The Dead Past (9 page)

"I am perfectly capable of handling my own problems. Did you learn anything more from Tons
Harraday
?"

"No, but I'm meeting him tonight. What problems?”

“Please don't concern yourself."

"I won't so long as you tell me what happened.”

“It was nothing, dear."

"I can hang in there with you on this one, Anna. The more you say things like that the more circular this conversation becomes but I can keep at it as long as you can. So just tell me already."

She gave up because she knew that in our family nobody got any rest until we knew the other's business. "Mr. Timmons is erecting a second convenience store downtown, and from what I can gather, the doorways are as equally narrow as those in his other shop, which was built long before national laws were passed allowing access to the physically disabled. I merely pointed out that he should comply with building codes."

"Oh. And he got huffy?"

"A tad, but it really was nothing." With her nose in the air she dismissed the matter. "Now, if you'll let me I'll tell you what I learned at the pawn shop." The heat came up and I began to thaw. "The proprietor, Samuel
Harker
, told me that Margaret's lockets were hardly worth anything at all. She paid thirty-five dollars for the pair. It certainly was not the kind of loot a more professional burglar would have immediately grabbed."

"Well, we already know he wasn't a professional, and we don't know if he grabbed them immediately. Who pawned the pieces in the first place?"

She glanced at the traffic and said, "Why don't we discuss this further at home?"

"I still have some things to do here. Just give me a wrap and we'll see what fits together later."

That suited her fine, and she readjusted herself in the chair. I could see the intensity in her manner, the thrill of pulling the first thread that might unravel a mystery. "For obvious reasons
Harker
disliked giving me the name, but I eventually persuaded him. He finally admitted that they belonged to his late mother."

"He sold his Mommy's jewelry?" That gave me a creepy feeling.

"As
Harker
explained, she died three years ago and the lockets remained in his store until Margaret bought them. When she brought them back to have them en-graved, he was delighted she cared about them so much. That's why he so easily recognized the lockets when Richie turned up with them. Besides recognizing his own engraving, he knew the jewelry had formerly belonged to his mother."

"He should have said so in the beginning. Who's got them now?"

She plucked at her chin. "That's a good question, one I never thought to ask. They weren't on Richie's person when his body was discovered. I don't know how thorough a search was made of his premises."

"No one would have cared much after the fact. Even if Richie had been guilty of the
watchamacallit
—”

“Felony Murder Doctrine."

"—the cops couldn't pin it on a dead man."

Curves presented themselves, and I could see how intrigued Anna had become, her imagination taking over and propelling her to Agatha Christie heights of deception and puzzles. "Perhaps Richie
Harraday
was merely a fall guy."

"To take the rap for murdering Margaret while robbing her house?"

"It is a possibility."

"Without leaving a mark on her? It sounds a little too convoluted. To go that far."

"It would be brilliant misdirection."

"I think we're barking up the wrong tree here. Let's use Occam's Razor and keep it simple."

"All right," she assented. "For the time being."

"You originally told me that several pieces of jewelry had been stolen. Was it only those two lockets or was more taken from Margaret's home?"

"I really don't know. I told you exactly what Deputy Lowell related to me. I haven't thought about the possibility of other stolen items since." It bothered her that I kept asking questions she didn't have answers to. "Perhaps Richie had more stashed somewhere in his house. Where are you meeting his brother tonight?"

"At some pub near the lumber trails." I didn't want to tell her it was Jackals. "Did Wallace have anything more to add to what
Broghin
told us last night?"

"No. He was of the same mind as the sheriff. Accidental overdose and a panicky friend who dumped the body."

"Some friend."

I opened the door and got out, then leaned against the window. "I'll be home in half an hour. I've got a few more things I'd like to check."

"What were your first impressions of Tons
Harraday
?"

"A nice guy," I said. "He's an animal lover."

~ * ~

The Corner Convenience was a kind of threshold in the lives of most fifteen year olds in Felicity Grove; my friends and I had broken our beer teeth on six-packs and cases of Genesee picked up at the store. Timmons charged us five bucks more than if we'd been old enough to buy it legally, but we paid because we didn't want the hassle and humiliation of asking adults to sneak it to us.

It wasn't far downtown, only a mile south on a block where a modest shopping center had grown around the original stores. A recently finished development of Tudor homes sloped back into the blocks of Victorian houses, up a sprawl of knolls at the end of the street where ersatz oil lamp street lights lined the sidewalks. The area was a classic example of old meets new meets retro bygone days.

Unlike the jangling bells of the flower shop, The Corner Convenience had a shrill mechanical whistle that went off when you stepped on the inside rubber mat.

Timmons stood at his usual plastic-encased perch like a raven in a transparent cage, stacked high so he could see the aisles of his grocery; at the moment though he checked the cashiers' time cards, writing down numbers, mumbling to himself. He hadn't changed in twenty years. Once a man is bald and hunched and wrinkled, he doesn't have much left to change into. Timmons must've been bald, hunched, and wrinkled since before LBJ took office. The years didn't add to or steal anything from him, they just left the crotchety, selfish, foolish man alone, wouldn't you know.

I walked over and stared at him.

He looked up. "Yeah? Can I help you?”

“Could I speak to you alone for a minute please?”

“We are alone."

I cocked a thumb behind me to the MANAGER'S OFFICE: EMPLOYEE'S ONLY down the opposite aisle. "In your office.”

“Why? I can hear you just fine from here.”

“I'll explain in your office.”

“You will, huh?" He was suspicious, but knew me without knowing where he knew me from. "Look, I'm real busy.”

“I understand. It'll only take a minute, Mr. Timmons." He gnawed his lower lip for a moment and put down his pencil. "Make it quick, okay?" Warily, he left his roost, giving me sidelong glances, making sure I walked neither in front nor behind him. For all he knew I was a health inspector or a disgruntled customer. An elderly lady in a muffler carefully looked over the vegetables to our left, squeezing them in her vein-riddled fist.

"Don't squash the tomatoes," he told her.

"I never squash the tomatoes.”

“You always squash the tomatoes.”

“I don't even like tomatoes. I never buy tomatoes."

We went side-by-side to his office; he unlocked it and left the door open. "Now what's this about?"

I said, "It's about a foot too narrow.”

“What?”

“It's about the doorway to your new store. If it's the same as the one out front here, it's about a foot too narrow." His eyes brightened with recognition. "You're the Kendrick kid, aren't you? Jesus. You're the one who got Mary
DeGrase's
baby back for her. Goddamn." The respect in his gaze lasted another five seconds before he recalled the conversation he'd had with Anna. The light dimmed and went out. He spun from me. "Well, I'll tell you the same thing I told your granny.”

“I wish you wouldn't.”

“You listen. This is my place, I do things my way, and if you and yours got a problem with it, then shop someplace else.”

“You continue to miss the point," I said.

"She's a feisty old broad, that's for sure, and if—”

“Never say that about my grandmother, Mr. Timmons.”

“What?”

“Never call her
a broad
. Especially an old one."

For a second I thought he might say something intelligent and wouldn't ask me a clichéd question; but then his
prunish
face sort of fell in on itself and the
neolithic
stupidity and anger took over. "And just what the hell are you gonna do about it if I feel like
callin
' her a broad or a cow or a gimp?”

“Punch you very hard in the mouth.”

“Oh yeah?”

“You've a rapier wit.”

“What?”

“Sit down." I pointed to the large recliner that was too big to even slide under his desk. "Sit down in your chair.”

“You're threatening me," he said, astounded. "In my own goddamn place you're threatening me."

"I'm not threatening you. I'm telling you to sit down."

"You said you'd punch me in the mouth."

"That was if you called my grandmother a broad or a cow or a gimp. I never said what I'd do if you didn't sit in your chair."

The door stood open and shoppers passed by frequently; too tough to be scared, Timmons remained in his stronghold and knew something else was going on here, but he was too dense to realize what. He eyed me with that
wait'll
you're on fire in the middle of the street I won't even piss on your hat glare
.

Two folding chairs were stacked behind a filing cabinet. I grabbed one and sat. "Here like this."

"You're nuts," he said, sneering now, but he sat in the recliner.

"No, with your legs closer, your feet together."

"What the hell are you doing? I'm calling the cops."

"And we'll have them investigate those ugly rumors that you've been paying off building inspectors and fooling around with your teenaged check-out girls."

Those rumors, if they did exist—and they probably did—were also probably true. Either way, it got his attention. "Who the hell's been feeding you that load of shit?"

"Now try getting out the doorway," I said. "Your office door is the same size as the front."

He didn't bother; he understood my meaning, and sneered and shook his head and the worried look faded and one of disgust replaced it. No cops, no robbery, no beating the hell out of him, just the Kendrick kid going through a big act to give a rough time about his granny's wheelchair being too big to fit inside. Like the chair he now sat in.

Someone called him over the PA, asking his assistance at the courtesy counter. The tension dissipated further and he smiled, almost amiable now, just wishing he could make me understand his point of view. "You haven't changed a thing, Kendrick. Stick to finding lost babies."

~ * ~

Ten o'clock spun around slowly.