No Gun Intended Page 6

  “Does it matter? Aren’t we here to talk about Claudia? What do you all know so far?”

  Nancy Bigelow was keeping quiet. Her gin and tonic was drained, and she was looking around nervously, like the next one couldn’t come a moment too soon.

  Mom, not one to hold her tongue, didn’t hold it this time, either. “Well, well, Phillip, and Nancy, we’re very concerned about your daughter as well as ours. She has become involved in this crap without having done anything to deserve it. She was going to try to help your daughter, and all that’s happened to Annabelle so far is the police have been interrogating her like she’s some sort of fucking criminal, and you seem to think it’s okay to treat her like a little girl.”

  Mom started looking around for a drink to appear, too.

  Phillip laughed. “Okay. Sorry. Wrong foot. I’m beat from the trip, and all of this has got me off my game.” He winked at me again.

  I squinted at him. “You know what I say…”

  He leaned toward me. “What’s that, Anna?”

  “Annabelle. I say, ‘If you wink, better not blink.’” I had just made that up, but I stared at him with what I hoped was a glare that would put Linda Hamilton’s Sarah Connor from The Terminator II to shame.

  Mom guffawed. “That’s a good one, honey.”

  Phillip looked confused, Nancy was now tossing nuts down her throat like she hadn’t eaten in a year, and Dad rubbed his face.

  Luis—perhaps wishing he was home with his pregnant wife and not surrounded by the hotheaded Starkey women—stepped up. “Mr. and Mrs. Bigelow, we are all very upset about the circumstances. We appreciate you meeting us for a drink. We wonder if you have any ideas about who could have attacked Claudia, and if you know why she was expecting to pick up a backpack with a gun at the airport.”

  The waiter showed up then, and distributed our cocktails. I sipped my bourbon, Mom quickly downed a gulp of chardonnay, Dad swallowed some Scotch, and Nancy and Phillip both drank from their glasses like alcohol was nectar from the gods. Luis was reaching for his beer glass when Nancy spoke up.

  “It’s that boyfriend. He’s been trouble all along.”

  Phillip nodded. “We told the police. On the phone. But they say they checked him out, and they can’t confirm that he was even in town when all this happened.”

  “What is his name?” Luis asked.

  “Wes something, right Nance?”

  “Wesley Young. He and Claudia have been dating off and on for about six months.”

  “And you don’t like him?” asked Dad.

  “He hit her once,” Nancy responded, then drank some more.

  I was watching Phillip through this conversation, and he winced when Nancy said that. It was like the memory pained him as much as the first time he heard it. So I considered that maybe he wasn’t such a horrible man. Maybe he really loved his daughter and was just upset.

  “That’s horrible!” said Mom. “Did she press charges?”

  Nancy shook her head. “Wouldn’t do it. I tried to get her to talk to the police, but she refused. This was about a month ago, now.”

  Phillip stood up. “He’s the only dirtbag we can think of, who would have done this. Sorry, I have to take a piss.” He wandered off.

  Nancy seemed to relax a bit immediately upon Phillip’s departure. “I visited her today. She looks terrible. I spoke loudly to her, they told me to do that, but she didn’t respond at all. I don’t know what to do…” She trailed off while she pulled a tissue out of her purse and dabbed her eyes.

  Mom moved over and sat next to her on the couch. She put her arm around her. “All you can do is continue to visit her and tell her you love her.”

  I jumped in. “Mom’s a doctor. Look, Mrs. Bigelow, do you think Claudia was getting the gun for herself, or for someone else? She said to me on the phone that she needed a detective. It sounded like she was in a lot of trouble…well, I mean, obviously she was, since she was attacked and all.” It was my turn to take a drink.

  “I don’t know. I don’t think she’s ever shot a gun.”

  “No guns in your house?” asked Luis.

  Nancy hesitated. “Phillip has one, but he keeps it in our bedroom, and Claudia has never touched it, as far as I know. She told us that guns scare her. That’s why this isn’t making any sense. You know, she’s not well. She’s had some emotional troubles. Perhaps they’re normal for a girl her age. Perhaps it’s because she was adopted…”

  At that, Nancy started crying, full force, into Mom’s shoulder. Dad and I looked at each other and wordlessly agreed to cut this short and leave these people alone. Dad signaled the waiter for the bill.

  But Luis had one more question. “I am sorry to pester you, but can you tell us one more thing, please? Have you ever heard of Hank Howard or Loren Scranton?”

  Nancy collected herself. “No. The police asked me that, too, earlier today. Who are they?”

  “They might be related to your daughter’s case, and might not be.” Luis smiled. “Thank you for talking with us.”

  Phillip came back as we were standing to leave. “Are you going to let us know what you find out?”

  “Sure,” I said. “Give me your cell phone number.”

  “I’d love to,” he winked again, “but damn it, I left it in Miami. Better just call Nancy at the hotel. She doesn’t use her cell much, do you Nance?”

  Nancy ignored him but wrote her cell number on a bar napkin anyway.

  Luis was shifting his jaw back and forth, which is something he does when he’s uptight. “That will be a big inconvenience for you, I would think with your business? No cell phone?”

  “I can reach out when I need to. I’ll be back in Miami in a couple of days, anyway.”

  Wow, I thought. With your kid in a coma. What an asshole.

  “What did you say you do for a living?” asked Dad.

  “Didn’t say, old man, but since you’re all so interested, I’m in ball bearings.”

  There didn’t seem to be an appropriate response to this news, so we all smiled politely, thanked them again, and got on the elevator back down to street level.

  “Ball bearings?” Mom practically shouted. “Is that some kind of male stripper act?”

  I howled. “Hey, you know, that might have been a better line in The Graduate, instead of ‘plastics.’”

  Luis frowned, and I realized he had never seen the movie. I’d have to fix that.

  Chapter Eleven

  The four of us had dinner in the bar area of the Veritable Quandary, and according to Dad, we lucked out finding an available table. The popular restaurant is near the Willamette River, which runs north/south through the city, and it’s cozy, old-fashioned, and trendy all at the same time. The long, wooden bar sits opposite a row of high-backed wooden booths, and the backdrop of liquor bottles reaches up to the ceiling. The brick walls are complemented by dark wood shelving and large arch-topped windows facing the street.

  I asked our waiter to take a picture of us, which I then texted to Mickey.

  He wrote back,

  Say hi to all. And pick up the tab. Call me when you get back to the house. No matter what time. Have to talk. XO.

  I showed this to Luis, who frowned. “Do you think something is wrong, amiga?”

  I put the phone back in my purse. “Wrong, or important.” I raised my glass to Luis and Mom and Dad. “Thanks, all of you. This meal is on me and Mickey.” We clinked and said “cheers” all around, and then dug into our meals.

  ***

  Back at the house, Mom set up the futon in the den for Luis’ bed, and I settled in under the duvet upstairs and called Mickey.

  “Hey,” he answered.

  “Hey, yourself. What’s up? It’s one-thirty in New York–land. Did you find the boy?”

  I could hear him yawn. “That apartment I was watchin
g was a dead end, but I’ve got another idea.”

  “You need to sleep.”

  “Need to talk to you. This guy that got murdered, Hank Howard?”

  “Yup.”

  “He wasn’t such a sweet young man, as it turns out. I found out that he moved to Portland just a few months ago from New York. He was a druggie, owed his supplier a lot of money, and split town because he couldn’t pay up.”

  I sat up in bed. “How in the world did you find that out?”

  He yawned again. “I was having a beer with Kermit, you know, my ex-partner—he just got promoted, by the way, to Sergeant—and told him the situation you’re in. I mentioned Howard’s name, and he knew all about him.”

  “Weird.”

  “Very. Turns out his real name is Howard Hanks. He switched it around in Portland. Not very creative, alias-wise. The Portland police probably have figured out who Howard or Hanks is, er, was, and they probably see this as another connection to you, since…”

  “Since I just flew in from New York.”

  “Bingo.”

  “Crap.”

  “Right. So, maybe going to the bar tomorrow is not such a good idea. It will just tie you in further with this mess.”

  “I still think Luis and I should go. Finding out who killed him could help us figure out where the gun came from and how Claudia is involved.”

  Mickey sighed. “It’s too dangerous, babe. Even with Luis there, you shouldn’t go anywhere near that bar.”

  I clenched my teeth. Mickey loves me, of course, and he wants to protect me, and mostly, I love that. But I have deeply ingrained resistance to anyone telling me what I should or shouldn’t do. It started when I was a kid, in the third grade. My teacher, Miss Klipple—who I figured was about ninety years old—told me that I should be nicer to Tommy Madison, even though he told me at every opportunity that I threw like a girl and ran like a turtle. I probably shouldn’t have tackled him during the recess softball game when he was about to tag me out at second base, but hell, he only got a scrape on the back of his head that needed a measly seven stitches. The point is, he never spoke to me again after that. Mission accomplished.

  I had a few boyfriends, too, in high school and college, who loved to correct my English, or expound on all the things I should know more about. Bruckner’s symphonies, the geological strata of the Grand Canyon, the benefits and drawbacks of root vegetables, and why daylight-saving time should be abolished are monologues I recall, from four different guys, mind you. What I don’t recall is ever showing the least bit of interest in any of those topics.

  So I took a breath and reminded myself that this was Mickey talking, not any of those jerks, and that Miss Klipple had probably been looking out for my best interests. “Hon. I know you worry about me. But I’ll be fine.”

  Mickey didn’t respond.

  “Hon?”

  “Yeah, still here. Wishing I was there. Luis and I should be working on this together, while you should be enjoying visiting the ’rents.”

  “All three of us should be working on this together, and we are. I’m part of the detective agency, remember?”

  He didn’t answer right away, and then said, “Call me after you and Luis leave the bar?”

  “Definitely. Mickey, something’s weird with Mom and Dad. They were out this morning and were all squirrely about it when they got back. Didn’t want to say what they were doing.”

  Mickey laughed. “Maybe they went somewhere to have some hot sex!”

  “Ew! Mickey! Don’t talk about my parents having hot sex! Ew!”

  “They’re great people, Annabelle. You’re lucky to have them. They’ll let you know if something important is going on.”

  “You’re right. I know.” I snuggled back underneath the covers. “Are you coming out here?”

  “I’ll know more tomorrow. Hang in there.”

  “How’s Bonkers?”

  “Driving me crazy. He perches on top of my chest when I get in bed and head-butts me.”

  I giggled. “He’s starting to love you, sweetie.”

  “I think I liked it better when he growled at me and hid under the bed.”

  “Go to sleep now. I love you.”

  “I count on that, every minute of every day.”

  I hung up, set the phone on the bedside table, and quickly fell asleep.

  Chapter Twelve

  The name of the bar where Howard Hanks was last seen is called The Rowdy Yeats, which cracked me up. Whoever came up with that showed some real class, in my opinion.

  I parked the car and got out right after Luis, punched the lock button, and started to head across the street to the front door until Luis stopped me, holding my arm gently. “Annabelle, I still think you should wait in the car.”

  “Luis, the name of this bar—I’m going to like the owner. The owner is going to like me. I’ll get more information than you will.”

  “I do not understand.”

  “Rowdy Yates was Clint Eastwood’s character on ‘Rawhide,’ an old TV show—it was Eastwood’s break-out role—but it was spelled differently. Y-e-a-t-s, on the other hand…”

  “Yes, I know. The poet.”

  “Right you are. So, I’m going in.”

  “Mickey was clear…”

  “Mickey and you and I are partners. He’s not in charge. Let’s go.” I patted Luis on the shoulder and we proceeded into the bar.

  The Rowdy Yeats looked like a dump from the outside, but inside, it was pretty cool, for a dark bar where three rusty-looking men sat at noon, empty shot glasses and half-empty draft beers in front of them, staring at a soccer game on the wide-screen TV. It was clean—I could tell, even in the half-light, that the tables were wiped and the floor wasn’t sticky—and there were photographs on the walls of, you guessed it, Eastwood and Yeats. Dark green ruffled curtains framed the windows, and a tiffany-style lamp hung from the ceiling over the pool table at the back.

  Luis and I sat on a couple of stools. The bartender made his way to us and patted his hand on the bar. “What’ll it be, kids?”

  I smiled. He wasn’t old enough to call us “kids.” I figured him around forty-five, tops. “Beer for me, Pops. What do you have?”

  He smiled. “Stella, Blue Moon, and Guinness.”

  “No brainer there. It’s gotta be Guinness, surrounded as we are by Mr. Yeats.”

  “Same for me, please,” said Luis.

  He patted the bar top again and withdrew to fill our glasses. The three guys at the bar turned around to size us up, smiled, nodded, and went back to their soccer game.

  “Luis, I don’t get soccer. I think it’s boring. Is it boring for you?”

  Luis was watching the television. “Boring, amiga? You have much to learn about soccer! I was the goalie for my high-school team. I was good, too.” He turned back to me. “My kid, he, she, whatever, my kid is going to play soccer. All children play soccer now. You might have to learn it, amiga, so that you can play with my son or daughter.” Big smile.

  I tried to mirror the big smile but said only, “I’ll take your child to the movies instead.”

  Our beers showed up, and we each had a swallow, setting them back down on the bar. “Yum,” I said, to the bartender. “Thanks. What’s your name?”

  “Perry. Haven’t seen you two in here before.”

  “No,” answered Luis, “this is our first time. It is a nice place you have.”

  “Thanks. I put a lot into it.”

  “You’re the owner?” I asked.

  Perry nodded. “Bought it five years ago and fixed it up. The neighborhood is up and coming. Got a good mix of old-timers and younger people who are moving in.”

  I held out my hand. “May I congratulate you on a brilliant name?”

  He shook it. “Thanks.” He laughed. “Most people don’t get it. I know
it’s an odd name for a bar, but I think it’s memorable. On Tuesday nights I play old ‘Rawhide’ episodes, and on Wednesday nights, we have poetry readings.”

  “Brilliant. Sounds very Portland to me.”

  Luis and I chatted with Perry, telling him that we were visiting from out of town, and asking him for suggestions of things to do in Portland. He was friendly and cheerful, jotted down the names of some restaurants and bars he recommended on a bar napkin, and then excused himself to tend to another customer who came in.

  Luis said, “It is time to ask him about Hank Howard, yes?”

  “Yes.” I sipped my beer. “I like this place. It seems safe and fun and neighborly. Not a place for drug dealers.”

  “I agree.”

  Perry headed back our way in a few minutes. “Anything else I can get for you two?”

  “Actually, amigo, we have a question for you.”

  “Shoot.”

  “The man who was shot and killed nearby recently. He was in here?”

  Perry backed away from us and stiffened. “Who are you?”

  Luis and I both pulled out our Asta Investigations business cards and handed them over to Perry. “PIs?” he read. “DDS? You’re a dentist for a P.I. firm? What the hell?” He tossed the cards aside.

  “Luis is a detective. I work for the agency as a partner. It’s just starting up in New York. I’m not a dentist. I, um, dumpster dive, as needed.”

  He stared at me like I was a lunatic, then shifted over to Luis. “Why are you asking about Hank? Why are you investigating this?”

  “We only want to know if maybe there are friends of his that come here, that we could talk to. We don’t want to get anyone in trouble. We just need to find out some information.”

  Perry shook his head. “Some information? The police are all over this thing. Why don’t you talk to them?”

  “Perry.” I reached out my hand across the bar as though I was going to hold his, but of course, that wasn’t going to happen, so I pulled it back. “The gun used in the murder. Someone planted it on me, probably by mistake, and we’re trying to figure out who did that and why.”