” he said.

“Oh I’m sorry. The prodigal brother and all.”

“Stop it Reba,” he screamed stomping his foot. “Just stop it.”

He fell into a heap back in his chair while his wife sat across the room, wearing the sort of smug, triumphant smile that can crush a guy’s heart. Poor Miller, I thought. He probably has to come begging for it from this woman.

“How can I get a hold of this ex-wife?” I asked.

“Oh that’s easy,” she said, obviously more than eager to fill me in on the details. She’s shacked up these days with the esteemed Giles Hampton. It’s a match made in heaven.”

We both got up while Miller remained in his seat fuming.

At the door Reba turned almost apologetic. “I’m afraid this has all been a little too much for my husband.”

“A death in the family is never easy,” I said.

“Perhaps we’ll meet again, Mr. Crager?”

It was those eyes again. They were cold, calculating. She lifted her hand again in that reluctant way. I got another look at the baseball-sized ring. Standing there in the foyer with that skylight above us, it threw off more sparkles than a Fourth of July fireworks display.

I told her that perhaps we would meet again. Then I left.

A different cab driver was waiting for me at the end of the drive.

“High rent district, huh?” he said.

He was a young guy with a wise guy look.

“Most of my friends are,” I said.

“Yeah right,” he said, starting up the cab and pulling away.

I had the cabbie drive me to the nearest convenience store where I knew there would be a phone. In the time I’d been away from Centre Town, the 24-hour mini-markets had taken root all over the city. I’d come to like the things since my days as a cop back in Albuquerque. They were havens for any cop looking for a quick coffee, some cigarettes or a sudden phone call. And back in Albuquerque they were everywhere, fitting in easily with the rest of the sprawling city’s chain stores, fast food franchises, strip malls and overall boomtown mentality. But back here in my hometown, among all the old architecture, the damn mini-marts stuck out like weeds in a garden. We were barely off Grand Boulevard when we came upon one in a strip mall.

I had the cabbie pull into the parking lot and instructed him to keep the meter running. Down the block the old familiar yellow and red sign of Switzer’s beckoned. Switzer’s was a mom and pop grocery from the old days. It was a haunt from my boyhood about a half dozen blocks or so from the First Ward. At the first glimpse of that old sign my mouth began to water with the taste of those red hot dollars you could buy three for a penny. They clung to the teeth like glue and no doubt had helped keep more than one Centre Town dentist in expensive suits. I was among a gaggle of snotty-nosed kids who’d stop in at Switzer’s on my way home from St. Mary’s parochial school located a block to the north.

The three-step stoop was still there and the old screen door that yawned open when you entered. But inside it was different. The pungent smell of bread was the first tip-off that it had probably been sometime before Watergate since I’d been in the place. Fat Mrs. Switzer, always seen peering through her cat’s rimmed spectacles from above the wooden counter of the candy display, had been replaced with some pimply-faced kid with a bad haircut and an earring. An apron fell from his chest to his knees. It was covered along with his thin white arms with baking powder and splotches of dough.