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

He looked away a moment, making up his mind. “She won’t be making any statements,” he shrugged. “On account of she’s dead.”

“Dead?”

“She was in the house when it went up. Never had a chance. Garage exploded, torched the old house like a flamethrower. If she was lucky, the explosion killed her before she burned. Looks like the garage was a methamphetamine lab. But then you already knew that, didn’t you? You said Trane was high on meth.”

“I don’t know anything about a lab, but I’ve met a few meth heads.”

“In Detroit, you mean. Trane is from Detroit.”

“So is Eminem. Detroit’s a big town, Chief. I only met Trane a few days ago. Here.”

“Are you certain about that? Phil tells me you had a closed head injury a year or so back. Said it affects your memory.”

“That’s right. Sometimes.”

“No offense, Mr. Kenyon, but you’ve got a pretty good defense going yourself. Could it be you knew Trane but don’t remember? But maybe he remembered you? Something like that?”

“If he remembered me he didn’t mention it. You’re making this too complicated, Chief. If Trane was cooking crystal the clock was already running on him. Meth’s a high risk business. Labs blow up, guys toast their brains on their own dope, or their competition whacks them out.”

“You think that’s what happened? Trane’s competition took a run at him? Killed his girlfriend by accident?”

“I don’t know, I’m only guessing. Sounds like you are too.”

“Amen to that,” Liske admitted. “Well. This has been real interesting, Mr. Kenyon. Just so we’re clear on something, I’m not the detective who’s handling this case, that’ll be Sergeant Thompson. He may want to talk to you later. I came because Phil Barrett and I have been pals our whole lives, dated the same girls, played high school football together. I knew your wife, Tiffany. Watched her grow up. I’m sorry as hell for your loss. She was special.”

“Yes she was.”

“That said, I can only do so much for auld lang syne. You say you don’t know Trane or his girlfriend, I’ll accept that. For now. But if you’re jerking me around—”

“I’m not.”

He eyed me a moment, reading my face. And maybe my thoughts. “Okay. Sorry we couldn’t have met under better circumstances, Mr. Kenyon. And if you have any more ideas about who might’ve torched that house, give me a call, okay? Us small town cops need all the big city help we can get.”

Right.

After Liske left I opened the shop. Sort of. Usually I put on coffee, straighten the stock, then scan the morning paper for sales. Not today. Didn’t even turn on the lights. Just sat at my desk, surrounded by debris from other lives. Thinking about a girl named Chastity. And how sudden life can be. And how hard.

The bell on the front door jingled. Karla Frantzis poked her head in. “Hi, are you busy?”

“Not very. I take it you’ve heard what happened?”

“Had a visit from the police first thing this morning,” she said somberly, stepping in. “It’s awful. That poor girl.”

“She said the house frightened her. I guess she was right to be afraid. What did the police want?”

“I’m not sure. He was polite, but he asked a lot of questions. Mostly about you.”

“What did you tell him?”

“The truth, that I don’t know you very well. I don’t think he believed me.”

“Cops quit believing people the first week they wear the badge. They get lied to. A lot. Tends to shake their faith in humanity.”

“You used to be in that line of work. How’s your faith in humanity?”

“I’m not sure I ever had any. Why do you ask?”

“You seem different this morning. Darker.”

“This situation’s stirring up a lot of stuff I’m still trying to work through.”

“The accident, you mean? Do you want to talk about it?”

“No. All I did was talk about it in the hospital. Talked to psychiatrists, psychologists, rehab therapists. Try to remember, Mr. Kenyon. Try to forget. Try to fly to the moon by flapping your arms. I’ve had all the advice I can handle.”

“Maybe you just need a friend. I’m a good listener.”

“Then try listening! I don’t want to talk, I don’t want a new pal, I just want to be left alone.”

“Whoa,” she said, stiffening. “I hear that loud and clear. I didn’t mean to pry, I just — maybe I’d better go.”

“No, wait a minute. I’m sorry I bit your head off. You seem like a nice person and you probably mean well, but you’re wasting your time on me. I’m like the things in my shop. Damaged goods. Secondhand.”

Pausing in the doorway, she glanced back at me. “I happen to like secondhand, Stu’s Nothing New. Good stuff is worth saving. Maybe I’ll see you around. Maybe not.”

And she was gone. I sat there in the dark awhile, massaging my eyes, kicking myself for being a jerk. The phone rang. The last thing I wanted was more conversation. Picked it up anyway.

“Stu? It’s Mamie Szmanski, from Midland. About those View-Master reels you sent over?”

“What about them? No good?”

“The quality’s fine but we need to talk about them. Your place or mine?”

“I don’t know if — damn. I’ll have to call you back, Mamie, somebody’s at the delivery door.”

Probably Phil wondering why the lights were off in the shop.