The Underground Lady (15 page)

Hebrone and I made our way along the shoreline toward VonHorner's dock. Sunny waited in the truck with instructions to blow the horn once, then twice in rapid succession if anything looked out of the ordinary. My watch read one a.m. A light was on in a back room of the house, probably a bedroom.

"We will have to wait," Hebrone whispered, pointing at the light.

"Well, I know how."

"How to what?"

"Wait."

At that moment, the light went out. When another thirty minutes passed, we eased along the shoreline to the boathouse. Water was lapping disconsolately at the pilings. The reflection of the neon light at the end of the pier floated on the water like the iridescent longings of an abandoned woman. An old song from the fifties, made famous by the Platters, came drifting across my thoughts:
"
Harbor Lights
" –
I saw the harbor lights, they only told me we were parting, those same old harbor lights that once brought you to me.

Hebrone tried the door to the boathouse. It opened with a loud squeak. We eased inside. He used a penlight to look around. There was nothing there, the place was empty, not even a boat. There was an odor of water-soaked, rotting, creosote-treated wood. There was no rope, no five by nine cards, no pencil stub, and no ten-penny nails – nothing.

We made our way back to the truck. Sunny said all had been quiet. Hebrone removed the clip from the Glock and took the round out of the chamber. We drove back in silence.

***

When I arrived back at the cottage after dropping Hebrone and Sunny off at Rose's house, my watch read three-thirty a.m. This had been a truly wasted night. So much for my instincts. Gerald VonHorner may have had nothing to do with what happened to Hadley Welch. He simply may not have wanted to talk about her, was still carrying the grudge of a spurned lover, even after twenty-five years. I could see that. It's hard to live with the unlived life. People say one can die of a broken heart, but the heart is a pump. It's that part of the brain that produces emotion that causes the soul to die. Thank you Harvey Cushing, the father of neurosurgery in the United States, for teaching me that.

Opening the window in the bedroom, a light wind brought the cold air in on gossamer wings, moving the curtains like a saintly ghost. I added an extra blanket and crawled into bed. False dawn was easing the darkness, and exhaustion crept over me like a black shroud.

I killed the big bear with a single shot. I remember touching the coarse hair on the head, the smoothness of the long white incisors, measuring the width of the massive paws, wincing at the sharpness and length of the silver claws, and then seeing the dead ball of its eye as it stared sightless through me to the white mountains. This death drew me toward a compassion I didn't fully understand. All I knew was that such sentiments were not spoken of among men. I slept until late afternoon when the cold January light began to fail. I don't think I ever slept more deeply and there was the pleasant illusion that I had become part of the bed. I turned to see B.W. staring at me. He was supposed to be at Rose's. "You are not a bear."

Looking at the door, I saw Rose standing, leaning against the frame. "How long you been here?"

"Not long. Watching you sleep is not my favorite pastime. I made you some coffee."

"Thanks. Do we have a meeting with Avis Shaw?"

"No. His wife said he was not feeling well. We are to be at his home at ten o'clock in the morning. In the meantime, get up, take a shower, which I'm sure you sorely need, put on some clothes, and be at my house in an hour. I'm grilling steaks, and you should bring some of that grape juice. Do not forget B.W., who I will leave with you for now."

"Yes, mother."

Rose stuck her nose up, left in a huff, slamming the front door on her way out. I heard her truck start and drive away. B.W. stared at me as if I should be doing as Rose ordered.

***

The only thing I can say about the dinner at Rose's is that the two inch thick ribeyes were grilled to perfection, and the 1975 Chateau Pavie, a well-known first growth vineyard from St. Emilion that I discovered in the cellar, went with them perfectly. We were all tired from the night before, and after coffee in the den, decided to call it an evening, agreeing to meet at the cottage around nine-thirty in the morning and leave from there to drive to Avis Shaw's house. It was also agreed that Sunny would do the interview since Shaw had sent her the letter saying her mother did not die in a plane crash, but was murdered.

When B.W. and I drove up at the cottage, the front door was standing open. A note lay on the kitchen counter, printed in pencil in neat straight lines on a five by nine card.

I WARNED YOU

HOPE YOU ENJOYED THE STEAK

Chapter Twelve

We pulled up in front of Avis Shaw's home on North Street in Union. Rose and Sunny rode in Rose's truck – Shack, Hebrone, and I followed in Shack's truck. There was a police car and an ambulance in the driveway. The front door was open and a Union Policeman stood on the front porch. Shack knew him, and asked what was going on.

"Old man Shaw suffered a stroke. EMT's pronounced him. We're waiting on the Coroner."

We huddled beside Rose's truck.

"Bad luck for Shaw and us," Shack said, pawing the dirt with a boot toe.

"I've got to stop by the grocery store," Rose said.

"I think you and Sunny will be safe. We'll meet you back at your house by noon. You have your cell phone if there's a problem."

Rose looked at me with empathy. "Where's your cat, Leicester? He hanging from your door?"

Back at the cottage, B.W. was safe. I showed Shack and Hebrone the note left on my kitchen table last night.

"This man's smart, Jay. He's familiar with our activities. Maybe you and Hebrone should make another run at the men you interviewed previously."

"He's right, Leicester. I'd like to get a handle on these people."

"Assuming it's one of them. Explain to me how anyone could have known Rose was grilling steaks?"

"Good question," Hebrone said, looking at me.

My phone rang. It was Paul Bradford, the Tower Chief at the Meridian Airport. The transcript from Hadley Welch's radio communications with John Roberts the day she went missing had arrived. I told him we would pick them up late this afternoon. He said that any time before five p.m. would be fine.

I hung up thinking we could start in Union with the lawyer, then on to Decatur for the banker, pick up the transcript at the airport, continue to the retired Navy man's house, and after that set our sights on Gerald VonHorner.

Shack stood up from the couch. "You know the only person who knew what you all were doing last night that wasn't there was me."

"You're right," Hebrone said, with a blank expression.

"So what's your point, Shack?"

"I just want everything out in the open."

"We know you didn't leave the note."

"How?"

"You can't write that well."

He smiled. "I want the air cleared, that's all."

"I trust you as much as I do Rose and Hebrone. Never doubt that, Shack."

"Thanks. I've got cows to feed. Good luck with the interviews. I'll keep an eye on the girls."

We watched him drive out the terrace row onto the gravel road as Rose and Sunny passed by returning from the grocery store.

Hebrone turned and looked at me. "I'm glad he brought that up."

"Why?"

"I'd thought about it."

"You were wrong."

"Yeah."

***

Hebrone and I parked in front of the building with the sign hanging across the sidewalk that read: CHARLES COLLINSWOOD ATTORNEY AT LAW.

Pussy Galore was at her desk wearing the same steel-rimmed glasses and a different-colored straight, plain dress. I would bet she had a closet full of them. Today, her hair was pulled up into a tightly woven bun. Her smile was infectious and I was delighted to see some color in her face and sparkle in her eyes.

"Miss Galore, good afternoon. This is Hebrone Opshinsky, a colleague of mine. Is Mr. Collinswood available? We need to speak with him."

She stood, extended a hand to Hebrone. "Nice to meet you, Mr. Opshinsky. Yes, Mr. Leicester, please have a seat, and I'll inform him you are here."

We sat in comfortable leather chairs from another era. It was dark in the waiting area creating a claustrophobic feeling. There were old prints hanging on the walls depicting horses pulling carriages across small creeks with young people riding in them. These, too, were dark and depressing.

"Pussy Galore?"

"Her father was an Ian Fleming fan."

"Too bad for her."

"Please go in, Mr. Leicester. He'll see you now."

Collinswood, stood, shook hands. "Ah, Mr. Leicester, you have some information on Hadley Welch?"

"There have been some developments. This is a colleague of mine, Hebrone Opshinsky. He's working with me to determine what happened to Miss Welch."

They shook hands. Collinswood seemed shorter, heavier, and older than a few days ago. His eyes were still alert and aware of everything around him.

"Rough week?" I asked.

"Does it show? Murder case in an adjoining county. Really too much for a one-man office. So what have you found out about Hadley's disappearance?"

"Someone sent the daughter, Sunny Pfeiffer, a letter that said her mother was murdered. We got fingerprints off the letter, matched Avis Shaw."

"I'll be – I know Shaw. So that's why you were looking into this. What did he have to say about it?"

"He's dead. Stroked out this morning, before we had a chance to interview him."

Collinswood sat back in his chair, looked up at the ceiling. He ran a hand through his receding hair, closed his eyes. Then, “Did you talk to Peter Pushkin, the banker from Decatur?"

"Yes, he wasn't very forthcoming. He did deny being the father of her daughter."

"I remember that rumor going around at the time, but I never believed it."

"It turned out that it wasn't true."

"Now you did not get this from me, but Avis Shaw did some dozier work for Pushkin and he was dissatisfied with how it was done and wouldn't pay him. Shaw came to me. I convinced Pushkin to settle with him, but there was bad blood between them. I don't know if that means anything."

"It may. Someone is upset that we're looking into the disappearance. They warned me off the investigation."

"How?"

"They hung a coyote from my front door, left me a note threatening my life."

"Good God, man, this is serious. Did you notify the sheriff?"
"He ran the prints for us."

"You think Avis Shaw hung that coyote from your door?"

"No, there was another set of prints on the note that threatened me."

"Really? I know better than to ask. In fact, I don't want to know."

"We haven't had a chance to talk with him yet, but we think he was hired to make the threat, not the one who wants the investigation stopped."

"Mr. Leicester, I can assure you that I had nothing to do with this, and if I can be of any help, please let me know. I have to be in court in Philadelphia in half an hour. It was good to meet you, Mr. Opshinsky."

In the outer office, Pussy Galore handed me a sealed envelope. "Please read this later, Mr. Leicester."

Closing the door to my truck, I looked at Hebrone. "What do you think?"

"That lawyer had nothing to do with this, though I got a sense that he was hiding something."

"Aren't all lawyers?"

"What's with the envelope from Miss Galore?"

Opening it, I read out loud:

Can you meet me at my apartment tonight at seven o'clock?

I may have some information you want.

She gave the address, one that I did not know.

"Well, I believe Miss Plain Jane has a thing for you, my friend."

"We shall see. Let's go shake up a banker."

***

The FARMER'S BANK OF DECATUR was typical of every small town bank in America. Tellers were located on one side of a long building with access to the drive-through windows, Loan Officer's cubicles on the opposite side, and the bank president's plush, glassed-in office at the back of the building. We could see Peter Pushkin at his desk. A receptionist asked if she could be of assistance.

I pointed to Pushkin. "We need to see him."

Not waiting for her reply, we walked into his office.

He stood, anger showing on his face. "I thought I made myself clear that I didn't want…"