“That’s what I assume,” I said. “Although locking the attic was somewhat unnecessary, since everybody would think Gordon was buried in Connecticut.”
“Sure. But you’ve just killed your brother. He’s up there, rotting. Locking the door was probably like sealing a tomb: it finalizes the act, gives it distance, and you don’t have to think about it so much. Except the key was in Kokar’s pocket... but I don’t think it bothered those two all that much.” She picked up the paper and carefully put her cap on. “Well, I’ll go slip this under Chief Morin’s nose and tell him we have to arrest that nice old couple, the Obermeyers, for murder. That should get his juices flowing.”
I grabbed her wrist. “What are you going to say? Or, to put it another way, how are you going to keep me out of it?”
“I’m not sure, probably tell him I did a little private investigation. Somewhat like I did with Duncan Kokar. What you gotta hope is Elinor doesn’t mention your visit. She’s a bit dim, but your visit and her and Milt’s arrest are going to be very close together. If she mentions you, I’ll take a shot at covering it.”
“The citizens of this fine community will judge you a wise and diligent policewoman.”
“Perhaps, but the gods will judge me a lying hypocrite and no doubt punish me accordingly.”
“A woman said much the same about me.”
“Harry, when it comes your turn to face the gods, I don’t want to be anywhere around.”
With Cat mewing nervously, I climbed the stairs to CeeCee Dorfman’s apartment and banged on the door. She answered dressed in a baggy gray sweat suit and wearing a tattered yellow headband with PAIN printed on it in bold black letters. I held out Cat and the bottle of sherry I’d stolen from the Obermeyers. “I’ll try to make it back before you open.”
She took Cat, who immediately calmed down, and looked at the bottle. “Well, well. This stuff costs around forty bucks. Does this mean you’ve come acourting?”
“It simply means I’m grateful for your kindness to Cat.”
As I reached the bottom of the steps, CeeCee yelled, “Hey, Harry.” I looked up at her. “This business of yours, does it have to do with that station wagon?”
“Yes, it does.”
She stroked Cat. “You’re a sneaky bastard, aren’t you, Harry?”
I pedaled back to Gretchen’s, left the bike against the back wall, and hurried to Winter Street. Turning the corner, I looked down the street and muttered a few strong words, for I was too late. Three police cars were parked in front of the Obermeyers, and Betty Worthen, Chief Morin, and two other policemen were mounting the front steps. I watched as they knocked, waited, knocked again, and were finally let into the house.
Walking like a tourist, I ambled back to Gretchen’s and slumped in the last booth. Gretchen put a chilled mug and a carafe of red wine in front of me, slid into the other seat, and lit a cigarette.
“You look kinda squinty-eyed and restless, like some animal that’s been hunted for most of the night and is far from the den.” Her eyes widened. “Cat? Where’s Cat? She’s all right, ain’t she?”
I nodded. “Cat’s fine. She’s at CeeCee Dorfman’s getting some physical therapy.”
She grinned, and blue smoke drifted from between her yellowed teeth. “CeeCee Dorfman, huh. You giving that gal the benefit of your glittering personality?”
I put a shocked look on my face. “Hardly. She’s too young and too tough. You know her?”
“She ain’t all that young, and if ya look back far enough, you’d see we’re kin. I lent her some money so she could buy the town garage and turn it into a gym. Paid me back within the year. How’d you happen to meet CeeCee? Your lifestyles ain’t exactly in sync.”
“She used to work at Kinch and Kokar, and I found out she’s good with cats.” I finished my wine and stood. “I have places to go and things to do. Will you keep an eye on the bike for me?”
“Of course I will. That’s one of the perks ya get when ya drink at my restaurant. I watch over all the bicycles along the back wall.”
As I walked past Winter Street, I looked toward the Obermeyer house. One police car was parked in front, and a lone policeman, fenced in by long ribbons of yellow crime scene tape, was pacing back and forth on the porch. I walked a block, turned up Summer Street, and walked until I was opposite the Obermeyer house.
Trying to look like I did it every day, I ambled through the back parking lot of a small apartment house and traced the path across the vacant lot I’d taken yesterday. As I neared the Obermeyers’, I scanned the rear windows, didn’t notice any faces staring back, so plunged into the thick island of trees and brush surrounding the shed I’d seen from the attic window.
The shed was a garage, and after seventeen years of neglect, about the only reason it was still standing was its sturdy build and a network of thick vines that gripped it in a tight web.
I forced my way along its side to a set of sliding double doors. The top guide wheels had long since rusted to the tracks, but the bottom guides were gone so I pulled one door out and slipped into a moist blackness that smelled like a zoo and reminded me of the walk-in at the senior center.
Pulling out my handy penlight, I flicked it on and cut a narrow swath through the black space. The left side of the garage held an ancient lump of rust that might have once been a riding lawn-mower, a wheelbarrow with a plastic tub that still glowed a faint red and was filled with some sort of muck, and several lumps that probably had once been bags of fertilizer.
The right side held a rusted, grime-encrusted 1976 Plymouth station wagon. The tires had rotted away, and the car had sunk into the dirt floor to the bottom of its doors. I crept to the driver’s door, gripped the handle with both hands, put my right foot against the metal, and with the hinges shrieking in protest, forced the door open.
Time and critters had turned the inside of the station wagon into a primitive landscape. As I gingerly crawled into the remains of the front seats, small furry things scurried in every direction.
Finding nothing in the front, I climbed over the seat into the back. The rear seats were folded flat and piled with rank, decayed clothing infested with tiny, squeaking creatures. I had to put my head into that fetid mess, but I found it under a pile of cloth on the floor behind the front passenger seat.
With effort and some noise I managed to get the door closed and slipped out of that dark world. I plowed through the trees and brush, took several deep breaths, and made my way back to Gretchen’s, washed up, and reclaimed my bike.
CeeCee Dorfman opened the door, held out Cat, and smirked. “She didn’t scream nearly as much as she did the first couple of times. Not that it bothers me. I just duct-tape her mouth shut and keep going.”
I narrowed my eyes and said in a low voice, “Your treatment of Cat has not gone unnoticed. A herd of animal lovers are going to descend on this den of pain any minute now.”
“No problem. I’ll sign them up for a term of Black Iron. When I’m through with them, they’ll be animals. Listen, I’ve got to open up. See you tomorrow?”
I nodded, said, “Thanks,” and headed down the stairs.
“How’s the thing with the station wagon coming?” CeeCee asked.
“It’s almost over.”
“Listen, you’re going to tell me about it, aren’t you?”
I stopped at Gretchen’s for a mug of motivation to get me home and saw Betty Worthen sitting alone in the last booth drinking coffee. I bought a carafe of wine and slid into the seat beside her. Cat pulled herself out of the sling, sniffed at Betty’s empty cup, sat down by the napkin holder, and stared across the room at Gretchen, Bringer of Beef.