Linwood Barclay: Parting Shot

“You don’t get along?”

The old woman shrugged. “They’re not so bad lately, but he’s a dumbass and his wife’s a bitch.”

“Albert and Constance,” Duckworth said.

“And they got a slut daughter, too. Forget her name.”

“Monica,” he said.

“That’s it.” She glanced back at the TV. “I forgot he was dead. He would have made a great president. Better than Reagan.”

“You must have been very upset when Brian ran over your dog.”

“Yup. Got back at them right away.”

“What did you do?”

She smiled slyly. “I can’t tell you.”

“Why not?”

“You might arrest me.”

“Why don’t you tell me anyway?” he said.

“If you arrest me, I’ll deny that I told you. Do we have a deal?”

“Sure.”

“I went over there late one night and slashed a few tires.” She smiled proudly, showing off teeth the color of caramel.

“Well,” Duckworth said. “Did the Gaffneys accuse you?”

She shook her head. “They never said nothin’ to me. They wouldn’t have been able to prove it, so what’s the point?”

“You might be right.” Duckworth leaned in a little closer. “How about more recently? Sometimes there are things that are hard to forgive, or forget, even after several years have gone by.”

“That’s for sure,” Mrs. Beecham said.

One thing Duckworth knew for sure was that this old woman couldn’t have abducted Brian Gaffney and held him captive for two days while she carved a message into his back. But that didn’t mean someone couldn’t have done it for her.

“Mrs. Beecham, do you have any children? Anyone else who might have been very angry with Brian about what happened to the dog?”

“Never had children.” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “Mr. Beecham — that’d be Lyall — was shootin’ blanks, if you get my drift.”

“I see. So there was no one else who’d have been deeply troubled by what happened to Sean.”

“Well, Sean wasn’t too fucking happy about it,” she said, and Duckworth got another look at those stained teeth as she grinned.

“Why Sean?” he asked. “It seems like an unusual name for a dog.”

“We named him after my brother.”

“Your brother?”

“Yeah. Sean Samuel Lastman, rest his soul. Kind of a dumb way to remember him, but what the hell. You do what you can.”

“What happened to your brother?”

“He died nearly thirty years ago. Fell off a roof he was shingling.”

Duckworth thought of the woman upstairs. “I just met Norma. Is there a family connection?”

Her eyes briefly sparkled. “Here’s something pretty amazing. Norma came to work for me a couple of years ago. And we get talking, and I was telling her about my brother, and turns out Sean was her daddy.”

“Norma’s your niece?”

Mrs. Beecham nodded. “Small world, right? She didn’t even know for years that he was her dad. Sean got some girl knocked up, never married her, and Norma was only about four years old when he died. Before Norma’s mom died, she told her who her real daddy was.”

“Amazing,” Duckworth said. “And what about Harvey?”

Mrs. Beecham’s nose wrinkled. “He’s her boyfriend. He doesn’t amount to much, but he helps out, too.” She patted the checkbook next to her thigh. “He’s getting the house all fixed up for me case I decide to put it on the market. The plumbing’s got to be redone and he found something wrong with the furnace. Whatcha asking me all these questions for anyway?”

“Brian ran into some trouble,” he said.

“I don’t doubt it. He always was kind of a simple kid. Not downright stupid, but kinda simple.” She looked back at the TV. “You about done? I’d like to see the end of this.”

“Sure,” Duckworth said. “Thank you for your time.”

He went quietly back up the stairs. When he opened the door, he found Harvey and Norma had been huddled close to it.

“Did you catch everything?” Duckworth asked them.

“I just wanted to be sure she’s okay,” Norma said, wringing her hands. “What were you asking her?”

“Just a few things.”

“She says a lot of crazy stuff,” Norma said.

“She’s pretty nuts,” Harvey added.

Duckworth studied the two of them. “Either of you know Brian Gaffney?” he asked.

“Never heard of him,” Harvey said.

“Nope,” said Norma.

Duckworth looked at her. “Your aunt’s lived here a long time. You never heard of the Gaffneys? They’re right across the street.”

Norma blinked. “Nope,” she said. “Never.”

“How about Sean?” he asked. “You know anyone by that name?”

Norma and Harvey both shook their heads.

“That’s funny,” Duckworth said.

“Why’s it funny?” the woman asked him.

“Because that was your father’s name, wasn’t it?” the detective said.

Her mouth made a perfect circle. “Oh!” she said. “Yes, that’s right. But I thought you meant someone we knew now.”

Duckworth studied the pair for several seconds, saying nothing.

Finally, he nodded and said, “You folks have a nice day.”

On the way to his car, he took a quick photo of the plate on the back bumper of the van.

Gloria Pilford, refilling her wine glass in the kitchen, said, “You’ll help us? Really?”

“I’ll have a look at your situation,” I said, and then told them what it was going to cost them, per day.

Gloria looked helplessly at Bob and Madeline, no doubt wondering which of them would step up.

“It’s fine,” her aunt said. “I’ll write you out a check for five days.”

Bob said, “Madeline, I can look after this.”

“No,” she said in a voice that did not invite argument. “You’ve done enough already. Mr. Finch must have cost you a fortune.”

Bob didn’t disagree. Ms. Plimpton opened a drawer, found her checkbook, scribbled on one, tore it off, and handed it to me. I tucked it into my wallet without so much as a glance.

“Okay,” I said. “Let’s start by figuring out just what the situation is .”

Madeline Plimpton got back on one of the island stools, next to Bob Butler. Gloria maintained her station near the fridge.

“How many people would know Jeremy’s here and not at your place in Albany?”

“I haven’t told a soul,” Ms. Plimpton said. “Except for you.”

“Neither have I,” said Butler.

Gloria had busied herself putting the almost-empty wine bottle back into the fridge, her back to us.

“Ms. Pilford?” I asked.

“I’m sorry?” she said.

“Gloria, answer the man’s question,” Ms. Plimpton said.

Gloria closed the fridge and turned around slowly. “I haven’t told anyone,” she said. “Not specifically.”

“What does that mean?” I asked.

Her eyes looked down, like a child who’d been caught with her hand in the cookie jar. “I might have posted something.”

“Like?” I said.

“I said how good it felt to get out of Albany, to find some peace and quiet.”

I nodded toward her aunt, who was closest to the laptop. I wiggled my fingers, air-typing, and she got the message, reaching for the computer and reopening it. “Could you find the page?” I asked her.

“I’ll do it,” Gloria said, crossing the kitchen and taking the laptop from her aunt. She made a few keystrokes. “There, I didn’t really say anything.”

I took the laptop from her and studied her most recent posts.

“Tell me again when you got here?”

Ms. Plimpton said, “Four nights they’ve been here.” She made no attempt to disguise the weariness in her voice.

I scrolled down to see what Gloria had been telling the world earlier in the week. Last Friday, she’d posted: The world is full of so many haters. People need to stop hating and start understanding.