Julia Spencer-Fleming - All Mortal Flesh

“Ray?” Barbara called. She picked her way past sawhorses and coils of insulated cable. “Ray?”

They entered the work area. Russ could see it had once probably been the fanciest place to soak your feet or get covered with mud between New York and Montreal. Now it was a god-awful mess, like a beautiful woman with a bad hangover and ratty hair. A man in a flannel shirt and suspenders unbent from where he was studying a blueprint. “Whitey! Matt! Knock it off a minute.” The Skil saw died away. The big guy crossed the work space toward them. He was as tall as Russ and a good fifty pounds heavier, with the open face of a man who viewed the world as his friend until proven otherwise.

“Hey, Ms. LeBlanc. What can I do you for?”

“This is Ray Yardhaas, our foreman. Ray, this is the Millers Kill chief of police, Russ Van Alstyne.”

Ray shook his hand. “We met before. Two summers ago, when we were building this place the first time.” He grinned. “First time I ever met someone investigating a real live murder. Impressed the hell out of my wife.”

“Ray, we’re looking for someone who might have been helping Mrs. Van Alstyne with the curtain installations.”

“Mrs. Van Alstyne?” He glanced at Russ. “You mean the curtain lady? Yeah, that’d mostly be Charlie. Why? Has he been bothering her?”

Leblanc frowned. “Is that a concern?”

“Aw, his heart’s in the right place, I guess. It’s just his mouth’s usually in third gear while his brain’s still easing off the brake. He’s got little hands, though. Good for doing that fiddly sort of work.”

“Can I talk to him?” Russ asked.

“He’s taking a break.” Ray mimed puffing on a cigarette. “He’s my crew, though. If he’s been up to something he shouldn’t, I want to know about it.”

Ross shook his head. “I’m just looking for some information.” He considered how much to share. “My wife-”

Ray pointed over his shoulder. “Here he is.”

Russ turned around.

And saw Dennie Shambaugh walking toward him.

Russ was on Shambaugh in two long strides, his knuckles twisting in the neck of the man’s shirt, choking off his air and forcing him to his knees. Barbara LeBlanc was yelling something, but he couldn’t make it out over the pounding in his ears.

“Where is she, you bastard?” Russ’s grip tightened as his voice rose to a howl. “Where’s my wife?”

He was jerked back by a pair of oven-mitt-sized hands wrapped around his arms. “Slow down there, Chief.” Ray didn’t have to raise his voice to boom. “I thought you just wanted to ask him some questions.”

Russ twisted out of Yardhaas’s grasp. “That man is under arrest,” he said, pointing at the quivering, hacking heap of flannel and denim on the floor. His hand shook. “For information fraud, suspicion of murder, and the disappearance of Linda Van Alstyne.” He lunged toward Shambaugh. “Where’s my wife?” he shouted.

The man threw up his hands. “I don’t know nothing! I don’t know nothing!” He peeked through his forearms at Russ, bracing for the blow to fall.

Russ stared.

He grabbed the man’s wrists and forced them down.

“Don’t hurt me,” the man whimpered. “Ray, don’t let him hurt me.”

It wasn’t Dennie Shambaugh.

“Shit,” Russ said, releasing his hold. He turned away, struggling to get control of himself. “Christ almighty.” He turned back. “I’m sorry.” He looked at the man cowering on the floor, at Yardhaas, at Barbara, who was staring at him with dismay. “I’m sorry. We’re looking for a man named Dennis Shambaugh. I thought you were him. I’m sorry.”

Ray held out a meaty hand and helped his crewman up. “This here’s Charlie Shambaugh.”

The smaller man shuffled behind Ray. “Dennie’s my brother,” he said.

Russ removed his glasses and scrubbed his face with one hand. “I’m sorry,” he said. “You look a lot alike.”

“Yeah, we all do.” Charlie Shambaugh’s voice was shaky.

“Have you heard from your brother recently?”

“Maybe a month ago. He’s in trouble again, huh?”

“Wait a minute.” Ray twisted around to look at Charlie. “Was this the brother you brought around when we was rehiring in November?”

Charlie nodded.

“You didn’t tell me he was a con.”

Charlie shrugged. “He needed a job.”

Ray turned to Russ. “I had to get some new guys. Some of my crew had already left for southern work. I didn’t know he was a con, though. I don’t hire no cons.”

“Why’d you pass on him, then?” Russ put his glasses back on.

“I got a simple test if I haven’t worked with a guy before. I take him through the site and ask him how he’d tackle five different jobs. Charlie’s brother didn’t know much more’n how to swing a hammer.”

“Charlie, did you try to get your brother a job with my wife?”

Charlie was dumbfounded enough to forget to be afraid of Russ. “Are you kidding? He couldn’t sew. The carpentry, I figured he could pick up. That’s easy. But sewing?”

Russ’s hand twitched. Charlie saw it and shrank back into Yardhaas’s shadow again. “I mean pet sitting. House sitting. Whatever he would have called it.”

Charlie shook his head. “Pet-sitting’s a girl job. His girlfriend pet-sits. Doesn’t pay crap, but she loves ‘little fuzzy critters’ ”-Charlie’s voice crept up into a falsetto-“and just between you an’ me, it’s about the best she can do. Dumb as a box of hammers.”

“She’s dead,” Russ said.

Charlie’s mouth opened.

“Somebody slit her throat and then sliced her up like so much roast beef.”

Charlie’s mouth was still open. After a few seconds, he said, “Are you shit-tin’ me?”

“We think your brother did it.”

“Nuh-uh.” Charlie shook his head. “No way. He’s nuts about Audrey.”

“That’s what a lot of guys who kill their wives or girlfriends say.”

“No, not like I’m-a-stalker nuts about her. He, you know”-Charlie looked around as if embarrassed to say the word in front of witnesses-“he loved her.”

Russ wasn’t in the mood to debate Dennie Shambaugh’s emotions. “He assaulted an officer, stole a car, and fled from questioning. Do you have any idea where he’d be?”

“No.”

“Charlie. If your brother didn’t kill Audrey Keane, he needs to turn himself in and clear himself.”

“I don’t know where he is. Last time I talked with him was Christmas, at Frannie’s house. Our sister. Mary Francis Delacourt. She lives in Fort Henry.”

“Is he likely to have gone there? Or to one of your other brothers or sisters?”

“I dunno.”

Russ pinched the bridge of his nose beneath his glasses. “If he contacts you, get in touch with the Millers Kill police immediately.”

“Sure.”

Sure. Russ breathed in. Out. “One more question. Ray here says you helped my wife-the curtain lady-with some of her work.”

“Yeah.” Charlie bobbed his head up and down in an earnest display of helpfulness. “Nice lady.”

“Yeah. Did you ever hear her say anything about traveling, or going on a trip, or getting away?”

“She was going away to Montreal at Christmastime. With her husband.” His eyes lit up. “That’s you.”

Christ. If Charlie thought his brother’s girlfriend was dumb, she must have been barely functioning about sponge level. “Besides that.”

“Nah,” Charlie said. “Sorry.”

That was that. The moment Russ had been dreading, when he tapped out his last lead.

“Although,” Charlie said.

“What?”

“She did have a bunch of stuff here.”

“A bunch of stuff?”