Midnight Crossroad

  “Drink all of this,” she said. “And if it works for you, I don’t mind making you some more.”

  Manfred supposed you would call it tea, because it was made from steeped vegetation. The hot drink didn’t taste good, but it wasn’t disgusting, either. Since he didn’t want to offend Fiji and she was standing right in his living room with her eyes on him, he sipped until it was gone. He handed Fiji the mug. Instead of thanking her and making it clear he needed to get right back to work (his original plan), he found himself sitting on the couch in the former dining room with Fiji, telling her all about the evening before. She listened with wide eyes.

  “So they said they lived in the free state of Stronghold and they actually mentioned the Men of Liberty,” she said when he was finished. “And that their two buddies had come here and never returned to this fabulous free state, which I suspect is nowhere but in their little minds?”

  “That sums it up,” Manfred agreed. Fiji’s face did not adapt to “grim” and “serious” very well, but that was how she looked. “Do you know anything about the two vanishing friends?” he asked.

  “No, I do not,” she said very firmly. “I never saw them and I don’t know where they are now.” Manfred thought she was being at least partially truthful. “But I think it’s very suspicious that they say they belong to the same organization of wackos that Aubrey’s deceased husband belonged to.”

  Another knock caught them both by surprise. Manfred glanced out the peephole before he opened the door. Arthur Smith had been able to hear him walk across the creaking wooden floor, so Manfred figured he had to let him in. “Sheriff,” he said, “What can we do for you today? My neighbor is here, so maybe you can kill two birds with one stone.”

  “Ms. Cavanaugh,” the sheriff said, ducking his head and removing his hat. “You doing okay today?”

  “Yes, fine, thank you,” Fiji said. “I brought Manfred one of my herbal remedies for soreness. Manfred, are you feeling better?”

  “I am,” he said, trying not to sound surprised. He shifted his shoulders experimentally and bent to touch his toes. Yes, he was actually almost pain-free.

  “The two men who attacked Mr. Bernardo and Mr. Winthrop have gotten a public defender,” Arthur Smith said. “And on the advice of their counsel, they’re not talking to me anymore. They’ve abandoned their Men of Liberty spiel, since I think the lawyer told them it made them sound crazier and more dangerous than just saying they jumped some guys in the alley because they thought they were being jumped themselves.”

  “What were they doing in the alley behind the gas station, anyway? I’m sure you asked them that.”

  “They don’t seem to feel they have to explain their presence,” Arthur Smith said dryly. “That’s what the lawyer told them to say.”

  “So . . . are they going to get out of jail?” Fiji looked as though Smith had told her the truth about Santa Claus.

  “They may,” Smith admitted. He ran a hand over his close-cropped hair. He’d settled on a straight-backed chair opposite the couch, and he turned his hat in his hands as he sat there. “Of the two, only one of them has any kind of arrest record, Zane Green, and that was one incident, a bar fight. The guy he beat up didn’t press charges.”

  “A bar close to here?” Manfred asked.

  “Yeah, the Cartoon Saloon.”

  Manfred started to ask where that was, but Fiji shot him a narrow-eyed look that said, Don’t draw attention to this by asking about it.

  Instead, he said, “So the whole incident’s over for now is what you’re telling us. And you’re not getting anywhere on Aubrey Hamilton’s death?”

  “I wouldn’t say that. The coroner confirmed the body is that of Aubrey Hamilton Lowry, and her parents are claiming the body for burial when we release it.”

  Fiji looked startled, as if the concept of Aubrey’s parents taking charge was a surprise to her. “Of course there’s no reason why her parents wouldn’t grieve, though Aubrey was . . .” she murmured, and then stopped abruptly. In a more public voice, Fiji said, “I hope they’ll keep Bobo in the loop about the funeral plans. That would mean a lot to him.”

  The sheriff, who had gotten up to leave, looked at Fiji as if she’d grown another head or begun talking in Urdu. “That’s hardly likely,” Smith said. “They think he killed her.”

  Manfred, who had turned to Fiji, saw all the color drain from her face and then flood back. He thought she might faint, and he was glad she hadn’t stood up.

  “He loved her,” Fiji faltered. “They can’t think that.”

  Arthur Smith looked at her with a lot more interest. “Think about it, Ms. Cavanaugh. She comes here to live with him, she vanishes, her body turns up in a riverbed close by. He didn’t report her missing right away. We might think his reasons are understandable, but the Hamiltons don’t. He admits he didn’t search for her. She’s the widow of a white supremacist. You know those men Mr. Bernardo’s attackers claim are missing? They’re white supremacists, too. Though Green and Spratt call themselves ‘patriots,’ it’s clear they’re in the same boat politically.”

  “But he thought she’d gone all on her own,” Fiji said stubbornly. “Why would he look for someone who’d kicked him to the curb?”

  “On the other hand, who else had reason to want her dead?” His eyes were intent on her face.

  “Given the company she kept . . . the, ah, associates of her husband . . .” But she couldn’t say anything else without revealing information she wanted to keep quiet—more importantly, information that Bobo wanted to keep quiet. She found herself on her feet, feeling a little wobbly but practically bursting with things she wished she could say.

  Smith said, “Just because she hung out with a crowd we consider over the political edge doesn’t mean her death was anything but personal. Or even accidental. The medical examiner’s still looking at her.”

  Manfred said, “Fiji, don’t worry, they’ll find out who did it, and that person won’t be Bobo. Sheriff, thanks for coming by to let me know about those guys. If you need me again, you know where I am.” He was all smiles and geniality as he walked Sheriff Smith to the door, but when the door closed behind him, Manfred turned to give Fiji a very grim face.

  “From the way you’re looking at me, I screwed up,” she said.

  “Of course you did,” Manfred said. “You acted like you were defending your kid from a bully. Bobo’s a grown man. He can look out for himself. The more you go on the defensive, the more Smith’s going to think there’s a great reason you’re protecting Bobo.”

  Fiji muttered, “Aside from the fact that I’m an idiot?”

  “I know you’re not. I know you’re his good friend.” Out of mercy, Manfred did not say, Because you’re clearly nuts about him. Also, he had no desire to be frozen into a statue for an indeterminate length of time.

  “So, you’re going to the Cartoon Saloon with me, right?” Fiji said.

  “Wait, are we police? No, we’re not going there.”

  “But we have to find out more. Why didn’t the other guy in the fight press charges?”

  “Why? Maybe because he didn’t want to spend time in court, or because he decided he’d been in the wrong, too? Or maybe he just wants to wait until he can catch this Zane guy alone in an alley and get his own revenge.”

  Fiji was practically tapping her foot, waiting for him to finish speaking. “We have to try to find him,” she said, and Manfred threw up his hands.

  “Okay! Okay! But we’re not going by ourselves.”

  “Olivia,” Fiji said, and the proposed expedition suddenly became a little more interesting to Manfred.

  “You think she’d go with us?”

  “I think if I ask her the right way, she will,” Fiji said. She looked at her watch. “She’s not going to be up for a while, so I’ll try her this afternoon.”

  “What about Lemuel? He?
??s pretty, uh, capable,” Manfred offered.

  “He doesn’t go out much,” Fiji said. “I mean, he only goes out at night, and most nights he’s working in the pawnshop. Besides, he’s too scary and no one would talk to us.”

  Manfred did not want to think about this too closely, or at all. “So why do you want to take Olivia?”

  Fiji’s eyes went wide. “She’s very good at finding out things,” she replied. “That’s kind of her business. And we’ve got to get a name.”

  “Really? What does she do?” Manfred didn’t realize he’d gotten into forbidden territory until he saw Fiji give him a very direct look. “Okay, okay, I overstepped. You ask her. Let me know what she says.”

  “I’ll do that.” Fiji went to the door. “I hope the tea helped.”

  “Yes, thanks,” he said, rotating his shoulders. “I’m lots better.”

  “Great!” Her smile was radiant. “That was Aunt Mildred’s recipe.”

  Manfred was almost curious enough to ask what had been in it, but he was afraid to find out. He said, “She must have been a great witch.”

  Fiji said, “You have no idea.” She was all cheer when she left. He saw Mr. Snuggly sitting at the edge of her yard, obviously waiting for her. As Manfred watched her cross the road, he saw the sheriff coming down the steps of the pawnshop. Manfred thought of going over to see Bobo to check out what the sheriff had told him, but then he thought twice. As he’d just pointed out to Fiji, Bobo was a grown-up, and he could handle himself.

  17

  Arthur Smith had found Bobo sitting in his favorite chair, but Bobo was sitting forward with his elbows on his knees, his hands covering his eyes. When he lowered them, he looked exhausted.

  “The gun we found down by the river,” the sheriff had said.

  Bobo had nodded.

  “Came from this pawnshop, according to our records.”

  Every gun coming into the shop was entered on the computer and law enforcement had access to all such reports.

  Bobo had nodded again.

  The sheriff waited for more explanation, more reaction, more anything. But Bobo had only said, “I didn’t kill her.”

  “There aren’t any prints on the gun,” Smith told him, with no inflection in his voice. “We’re waiting for the medical examiner’s final report on the cause of death. I’ll be back. But you know, Mr. Winthrop, it doesn’t look good for you if the medical examiner’s report shows Mrs. Lowry died of a gunshot.”

  “Yeah,” Bobo said. “My ass will be toast.”

  “I’ve checked into Buffalo and Eagle’s allegations.” Smith took a step closer. “At least five members of this group have told me that two Men of Liberty, Seth Mecklinberg and Curtis Logan, came over here to talk to you. They were very vague about what these two gentlemen had to say to you, or why they came from Lubbock instead of the Marthasville branch of MOL. My guess would be so you couldn’t recognize them, as you might recognize someone from Marthasville.”

  “I did not do anything to those men, and I don’t know why they’d think I did,” Bobo said. “I have no idea what happened to them.”

  “Since no one has filed a missing-person report on them, they’re not part of our investigation at the moment,” Smith said. “But if they really are missing and we find someone to say they saw those two men in this area, you know this is going to get much worse for you.”

  “I understand,” said Bobo. He stood up. He was several inches taller than the sheriff, but at the moment he felt that Arthur Smith was the larger man.

  18

  Olivia had had some mysterious business to take care of, and she had to uncover the name of the man who’d been beaten by Zane Green. According to Fiji, Olivia had great computer skills and a lot of knowledge and connections in the lawyer community. Evidently Olivia was able to exercise one of her talents, since Fiji called Manfred after a day to tell him that they’d go on their “field trip” (as Manfred privately called it) to the Cartoon Saloon that night.

  Olivia, the only one who’d already been there, said that the saloon lay between Midnight and Marthasville, but much closer to the larger town. “I promise you a sight worth seeing,” she promised them as they piled into Manfred’s car.

  “Wow,” said Manfred, when he parked by a huge cutout of Yosemite Sam. “Cool sign. But weird.”

  “Hmmm,” said Fiji. “Interesting.”

  Olivia just smiled broadly. “You ain’t seen nothing yet,” she said. “By the way, we’re looking for a guy named Deck Powell.”

  Manfred walked into the bar with an unaccustomed feeling of pride. He was accompanied by two attractive women, both older than himself. Fiji had made an attempt to style her hair, which had resulted in a headful of brown curls in a sort of Shirley Temple effect. She’d worn a flirty black skirt, a black and green patterned shirt that emphasized her bosom (and there was plenty to emphasize), and some black heels, which she managed with more grace than Manfred had expected. Olivia had worn designer jeans, a halter top beneath a kind of mesh sweater (since, after all, it was early October), and boots that boosted her up way above Manfred. Olivia led the way and paid their cover charge, and while they were being shown to their table, Olivia’s eyes were everywhere.

  Manfred realized that Olivia was armed. He didn’t know what kind of weapon she was carrying or where it might be—her purse? Strapped to her leg?—but he could read her well enough to know she was ready for trouble.

  Manfred thought, I’m more worried, and yet I feel safer.

  Actually, he felt pretty badass. One of the ladies with him could freeze you, and one could defend him with weapons.

  The waitress appeared at their table in a pleasantly short time. She correctly identified Olivia as the group alpha and turned to her first.

  “Mezcal, straight up. Extra añejo, if you got it,” Olivia said.

  “Reposado okay?”

  “That’ll do.”

  Fiji looked blank during this exchange, and she ordered a glass of chardonnay. Manfred thought he might look wussy if he ordered wine, too, but his talent sometimes acted up if he drank too much. He settled on a Michelob.

  He had time to look at the walls while they waited for the drinks. “Damn,” he said.

  “I agree,” said Fiji, staring. The walls were decorated like a crazy day care center, with three-foot-tall cartoon characters in a frieze that circled the room. Manfred couldn’t figure out how they’d been made, but they were expertly drawn and mounted. SpongeBob SquarePants and Foghorn Leghorn, Mickey Mouse and Bugs Bunny, Porky Pig and Marge Simpson, Jessica Rabbit and Meg Griffin, Wile E. Coyote and WALL-E.

  They were all drinking alcoholic beverages.

  “I’m sure the Disney lawyers would like to know about this,” Manfred murmured. “And that’s just the first company on the list.”

  “I didn’t expect to find something this bold and bizarre in Marthasville,” Fiji said.

  Marthasville, about thirty-five miles west of Midnight, had pretensions to artiness. With a population of fifty thousand, it was a sizable town compared to Midnight, and it was in another county. There was a whole row of bars in Marthasville, and they were all decorated and themed. The presence of a college may have accounted for the bar boom, but the age range of patrons went from lean dried-up men in their seventies (wearing cowboy hats as part of their normal attire) to young people who were just barely legal, like Manfred.

  When their costumed waitress returned with their drinks, Manfred noticed that she was dressed and styled as Wilma Flintstone. Another waitress was Betty Boop. The bartender was a superhero—maybe Aquaman?

  He laughed out loud. “This,” Manfred said, “is a great bar.”

  “It’ll be a greater one if we can find out what we need to know,” Olivia said.

  “How do we do that?” he asked, confident she had a plan.

  Olivia shook her he
ad, as if she despaired for him. She looked from him to Fiji, making mental calculations. “You and Feej make a more credible couple than you and me,” she said. Manfred didn’t know whether to be flattered or insulted, so he just nodded. “Okay, here’s our scenario,” Olivia said, and they bent their heads together like experienced conspirators.

  The next time their waitress approached the table (and since Olivia had tipped big, that was pretty soon), Manfred said, “Wilma, maybe you can help us out, here? My friend Livvy has a blind date with a guy, but we don’t see anyone who looks like the picture she got, and we’re afraid he’s standing her up.”

  “Wilma” looked from Manfred to Olivia. She seemed to be trying to decide if he was joking. “Anybody who’d skip out on a date with her has to be out of his mind,” Wilma said frankly. She seemed relieved to be standing still for a moment.

  “True, but maybe he doesn’t know that,” Manfred said. “Guy name of Deck Powell?”

  “Deck? Deck has a date with you?” Wilma looked at “Livvy” with flattering disbelief. “He must have been praying hard, or your brother owes him money, or something. He’s usually in by now. I’ll come over and tell you when I see him.”

  “Oh, thanks,” Manfred said. Olivia did her best to look embarrassed by the whole situation. Manfred ordered another round of drinks because he figured it was his turn, and he tipped Wilma as liberally as Olivia had. Wilma gave him a surreptitious wink.

  None of them had quite finished the first round, so their table began to look a little crowded when the fresh drinks came. Fiji took care of her original glass of wine and lifted her second. She said, “I’d take pictures of the walls with my phone, but I’m afraid the bouncer would step on it and crush it. Not that I would mind if he came over.”

  Manfred glanced over at the door. The bouncer was a hard, handsome man with some miles on him. “Fiji, I’m betting you don’t drink a lot,” he said, trying to suppress a smile.