Alfred Hitchcock Mystery Magazine. Vol. 49, No. 1 & 2, January/February 2004

“Maybe it’s not a bad idea. Our friend back there does seem a little spacey. A deputy? Can your father-in-law really fix that?”

“Sure. Bay Harbor’s a nice town, but it’s old fashioned. The same families have been running things here for the last hundred years. My father-in-law, the sheriff, local judges, businessmen. All buddies who grew up together, went to the same schools.”

“An old boy network?”

“Something like that. But in a good way.”

“Maybe. If you’re one of the old boys.”

“I’m not, but my father-in-law is. Let me fix this.”

“Okay,” she said, climbing into her VW. “But tell him to be on time. I’ll be here at ten.”

“The deputy will be waiting.”

“You know, it’s really a shame. This was a beautiful house once. Didn’t Mr. Barrett say the Potters were old money? Wouldn’t that make them part of your old boy network?”

“Maybe,” I said, glancing at the run-down old mansion. “Why?”

“Because if the last Potter hanged himself here, I guess being an old boy wasn’t much help, was it?”

I didn’t dream of toasters that night. Had a new one instead. I was wandering through the Potter house, alone. And terribly afraid. Because the wind was howling around the house like a wolf pack. And every room had a corpse in it. A dead man, hanging from the ceiling, turning slowly to face me, his features hideously distorted. And then his eyes would open—

And I’d bolt from the room, fleeing down endless icy corridors, desperately seeking a way out.

But behind every door I opened...

At some point I snapped awake, took twenty minutes to calm down, then fell back to sleep and started the same damned dream all over again. A long, hard night.

In the morning I was exhausted. Felt like I’d been running all night. I guess I had been. If nightmare miles count.

But my nightmare was only beginning.

A police car was in my parking spot in the lot behind my shop. When I parked beside it a cop climbed out at the same time I did. Short, squared-off, gunmetal gray hair combed straight back, fifties’ style. Brown satin jacket.

“Mr. Kenyon? I’m Chief Tom Liske, with the sheriff’s department. You’re Phil Barrett’s son-in-law, right?”

“That’s right. Why?”

“Phil called me first thing this morning, said you needed a deputy as an escort?”

“It isn’t for me. You were supposed to meet the woman running the execution sale at the Potter house on Centralia.” I checked my watch. “Jeez, you’d better get over there. She said she’d be there at ten.”

“I don’t do escort work, Mr. Kenyon, and there won’t be any execution sale at the Potter house. It’s not there anymore.”

“What?”

“There was an explosion last night. The garage blew up and the house burned to the ground. Can you tell me anything about that?”

“I don’t understand. Why ask me?”

“You obviously had some trouble over there or you wouldn’t have requested a deputy, right? So what happened?”

“I went there to help Miss Frantzis price items for an execution sale. Lurch got—”

“Lurch?”

“The guy living there.”

“You mean John Trane?”

“I guess that’s his name. Big guy, spooky house. Lurch, the giant butler, right? The Addams Family on TV?”

“I get it, Mr. Kenyon. And you had some trouble with Lurch?”

“Not exactly. More like a minor confrontation. We were checking out the garage, he got hostile and ran us off.”

“Must have been embarrassing, in front of your girl and all.”

“Miss Frantzis isn’t my girl, I’ve only known her a few days. Look, I know you’re only doing your job here but you’re wasting your time. Lurch, Trane, whatever his name is, was half out of his tree on meth last night. Since the city’s evicting him and his girlfriend is taking off—”

“You know his girlfriend too?” He checked a notepad. “Chastity Salvador?”

“We met her last night, why?”

“You seem to know these people pretty well.”

“Well enough to know that if somebody torched the Potter house, Trane’s the one you should be talking to, not me.”

“Maybe so. Phil tells me you’re a lawyer. Used to be an assistant D.A. with the Wayne County prosecutor’s office?”

“That’s right. So?”

“Seems like you came a long ways from Detroit just to open a junk shop.”

“Secondhand shop.”

“Whatever. I’d think an attorney could do better. A lot of guys would give an arm for the opportunities you have.”

“I wouldn’t know. What’s that got to do with anything?”

“I’m just trying to make you add up, Mr. Kenyon. Me, I’m a Bay Harbor boy, born and raised. A northside Polack, strong as an ox and half as smart. But when the Potter house blew up, it occurred to me that Trane might be involved. I even put out an all points for him. Found him too. Know where he was?”

“I give up. Where?”

“In jail. Punched out a bartender over in Saginaw. Spent the night in the tank there. Refused to give the arresting officers his name. They didn’t know who he was till his prints came back this morning. How’s that for an alibi, counselor?”

“Pretty good.”

“I think so too. That’s why I’m here, talking to the guy who had a... minor confrontation with Trane last night. Just before his freakin’ house blew up.”

“I’ve told you all I know. What did his girlfriend say?”