In this chapter, Be a comes back with a story and a clue. Let's see what it is. I hope you like the chapter. Drop me a line if you want. I'd be pleased to hear from you!
NOTE: Check out my other stories in the Sci-fi / Fantasy Section Crown Vic to a Parallel World From Whence I Came Stolen Love
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Wasted Life a Law Edwards Mystery by Sam Stefanik
5 The Client Returns
It was after four when I got near my office, and I was hungry. I stopped at a greasy spoon counter-service diner and filled my grumbling stomach with indigestion. Since I didn't have anything else to do, I lingered over too many coffee refills. My idleness delayed my return to the office until about half-past five. Bea was waiting for me in one of the visitors' chairs when I arrived.
When she saw me, she sprung from her chair. "What did you find out?" She asked.
I shook my head and told a small lie. "Nothing new."
I kept the blueprint theft under my hat to keep Bea as an ally. I didn't want to risk losing her as a client and a source of information. I didn't think Bea would take it kindly if I accused her brother of being a thief. I changed the subject, so I wouldn't have to discuss what I did with my time since she'd left that morning. "I didn't expect you to hand-carry that stuff, Miss Arlott."
Bea lowered her eyes to a pile of papers and other things on my desk. "I was going to send it, but a special delivery stamp costs the same as a round trip on the train. Plus, I can help if I'm here. If you have questions." She added the last part like she wasn't sure if she was being too forward.
I couldn't fault Bea's logic, but I didn't relish the idea of `help.' Since she was already there, I didn't argue. "Alright, let's see what you have." I parked myself in the swivel chair and lit a cigar.
Bea had about forty letters that covered most of the little more than a year since Preston was disowned. We put them in order and read several from different months to get a flavor of his situation. We selected a few from the beginning of the correspondence, one or two from the middle, and the last four. The pattern was clear and generally downward.
Early on, Preston was an emotional wreck from being disowned. After a month or so, he came to terms with his new lot in life and tried to figure out how he could get ahead on his own. As time went on, he had set-back after set-back and grew more desperate and depressed.
A letter from three or four months earlier illustrated the scale of his problem. Preston owed $520 on his education, and he made sixty-five cents an hour as a clerk. Even working a sixty-hour week, he only netted about thirty-two dollars. Out of that he paid fourteen a week for room and board, breakfast and dinner only. Somehow, on the eighteen bucks he had left, he was supposed to get back and forth from work, eat lunch, buy the necessities of life, and save the massive sum he needed to pay off his degree.
One of his later letters showed that in the eight months Preston had worked at Consolidated up to that point, he'd managed to save fifty-six bucks. That was a remarkable feat for someone with his meager income, but nowhere near what he needed. At that rate, he'd be able to get his degree after about nine years of extreme austerity.
The last few letters alluded to reckless efforts to double or triple his money, all with poor outcomes. Preston didn't detail what he did or the level of disaster he met with, but I assumed the worst. A recurring theme was long-shot horserace gambling. `There are too many variables,' his letters complained.
`And that's why the house always wins.' I thought.
Bea made a little sound from behind a letter and dropped her arms like a marionette whose strings had been suddenly cut. "I didn't realize how hard his life was." She bleated miserably. "Getting one letter a week, I saw a little bit. Reading them together, it's crushing. Before my father disowned him, Preston was very close to us. He came home a lot on weekends. Sometimes he brought little things from the city, silly little things like a small Liberty Bell souvenir. It was sweet.
"My father would ask him how his classes were, and they would talk about projects they were both working on. They wanted so much to work together. Pres worked so hard to make my father proud. Then it was all ruined." Bea's voice trembled with emotion. The sound didn't last. She quickly stifled it and her regular speaking tone returned.
"Tell me." I said to ask that she recount the story. Being disowned seemed to be the single largest event in Preston's life. I wanted to know more about what happened. I hoped the story would give me a clearer picture of what was driving his current actions. I'd also only ever heard the story of someone being disowned from the person it happened to, never from the family's side.
Bea looked down at her hands and laced her long fingers together in her lap. "It was horrible." She said in a flat voice like she was reading an article from the paper. "I hate to say it, but it was worse than when mother died. My brother is still alive, just not to my father. I've seen father cry twice in my life; the first was when my mother died, the second was the day he found out about Preston. He cried like my brother was dead. He told me Preston was dead to us. My father told me my brother betrayed us and he didn't have a son and I didn't have a brother."
Bea drew a long breath like she needed it to steady herself. She let it out slowly and drew another before she went on with her story. "My father got cartons from the garage and went through the house tearing down everything that belonged to Pres, even the photos in the family album. He sat at the dining room table like he was writing the bills and removed every single one that showed Pres. The ones of all of us, he cut with scissors.
"When the cartons were full, he put them on the curb for the trash to take away, then he got drunk. When he fell asleep, I saved whatever I could from the curb and refilled the bottom of the cartons with crumpled newspaper. I wanted the cartons to look the same. I didn't want father to find out I'd saved things. The next day, my father called men to come take Preston's bedroom furniture away, like it was contaminated. I think if he could have torn my brother's bedroom off the house, he would have done it. It's empty now and the door is closed. No one goes in there. Father doesn't even use it for storage."
My insides knotted and spasmed as Bea told the story of that day. I must have shown the pain on my face. "Mister Edwards, are you alright?" She asked.
"Just some indigestion." I lied and waved away her concern.
"Anyway," she continued, "my father hasn't even said his name since then. Once, after about six months had gone by, I tried to...I don't know...say something for Pres. Father turned on me like he hated me for mentioning my brother's name. I thought he was going to strike me. After that, I didn't try anymore." Bea finished the story and watched her hands. Her fingers laced and unlaced and made little scratchy noises against the fabric of her dress.
I was trying to figure out how to respond to Bea's story when the streetlamp in front of the office came on and spilled harsh light through the plate glass windows. The light reminded me of the hour and gave me a qualm of concern for my delicate guest. "It's getting late Miss Arlott." I observed aloud. "You should go home. That is, unless there is something else."
Bea roused herself and looked around. "Uhm...oh, I forgot about the key." She dug in her bag and produced a white envelope that bore a destination address of `Preston Arlott, care of General Delivery, Pennsauken, New Jersey.' It had no return address. In the corner was a cancelled stamp with a post mark from Saturday, May 13th.
Bea explained how she came to be in possession of the envelope. "I went to the post office to see about the rates for special delivery. While I was there, I asked the man to check for any mail for Arlott. He gave this to me and said it had been there for several days. I don't know why the other man never gave it to me. Maybe because it was addressed to Preston, but that's awfully formal of him. The key was inside, but no note or anything. I tried it all over the house, even on the trunks and suitcases in the attic and the cellar. It doesn't fit any of them."
She handed the key over from inside a small coin-purse. I examined it to see that it was a specialized key, not for a regular house or vehicle lock. There was no name or manufacturer's identification on it. It was just a small, brass key. It was obviously machine made and not hand filed. Beyond that, it told me nothing. I stuck it in the envelope it came in, set it on top of the other stuff, and figured on having another look once I was alone.
"Does any of this mean anything to you?" She asked.
I wasn't sure what it meant and said as much. "We still don't know why he's running."
"Running?" Bea asked with her head cocked in a question.
"Think about it." I prompted her. "He left without a word, even to you. He's either running to something or from something. We haven't found anything compelling enough to run to or threatening enough to run from. If we find that, we'll have taken a big step toward finding him."
Bea didn't appear to quite understand me, but I decided I was finished teaching her to do my job. "Thank you, Miss Arlott." I said to end the interview. "It's late now. You need to go before it gets too dark."
"Yes, Mister Edwards." She nodded and gathered her things. "Goodnight and thank you."
I waited until she was gone, relit the cigar that I had forgotten about during the story of Bea's family, and tried to focus on some of the stuff she brought that wasn't just letters. I shuffled the pile and turned up another copy of the photo I had in my pocket. I held it for a second to see the man I was supposed to find.
Preston Arlott isn't who I saw, though. I propped the photo against Walt's water glass from earlier and lost myself in the face. "I remember the first time I saw you, David." I said to it.