A/N: On we go.
Big Swamp
Chapter Fourteen: Entrances and Exits
I'm processing the conversations of the morning when I return to the office, still processing Langston's visit last night.
It's lunchtime when I park, get out. The sun's screaming down on the lot. I unlock the office door; the outer office is empty. Morgan must have biked home to raid Bolonia's fridge. It occurs to me that's not a bad idea — and then I hear a noise from the inner office. A sliding sound, a sound of movement.
Quickly, I grab the broom from the narrow closet behind Morgan's desk. Holding it reversed, low on the handle, close to the head, I move as quietly as I can to the door to my office.
I push it open and leap inside, brandishing the broom.
Nothing.
The office is empty. I walk around my desk. My chair's not pushed under the desk, as is my habit. The computer's on and displays the password page but the entry line is blank. The papers on my desk are disorganized. The file cabinet's locked but there are fresh scratches around the lock.
I feel the heat before I notice the source. The window stands open about five inches or so. I don't normally keep it locked — though I normally keep it shut, of course. I leave it unlocked because Morgan often forgets his key. But I know he had it earlier when he brought the coffee to the office.
Someone's been rifling my things. But it looks like they found nothing.
I stand the broom against my desk and shut the window, lock it this time. I am considering various ways of making Shaw's life miserable when I see a rusty red pickup pass on a street in the distance.
I'm sure it's Bill Peppers' truck.
And then I'm no longer sure it was Shaw in my office. But if Peterson has Shaw on the payroll, as he clearly does, why send Peppers to invade my office? Why not send Shaw? Shaw at least can claim to be a professional.
Why send Peppers?
But maybe it was not Peterson who sent Peppers. I also saw Wylie talking to Peppers at the Coliseum. Maybe Wylie sent him. But why? What in my office could interest Wylie Stroud?
All things considered, my investigation of Wylie has made virtually zero progress: two unhelpful conversations, at the Hall and at the Club, one clandestine surveillance at the Coliseum. I still have no idea what Wylie is up to: all I really know is that he met in the darkened Coliseum with a man, Peppers, who later met with Peterson out at West Point Lake. That's all I've got. Oh, and Wylie (and Sarah) visited Briggs and Stratton. It makes me suspicious of Wylie — but I couldn't say what I suspect him of. I suspect him of being suspicious. Gah.
I need to talk to Wylie again, talk to him without Sarah around.
After a moment's thought, I send Morgan a text to tell him I will be out of the office for the afternoon and I get in the car to head to Noble Hall. If Sarah's car — her new car — is there, I'll just drive on by. If not, I'll stop in for a chat with Wylie.
No white Range Rover in sight — and no rusty red pickup — so I enter the Hall driveway.
I admit to very mixed feelings about the absent Rover. On the one hand, I want to talk to Wylie, I need to talk to him. On the other hand, if Sarah's not back, then there's a decent chance she's still out somewhere with Bryce, some haberdashery, where he's probably modeling new Speedos, flexing his abs. — Can you flex your abs? — Isn't it pitiful that I don't know?
Pushing that question and the pictures that spawned it from my mind, I park beside Wylie's Mercedes.
As I get out, I'm surprised to note that the grounds are starting to become ragged — they aren't golf-course sharp as they were the night of the party. I walk to the back door and knock.
A couple of minutes later, an aproned, older woman comes to the door. She's got a broom in her hand and a face of long-tested resignation.
"Can I help you, young man?"
"I'm Chuck Bartowski. I was hoping I could talk to Mr. Stroud if he's taking callers."
She nods. "Let me check." She starts to leave, then stops, turns around. "Bartowski? Are you kin to the doc?"
"Yes, she's my sister. — Do you know her?"
"She's my doctor. I like that girl. Helps my sciatica." She smiles at me, a surprisingly youthful smile.
"Me too," I respond. "Like her, that is. She doesn't help my sciatica. — I haven't got sciatica."
She gives me a long exhalation of sympathy, slowly shaking her head. "Guess we know which Bartowski child got all the brains." She walks away.
I shake my head and turn around, looking out toward the woods, to the trailhead that leads to the pond. I wish I were there with Sarah right now. I taste her lemonade on my lips. I lose myself in thoughts of her and so don't hear Wylie approach.
"Charlie-boy?"
I turn back around. Wylie's wearing an untucked shirt and a pair of khaki shorts, flip flops. Today was clearly a no-shave Thursday. He looks different than at the party or at the Club.
"Hello, Mr. Stroud. I'm sorry to bother you but I was hoping you could help me."
"Help you?" He opens the door and joins me outside.
"Yes, my associate, Morgan Grimes, has been investigating some thefts at Briggs and Stratton…"
I watch his face but he keeps his puzzled smile in place, unchanged. "...and suspicion has fallen on a man named Bill Peppers. When Morgan checked into Peppers, someone claimed to have seen Peppers' truck parked here at Noble Hall. Morgan was curious if Peppers has been here since you bought the Hall. He once worked for Jane Peterson, and Morgan thought he might have come back, hoping to get a job here again."
As on-the-spot, on-the-job PI yarns go, that'll do.
Wylie's face goes slack for a second, and his eyes cool. The look in them is close to that look I see but can't name in his niece's eyes. Then he smiles. "Peppers? No, I don't think he's been here, but, then again, I'm not here all the time. He might've stopped by when I was out, but no one told me he did. I do know Peppers, though. Met him in Auburn a while back — at that nice little coffee shop, the one with wine and books?"
"Well Red?"
"That's it. Never saw him again until I ran into him a few days ago on Auburn's campus. I'd stopped by the Coliseum to talk to the gymnastics coach about becoming a scholarship donor, and I ran into Peppers. He remembered me and chatted with me for a minute. But that's the only other time I've seen him."
As on-the-spot lies to a PI go, that'll do. But it is a lie.
Wylie and Peppers weren't chatting, and their body language was the language of familiarity, not of mere acquaintance. I majored in Psychology; I graduated smart — even if it doesn't always seem like it.
I do my best to act as if I believe him.
I nod. "Well, I'm not sure he's the one who's taken the things at Briggs and Stratton, no one's accusing him, but I told Morgan I'd be out this way…"
"Hoping to see my niece, I take it?" He's happy to change subjects, and he's peering at me curiously.
I blush; I can't help it. "No, not really. I saw Sarah earlier. She said she got a new car, a Range Rover?"
He smiles, shakes his head. "Yes, she traded the Porsche. Got the Rover this morning, and the dealer brought it here, picked up the Porsche. Bryce worked it all out for her in Montgomery yesterday. When she came to your house last night, she was in Bryce's car."
I'm glad I hadn't noticed that. I met her at the door and just assumed the Porsche was outside. Bryce is awfully damn helpful.
"Oh, I didn't realize."
He puts his hand on my shoulder and squeezes it. "Don't worry about Bryce Larkin. He had his shot with Sarah. Not saying he doesn't want another one, but I'm almost certain she's of no mind to give him one. I believe she's set her sights on someone else." He gives me an avuncular grin — or tries to. He misses slightly and I wonder what that means.
"Let's walk, Charlie-boy. There're some things you need to know and I need to stretch my legs." We walk on to, then off of the driveway, and start down the road that leads to the pond trail.
He stops, faces me, squinting into the sun. "I told you that Sarah needed to slow down. You have to understand, she's lived a certain kind of life, one not much hemmed in by convention, normalcy. She was a beautiful woman in Los Angeles, a beautiful woman with money. She made mistakes — no doubt she'd claim Bryce is one of them. She wanted a change but she didn't seem to be able finally to break ties with the fast, shiny crowd, to break ties once and for all. So, I invited her out, as I told you."
We walk on and Wylie stops and picks up a long branch laying beside the road. He uses it as a walking stick. "I'll be honest," he says after a moment, "I didn't expect her to stay. I figured I could get her to stay for the party and then she'd get the West Coast itch and be back on the road, back to fast and shiny.
"But I didn't figure on you. Never would've guessed you were her type. I thought I knew her type, that Larkin was the paradigm, if not the choice. I met that doctor the other day here, with your sister. Woodcomb?"
"Yes, Devon."
"Now, that's Sarah's type. Or it was. But she's not made any noises about leaving, and that Porsche, that car had symbolic, not just monetary value to her. Not sure I know what her parting with it means, but it sure is interesting."
"I don't know what it means, either," I tell him, "and I find her…"
"Inscrutable?"
I grin at him. "Like the sphinx."
"Girl's been like that since she was just a knot of blonde hair and braces. Her dad...he's like that too. My brother. Or he was the last time I saw him. He..." Wylie stops. We've reached the trail. He looks down it but makes no move to walk it.
"Let's head back." Wylie seems to have ended his supply of information.
We reverse course. The heavy heat of the afternoon has us both laboring, sweating. The day's so hot and so still that no insects can be seen or heard. No birds sing. We're the only creatures silly enough to be moving under the sun.
Wylie decides to talk again. "Sarah has money, Chuck," I notice the change in my name, "but she's not inexpensive. She has fancy tastes. She can amuse herself with BBQ and chicken fingers and sweet tea, but she'll eventually want...less common things, dearer things. — Have you ever thought of investing? I mentioned to you that I had some...things...working, and, if they pan out, I'd be happy to give you a chance to get on board, let your money work for you. Nothing's better than when your money makes you more money."
I think of my massive account at Auburn Bank. But I've not told Sarah about it, or Morgan. I told Ellie I wouldn't tell. I don't really need any more money. But I'm curious about Wylie's scheme.
This is what Sarah wanted to know; what she hired me to find out.
"Investing? Not something I've done, but if you have a good opportunity…"
He puts his hand on my shoulder again and he smiles. "Let's see what happens in the next little while. If it looks good, I'll let you know." We reach the house and he tosses the walking stick into the grass. "Anything else I can do for you, Chuck?"
"No, that's all I need. Thanks."
He goes inside and I get in the car, wondering at what Uncle Wylie is playing.
Do I need money to have Sarah?
By the time I make it back to Opelika, it's too late to worry about the office. I don't want to go back anyway. For some reason, my chat with Wylie's started things spinning inside me, and I'm not sure why.
You have to understand. I'm not one of those atomistic, fact-by-fact sorts of detective, the detectives who work out hypotheses and gather evidence for each, weigh it carefully against other hypotheses and the evidence for them. No, I'm holistic: I work with big pictures. But it takes me time to get them into focus.
Outlines are emerging but nothing's in focus yet. I can't decide if I am working one case or two, and I can't decide about my girlfriend, Sarah Walker. I still have faith but…
I park at the house and get out. I'm surprised to see Ellie on the porch until I realize it's not Ellie. I turn and glance behind me. I missed it: on the opposite side of the street is a steel-blue BMW. TFYWIF.
It's Patty Peterson.
She gives me a wave and a smile that promises things. The promised things are on display, tanned, and handleable.
She's seated in one of our rockers in a red miniskirt like a Christmas ribbon. Above it, she has on a red crop top so tight that it seems to be paint, not cloth. Her hair hangs long and loose. She has on her mirrored sunglasses, and I can see what she sees reflected in them. She's rocking herself in open-toed, red heels. Red toenails beneath red fingernails. Her knees are slightly parted, as are her lips.
"Hey, there, Barshonski."
"Bartowski."
"A rose is a rose is a rose…"
"No, it's Chuck, not Rose."
She looks at me hard, trying to understand. "Oh, I see. You're funny, Barshonski."
Actually, that wasn't funny. She stops rocking.
"Aren't you going to invite me inside, give me a drink? It's hot out here, as you can see." She gestures toward herself, not the day.
I'm suddenly tired. I didn't sleep well last night and I've had a busy day. I just got cooled down in the car after my walk with Wylie. I don't have much patience for Patty, for this clumsy red seduction routine. It must work for her in other cases.
"Where's Wade?"
"Oh, who knows? He left the house early this morning. Left me alone all day, left me to my...devices. They made me think of you, so I Googled you, checked your office, and here I am. Ready, waiting."
I'm tired. Patty's half-spoken offer leaves me completely cold. I'm in love, remember. But Patty's offer wouldn't have tempted me before Sarah Walker. Brief encounters aren't my style — and married women are absolutely off-limits.
Then Wylie's phrase shoulders its way into my mind: 'the fast, shiny crowd'.
Patty belongs to LaGrange's version of the fast, shiny crowd. That thought makes my stomach turn, then ache. No doubt Sarah's fast, shiny crowd was much faster and much shinier. Damn.
That thought depresses me so much my shoulders sink and I feel them do it.
"Look, Patty, I appreciate you stopping by, but I've got things I have to do tonight," I lie, trying to be polite, "and I don't have time for...whatever you have in mind."
She reaches up and lowers her sunglasses. I've seen the gesture before. "You don't understand what I have in mind?" she asks in frank disbelief.
"No, and I'm sure I'd be a disappointment to you, whatever it is."
She surveys me from top to bottom, her green eyes above the mirrored surfaces. "I don't think so. I'm not good with names, but I make up for it in other ways. I'm good at other things."
"No doubt," I say, "but no."
She seems genuinely puzzled, unable to accept that I'm rejecting her advances.
She crosses her legs like a man, and her Christmas ribbon skirt covers nothing.
"Look, if you take me inside, I'll let you do anything you want. Anything. I'm very limber."
She pushes the sunglasses up, one finger, hiding her eyes, while everything below is on display.
"I'm sure that you are, Mrs. Peterson, but, as I said, no."
I'm not normally rude but I'm not going to be Catherine Tramelled all afternoon — in red, not white — and not on an empty, achy stomach and with sinking shoulders. I turn and nod to her car, the vanity plate. "I'm sure your husband wonders where you are."
She gets up and swings down the steps. She turns her mirrored lenses on me, frowning. "Let him wonder. You will…"
She wags down the sidewalk and across the street.
I do wonder: I wonder who's watching Baby.
Continued thanks to Becker1213, JohnnyRayChandlett, and WvonB for pre-reading.