"Hello?" The accent was as clipped as the previous night with a new note of tension that replaced the original note of confidence Tannehill first encountered.
"It's Tannehill." Tannehill was in a payphone booth a few blocks from Emily Brunner's apartment. The early night air was refreshingly clear and he could hear the evening's last few seagulls - he hesitated to call them night owls for fear of offending them - squawking over the back bay. Even the bus ride downtown had only taken a breezy 45 minutes.
There was a pause, "yes?"
"It's still Tannehill."
"Yes, I know that," the tension gave way to exasperation on the other end of the line, "what do you want?"
"I wanted to see if you and Miss Brunner would like to hold a cocktail party with me. You're responsible for the decorations and music. I'll be in charge of the guest list and crudites."
Another pause, "I don't understand." And it was true, there was significant confusion in Otto's voice on the other end of the line.
Now it was Tannehill's turn for exasperation, "I wanted to see if you and Miss Brunner would like to meet," he lowered his voice conspiratorially for no reason other than dramatic effect for his own amusement, "about the information."
"Oh yes," Otto responded, unwittingly lowering his voice as well, "we would like to meet about that." He imparted all of this in a tone that showed no indication that he and Tannehill had agreed to the phone call they were currently having the night before. Tannehill began to wonder who'd suffered the concussion from their encounter or how traumatic a kick to the nuts could be.
"Why don't we meet at Miss Brunner's flat?" Otto continued.
"Why don't we not?" Tannehill countered.
"Does that mean we are meeting at her flat or we're not?"
"We're not. See the thing is, Otto, I'm famished and I don't want to put you and Miss Brunner out by obligating you to cook for me."
"I see. That is indeed very kind of you."
"There's a diner near her flat where we can meet at, say, eight o'clock?" Tannehill had originally thought of meeting at the Happy Hour Diner. It was on his turf and close to his old precinct. Though he was no welcome guest at the police station, he still had a few sympathetic ears there that he could bend when he was in trouble. Then he thought of Vera. He wanted to make sure Otto and Emily stayed as far away from her as possible. He awaited Otto's response.
"So, eight o'clock?" He could hear Otto speaking German on the other side of the line and what sounded like ascent from a female voice.
"Yes," Otto responded, "we can send someone to pick you up."
"Thanks, but I'm not really a member of the tophat and chauffeur set. The bus should be fine for me. I'll leave now." Tannehill provided the diner's address and hung up. His watch read a few minutes past 6 pm. He walked toward the diner and found a spot in an alley with a clear view of the entrance. He patted the revolver in his shoulder holster for reassurance, leaned against the alley wall and stared into the diner. Currently, there were three customers seated at the counter - a woman in a red dress and her male companion and another gentleman with his back to Tannehill. A cook crouched near them attending to the evening's duties. He thought the scene would make a good still life representation of the city at night. A waitress sat in the far end of the diner waiting for the dinner shift to pick up. Over the next 30 minutes, those customers left and were replaced by other hungry sojourners completing their workday.
10 minutes before eight, Tannehill spotted Brunner and Otto with a third person trailing shortly behind them. Otto and Brunner entered the diner and sat down at a booth - both facing the same direction. Tannehill concentrated on the third person as he stood in front of the diner. Two minutes later, a well-dressed woman appeared and linked arms with him as the two moved further downtown.
Tannehill continued to watch Otto and Brunner until 8:20 pm. They ordered coffee or tea and sat staring forward, neither conversing nor betraying any exasperation at the lateness of their guest. Their hands remained above the table the entire time. He straightened and walked toward the diner checking his peripheral vision for any blurry movement headed in his direction. There was none.
He entered the diner and sat down in the booth facing them. "Sorry I'm late. You know how the buses run in the city."
"I'm not familiar with your transportation systems," Otto answered.
Tannehill shrugged in response with a slight good-natured smirk before continuing, "well, the good news is that I was able to find the information you've been after. The bad news is I'm not sure which information it is exactly."
"I'm not sure I follow," Brunner responded. Otto looked down into his coffee/tea stirring absentmindedly.
Before Tannehill could respond, the waitress interrupted him to ask for an order.
"Egg sandwich, extra butter. And a glass of milk."
As the waitress wandered away, he continued his previous conversational thread. "Turns out Snell had his fingers in a lot of pies. I found where he keeps his information but I need a few more details to make sure I'm giving you the right information."
Otto looked up from his drink and sniffed loudly, "I thought you already had the information?"
"I lied."
"Then why should we trust what you're saying now?" Brunner interjected.
"You don't have any other options."
"We could use the same conversational tactics we did with Mr. Snell," Brunner looked directly at Tannehill with her response and smiled slightly.
"How'd that work out for you the first time?" Her smile faded.
"Why don't you let us examine all of the information and we'll only take what we need?" Otto chimed in. Both Brunner and Tannehill stared wide-eyed at Otto. Both remained silent.
"Maybe. But, why don't you tell me a little more about the night of Snell's mishap first."
"I did not murder him."
"I suppose that's helpful and does tell me a little more. Why don't you tell me a lot more, instead? You waited to chat with him in the same manner you waited to chat with me? By hiding behind the door and ambushing him?"
"No."
"No?"
"No, he was expecting me. He let me in." Tannehill had forgotten that detail. Snell had been in a rush to get him out of the office. Of course he was expecting company.
"Go on."
"When I arrived, he was very casual. He was in his undershirt. I think he was expecting someone else to come with me."
"You were alone?"
"Yes, I was alone."
"Go on."
"I'm not sure what the purpose of your questions is," Brunner sighed.
"I need to know what Otto and Snell discussed in order to make sure I'm giving you the right information."
Brunner sighed in reluctant acquiescence to continue.
"Go on," Tannehill repeated.
"He was drinking the whiskey from the bottom drawer of your desk. He commented that you should buy something better that was worth him borrowing and then laughed."
Tannehill frowned briefly, "and then?"
"I asked him for the location of our shared interests and he laughed again."
"Your shared interests?"
"I thought you and Snell shared information," Brunner interrupted.
"I told you, I lied about that. I did stumble across the location of your shared interests though."
"It's in your best interest to provide us with the information."
Tannehill shrugged, "Maybe. For the moment you need me enough not to do anything rash."
"We have associates surrounding this diner who can be more persuasive than Otto was with your partner." At the mention of his name, Otto jerked his head in her direction and then lowered his head disappointedly.
"No you don't. I watched you enter the diner and waited to see if there were any stragglers. What happened after Snell laughed again?" Tannehill turned his gaze to Otto and resumed his questioning without waiting for a response from Brunner.
"He angered me. I hit him."
"In the head?"
"Yes."
"With the brass knuckles?"
"Yes."
"And then?"
"And then he became difficult. He stopped making sense. He would not respond correctly when I asked him for information."
"How did he respond?"
"He was confused. He kept calling me 'Sweetheart' after every question."
"Huh," Tannehill paused, "and that angered you more?"
"Yes. Exactly."
"And you hit him more?"
"Yes."
Tannehill stood up from the booth. "You two really are quite the pair. Your routine needs a little polishing, though. Maybe I should talk to your other partner to get his perspective?"
"Bellucci?" Brunner exclaimed and then swore under her breath immediately afterward.
Tannehill smiled broadly. "Exactly. Feel free to eat my egg sandwich. I'm afraid I have to run." He turned to leave and then turned back, "oh, don't bother following me right now. I've taken certain precautions to keep myself safe and you don't want to see what happens when I get jittery."
Brunner glared at him as he left the diner.
Tannehill zigzagged through the downtown city streets to make sure that Brunner and Otto followed his advice and then dropped into a phone booth. "Phil? It's Tannehill. I have a favor to ask of you."
[Author's Note: Well, we've arrived at the halfway point - 25408 after today's edition of 1585 words. I'm surprised I've made it this far. Without stretching, I'm relatively certain I have at least another 8000 words in me if not the entire 24592 I need to hit my goal. Still, at regular type spacing what I've written so far would stretch to about 100 pages, which is definitely novella territory.]
Sunday, January 26, 2020
Sunday, January 19, 2020
Chapter 22 - Our Town
The desert wind swirled around the barren landscape as the 19-year-old woman stood, clapboard suitcase in hand, waiting for the bus to take her north toward Capital City. She'd grown up 10 miles west of the bus stop on an inconsequential farm located on the outskirts of a village. The village itself bordered the state's second-largest city, situated placidly on the shores of a deep blue ocean. She couldn't wait to leave.
She was a precocious and diligent girl surrounded by doting parents and two rambunctious older brothers. When not occupied with her chores or attending the one-room schoolhouse a mile from the farm, she'd walk an additional two miles to spend time at the library framing the eastern edge of the town square.
Every book in the modest library was fair game - history, fiction, biographies, ornithology. Even non-traditional volumes, like survey maps of the surrounding areas or minutes of town council meetings from the turn of the century could provide solid sources of entertainment or knowledge. She got to know the library staff - all four of them - and on cold or rainy Saturdays, they'd prepare sandwiches for her marathon sessions in the building after offering her a towel and blanket to warm her up at the end of her three-mile trek.
On sunny weekends, she'd run through the surrounding fields and climb every tree she encountered, undaunted by any army of thorns, cut or scrape that would hinder lesser children. She'd proudly display her long, knobby limbs to her classmates and compare the latest scab or oldest scar with any willing confederate.
At age 10 her hair was a deep chestnut hue, her freckles spread prominently across her face, and she was tall enough to look down on most of the boys in her class. She had long, fine fingers to match her gangly limbs and a wide smile with perfect teeth.
It was the long fingers that caught the special attention of her teacher, Mrs. Polly, a middle-aged widow who lived in town. In previous generations, Mrs. Polly's family had been fortunate enough to squander a significant fortune through a series of misplaced financial adventures. However, one of the adventures resulted in an upright piano sitting in the teacher's parlor years after the family regressed to modest means. Behind it stood a Victrola surrounded by the latest jazz, opera, and classical recordings. Mrs. Polly was an indiscriminate audiophile who'd listen to any genre of music from shores near or far. Her well-trained ear allowed her to play much of what she heard and transpose it for those who were equally interested in music but not as aurally talented.
She hadn't intended to take on piano students but, noticing the girl's voracious appetite for learning anything new, decided to try.
Mrs. Polly's gamble paid off. What the girl originally lacked in natural ability she compensated for with curiosity and a strong work ethic. She studied the great masters from the previous centuries and all of the corresponding major and minor modes. She took a keen interest in an emerging cornetist from New Orleans nicknamed Satchmo and, with the help of Mrs. Polly and the library staff, was able to locate a third-hand trumpet to complement her budding piano skills.
Not infrequently the duo could be heard playing into the gloaming on a weekend, one of them on the trumpet, the other hammering away rhythm and ragtime on the piano.
As the years passed, the girl's curiosity and yearning for freedom didn't wane. When she was younger, the boys used to marvel at her scabs, scars, and gawky height. Now, her dark freckles faded to something more sensual, her chestnut hair had lightened into a shade of late autumn hay, and, while most of the boys now had the height advantage, they continued to marvel at her for completely new reasons.
It was during these years that talent scouts and producers from the city would wind their way through town. The city had supplanted New York as the film capital of the world due to its unending supply of good weather and picturesque backdrops. Filmmakers would drive through the local area in their polished motor cars scouting new locations or simply marveling at an American experience so near to them in distance but rapidly diminishing in recognition from their day-to-day lives.
One of the filmmakers - a large man with a center of gravity set comically low to the ground, a cone-shaped head with dark hair surrounding it on three sides but not on top, and always dressed in poorly fitted tans and browns better matching the Sahara than the local desert - wandered into the library one Saturday to ask for directions to the nearest diner and spotted the girl at one of the large tables near the circulation desk. He decided to take a direct approach, as he always did.
"Hello, sweetness. I'm Louis Buchhalter, producer and silver screen executive. Who are you?"
"I've heard of you," was the opening reply. "You helped usher in the sound era for film. I've been impressed with your efforts." The girl didn't look up from the copy of Vanity Fair she was reading.
Buchhalter cocked his head back, surprised that the girl knew who he was without mentioning any particular pictures. This was going to be far easier than expected. "How old are you honey?"
"Seventeen." The girl thought she saw him lick his lips at the reply.
"Any interest in being an actress?"
"I've done a pretty mean Ophelia at our local community theater."
"Would you like to go for a drive?"
"Not at the moment. I'm busy."
Buchhalter, never one to back away from a challenge, left, and on the way out, asked the librarian about the girl and her habits. The librarian, eager to sing the girl's praises, wasn't shy about providing details.
And thus began the "courtship" between Buchhalter and the girl. He'd send roses to the library or stop by - never bothering to learn the staff's names. She'd arrange the roses politely on the circulation desk or give them away to determined lovers hovering around the town square in need of assistance. He'd treat her to the diner and she'd eagerly wolf down the cheeseburger and chocolate shake that had become her decadent treat. He'd drive her along the seaside and she'd close her eyes, letting her light brown hair float freely, inhaling the salt air.
Every time they met he'd let her know how big a star he was going to make her. She always said she'd need more time to consider.
Until one day, while giving her a tour of the studio lot he asked again, "you sure you don't want to be an actress?"
"Sure," she said, momentarily swept up in the spectacle, "I'd be happy to audition." Buchhalter's grin grew wide as he placed a hand on the small of her back. He ushered her toward his office.
Five minutes later he was standing in front of the couch in his office, naked from waist to ankles, with his tan pants in puddles around his feet.
"This is an awfully unusual audition," quipped the girl.
Buchhalter shrugged dramatically with a wide grin, "you scratch my back, I'll scratch yours."
"Funny. That doesn't look like your back and I'm assuming you don't want me to scratch it."
"The options are endless sweetheart," he responded still in the same position.
"No thanks."
Five minutes after that she was walking away from the studio gate with a red-faced Buchhalter screaming at her a few steps behind, "YOU BITCH. WHAT MAKES YOU THINK YOU CAN DO BETTER THAN WHAT I WAS WILLING TO PROVIDE YOU?!"
She continued without breaking stride or turning around, "simple math."
Buchhalter stopped and sputtered before resuming, "FUCK YOU! YOU'LL NEVER WORK IN THIS TOWN! NEVER!"
"Guess I'll have to work somewhere else then."
She spent the next few months applying to schools in the state and found a women's college in Capital City willing to provide her a partial scholarship toward dual degrees in English and music.
The day before she left she promised her parents, Mrs. Polly and the library staff that she'd write once a week - not to each of them individually, of course, because a girl, even a prolific one, only has so many hours in the day. But, she promised to mention each of them in every letter.
A day later, Vera shaded her eyes and watched as the bus to Capital City rumbled in her direction from a half-mile down a dusty desert highway.
[Author's Note: I had a lot of fun imagining Vera's background. I wanted where she grew up to be something idyllic like in "The Music Man." However, given the time period, I had to recognize that women had a lot of obstacles to overcome, so I had to temper the chapter somewhat. This chapter's word count: 1426. Running total: 23823]
She was a precocious and diligent girl surrounded by doting parents and two rambunctious older brothers. When not occupied with her chores or attending the one-room schoolhouse a mile from the farm, she'd walk an additional two miles to spend time at the library framing the eastern edge of the town square.
Every book in the modest library was fair game - history, fiction, biographies, ornithology. Even non-traditional volumes, like survey maps of the surrounding areas or minutes of town council meetings from the turn of the century could provide solid sources of entertainment or knowledge. She got to know the library staff - all four of them - and on cold or rainy Saturdays, they'd prepare sandwiches for her marathon sessions in the building after offering her a towel and blanket to warm her up at the end of her three-mile trek.
On sunny weekends, she'd run through the surrounding fields and climb every tree she encountered, undaunted by any army of thorns, cut or scrape that would hinder lesser children. She'd proudly display her long, knobby limbs to her classmates and compare the latest scab or oldest scar with any willing confederate.
At age 10 her hair was a deep chestnut hue, her freckles spread prominently across her face, and she was tall enough to look down on most of the boys in her class. She had long, fine fingers to match her gangly limbs and a wide smile with perfect teeth.
It was the long fingers that caught the special attention of her teacher, Mrs. Polly, a middle-aged widow who lived in town. In previous generations, Mrs. Polly's family had been fortunate enough to squander a significant fortune through a series of misplaced financial adventures. However, one of the adventures resulted in an upright piano sitting in the teacher's parlor years after the family regressed to modest means. Behind it stood a Victrola surrounded by the latest jazz, opera, and classical recordings. Mrs. Polly was an indiscriminate audiophile who'd listen to any genre of music from shores near or far. Her well-trained ear allowed her to play much of what she heard and transpose it for those who were equally interested in music but not as aurally talented.
She hadn't intended to take on piano students but, noticing the girl's voracious appetite for learning anything new, decided to try.
Mrs. Polly's gamble paid off. What the girl originally lacked in natural ability she compensated for with curiosity and a strong work ethic. She studied the great masters from the previous centuries and all of the corresponding major and minor modes. She took a keen interest in an emerging cornetist from New Orleans nicknamed Satchmo and, with the help of Mrs. Polly and the library staff, was able to locate a third-hand trumpet to complement her budding piano skills.
Not infrequently the duo could be heard playing into the gloaming on a weekend, one of them on the trumpet, the other hammering away rhythm and ragtime on the piano.
As the years passed, the girl's curiosity and yearning for freedom didn't wane. When she was younger, the boys used to marvel at her scabs, scars, and gawky height. Now, her dark freckles faded to something more sensual, her chestnut hair had lightened into a shade of late autumn hay, and, while most of the boys now had the height advantage, they continued to marvel at her for completely new reasons.
It was during these years that talent scouts and producers from the city would wind their way through town. The city had supplanted New York as the film capital of the world due to its unending supply of good weather and picturesque backdrops. Filmmakers would drive through the local area in their polished motor cars scouting new locations or simply marveling at an American experience so near to them in distance but rapidly diminishing in recognition from their day-to-day lives.
One of the filmmakers - a large man with a center of gravity set comically low to the ground, a cone-shaped head with dark hair surrounding it on three sides but not on top, and always dressed in poorly fitted tans and browns better matching the Sahara than the local desert - wandered into the library one Saturday to ask for directions to the nearest diner and spotted the girl at one of the large tables near the circulation desk. He decided to take a direct approach, as he always did.
"Hello, sweetness. I'm Louis Buchhalter, producer and silver screen executive. Who are you?"
"I've heard of you," was the opening reply. "You helped usher in the sound era for film. I've been impressed with your efforts." The girl didn't look up from the copy of Vanity Fair she was reading.
Buchhalter cocked his head back, surprised that the girl knew who he was without mentioning any particular pictures. This was going to be far easier than expected. "How old are you honey?"
"Seventeen." The girl thought she saw him lick his lips at the reply.
"Any interest in being an actress?"
"I've done a pretty mean Ophelia at our local community theater."
"Would you like to go for a drive?"
"Not at the moment. I'm busy."
Buchhalter, never one to back away from a challenge, left, and on the way out, asked the librarian about the girl and her habits. The librarian, eager to sing the girl's praises, wasn't shy about providing details.
And thus began the "courtship" between Buchhalter and the girl. He'd send roses to the library or stop by - never bothering to learn the staff's names. She'd arrange the roses politely on the circulation desk or give them away to determined lovers hovering around the town square in need of assistance. He'd treat her to the diner and she'd eagerly wolf down the cheeseburger and chocolate shake that had become her decadent treat. He'd drive her along the seaside and she'd close her eyes, letting her light brown hair float freely, inhaling the salt air.
Every time they met he'd let her know how big a star he was going to make her. She always said she'd need more time to consider.
Until one day, while giving her a tour of the studio lot he asked again, "you sure you don't want to be an actress?"
"Sure," she said, momentarily swept up in the spectacle, "I'd be happy to audition." Buchhalter's grin grew wide as he placed a hand on the small of her back. He ushered her toward his office.
Five minutes later he was standing in front of the couch in his office, naked from waist to ankles, with his tan pants in puddles around his feet.
"This is an awfully unusual audition," quipped the girl.
Buchhalter shrugged dramatically with a wide grin, "you scratch my back, I'll scratch yours."
"Funny. That doesn't look like your back and I'm assuming you don't want me to scratch it."
"The options are endless sweetheart," he responded still in the same position.
"No thanks."
Five minutes after that she was walking away from the studio gate with a red-faced Buchhalter screaming at her a few steps behind, "YOU BITCH. WHAT MAKES YOU THINK YOU CAN DO BETTER THAN WHAT I WAS WILLING TO PROVIDE YOU?!"
She continued without breaking stride or turning around, "simple math."
Buchhalter stopped and sputtered before resuming, "FUCK YOU! YOU'LL NEVER WORK IN THIS TOWN! NEVER!"
"Guess I'll have to work somewhere else then."
She spent the next few months applying to schools in the state and found a women's college in Capital City willing to provide her a partial scholarship toward dual degrees in English and music.
The day before she left she promised her parents, Mrs. Polly and the library staff that she'd write once a week - not to each of them individually, of course, because a girl, even a prolific one, only has so many hours in the day. But, she promised to mention each of them in every letter.
A day later, Vera shaded her eyes and watched as the bus to Capital City rumbled in her direction from a half-mile down a dusty desert highway.
[Author's Note: I had a lot of fun imagining Vera's background. I wanted where she grew up to be something idyllic like in "The Music Man." However, given the time period, I had to recognize that women had a lot of obstacles to overcome, so I had to temper the chapter somewhat. This chapter's word count: 1426. Running total: 23823]
Sunday, January 5, 2020
Chapter 21 - Watching Rome Burn
"...and he didn't give you further details? He just wanted 'information?'" Tannehill stirred sugar and cream into his coffee while relaying the previous night's events to Vera. Whether due to the mild concussion Otto gifted him with or sheer exhaustion from two nights of no sleep, Tannehill was able to rest his weary head for a solid 10 hours in peaceful, dreamless slumber the night before.
Tannehill took a drawn-out slurp from his bittersweet concoction. "Yup."
"Do you have any idea what type of information he was asking for?"
"Nope." He took another long slurp. Vera folded her arms and stared ahead at him. Realizing this answer wasn't going to satisfy her, he continued, "but I wasn't going to let him know that."
"So you fought it out like a couple of chess grandmasters, I suppose, with the prized family jewels at stake." She looked down at her folded arms and back up again. "Well played but how are you going to continue to bluff your way through this?"
"Uhh," Tannehill felt the confidence from last night's encounter with Otto begin to drain.
"I guess you can wow them with your knowledge of the latest jazz artists when you meet them later." Tannehill took another insecure sip of coffee as Vera sighed theatrically.
He colored slightly, "where's your yellow outfit? You're back in mint green again."
"Well, Sherlock, I wore my yellow one yesterday when we didn't see each other. I know your solipsistic mind may have problems grasping the continuity of people moving in and out of the frame of your quotidian happenings but I was, in fact, in existence yesterday wearing my yellow uniform."
Tannehill's next sip of coffee was no more secure than his prior one.
Vera groaned slightly, "anyway, quit deflecting from the matter at hand. Let's go through the timeline of events that occurred yesterday and see if we get any closer to the 'information' you and your new pet ape are seeking."
Tannehill straightened a bit and took a slightly more confident sip of coffee. Vera continued. "You started off meeting the detective on the case right? The one who's an inch shy of staring down Frankenstein?"
"Yes, and then I stopped by here for breakfast."
Vera's face brightened, "Oh, so you encountered Flo?" She whistled and rolled her eyes.
"Yes. What is it you do in between shifts here, anyway?"
"Turn tricks down at the pier."
"Fine, I won't ask."
"Geez, I go to school. C'mon, quit procrastinating. There's got to be something here that'll help us out."
Tannehill was intrigued by Vera's use of the word 'us' but didn't correct her. "Ok. After my initial interview with Lieutenant Murphy, I stopped by here and then went home to grab some shut-eye."
"And then?"
"Murphy called me back into the precinct to deliver the news that they'd identified a suspect - one who'd recently confessed."
"Your uncle friend from the apartment building, right?"
"Yes."
"What then?"
"He handed me an envelope with Snell's belongings and sent me on my way."
"And then you encountered your new friend in your office?"
"Correct."
"And all you know about him is that he's asking for 'information'?"
"Yes."
"What makes you think the story as it plays out now with your uncle friend as the murderer isn't straight?"
"Too coincidental. And Beederman - the uncle - was in the same location I was in when Snell was getting offed." Snell glanced toward the ceiling thoughtfully.
"What?"
"Otto - my assailant last night - didn't get Beederman's name right. You'd think that if they're connected in this, he wouldn't make that mistake."
Vera shrugged, "maybe they weren't close."
Tannehill shook his head, "no, I don't think that's it. This isn't some vast conspiracy where everyone connected only refers to one another by some secretive, theatrical name."
"What does that imply then?"
"I don't know. I'll have to chew on it."
"What was in the envelope?"
"What envelope?"
"The envelope Murphy gave you with Snell's belongings."
"His wallet and a cigarette case. I found that somewhat odd since Snell didn't smoke."
Vera raised an eyebrow. "Do you have the envelope with you?"
"No, but I can run to my place and grab it."
"Ok. I'll wait here for you. I don't have much going on."
A voice boomed from the kitchen "Vera! Stop chit-chatting! We've got a breakfast rush."
Vera rolled her eyes again and sighed, standing up in deliberate fashion. Before walking back to the counter, she leaned over to Tannehill and whispered, "come back at 10. I've got some free time before I need to head to the pier." Tannehill glanced at her sideways and smirked, taking another confident slurp of coffee.
---
When Tannehill reappeared, Vera was camped comfortably in a booth with her own cup of coffee intently working on the day's crossword.
"Who was the last emperor of the Julian-Claudian dynasty?" she asked as Tannehill approached. He opened his mouth to respond, but she raised an exuberant finger in the air and exclaimed "Nero!" before he could indicate he had no clue.
She put her pencil down and eyed the manila envelope tucked under Tannehill's arm. "Let's see the goods." Tannehill settled into the booth and slid the envelope across to her.
She pulled out the wallet first and flipped it over, revealing nothing. "No cash?"
"It's already been passed through precinct processing so I'm sure they've collected any requisite city taxes on Snell's behalf for dying."
She continued thumbing through the wallet to find anything of use, pulling out Snell's identification card in the process. "Huh, he was older than I expected. Didn't look half bad for his age." She paused briefly, "his middle name was Augustus?"
Tannehill shrugged. "I suppose. I forget my middle name pretty frequently, so I'm not likely to remember anyone else's."
She replaced the identification card and tossed the wallet aside. She slid the cigarette case from the envelope and looked at the engraving - "RAS". The A stood out prominently, one and a half times as large as the "R" and the "S". "The initials fit - Richard Augustus Snell. He didn't smoke?"
"Nope."
"It could be a keepsake. Do you know if his father had the same initials?"
Tannehill shrugged again. "Not sure, but he wasn't a sentimental individual by any means."
Vera opened the case up. It was completely stocked with a cheap brand of cigarettes. She began removing them one by one until the entire lot was scattered on the table. She ducked her head closer to the case with a quizzical look. "What's that?" She placed the case on the table and pointed.
Tannehill stared at the case and noticed a small slip of cardstock peeking from one corner. He looked briefly at Vera and matched the bemused look that had appeared on her face with his own. He pulled on the crossbar of the case and both of them watched as the interior of the case separated from its exterior. A silver key clinked on to the table unceremoniously.
Floating belatedly behind it was a torn matchbook cover with an address scrawled inside the cover - Loving's Bakery 9360 S. Oceanside.
[Author's Note: Today's edition is 1190 words for a New Year's total of 22397. I hope to be a bit more consistent in my upcoming chapters but I often rush to write my 1000 words on the weekend which causes me (a little) anxiety. If I can write a few words throughout the week I'll still stick to the Sunday release schedule. Otherwise, I'll slow things down a bit so I don't stress myself out for some arbitrary goal.]
Tannehill took a drawn-out slurp from his bittersweet concoction. "Yup."
"Do you have any idea what type of information he was asking for?"
"Nope." He took another long slurp. Vera folded her arms and stared ahead at him. Realizing this answer wasn't going to satisfy her, he continued, "but I wasn't going to let him know that."
"So you fought it out like a couple of chess grandmasters, I suppose, with the prized family jewels at stake." She looked down at her folded arms and back up again. "Well played but how are you going to continue to bluff your way through this?"
"Uhh," Tannehill felt the confidence from last night's encounter with Otto begin to drain.
"I guess you can wow them with your knowledge of the latest jazz artists when you meet them later." Tannehill took another insecure sip of coffee as Vera sighed theatrically.
He colored slightly, "where's your yellow outfit? You're back in mint green again."
"Well, Sherlock, I wore my yellow one yesterday when we didn't see each other. I know your solipsistic mind may have problems grasping the continuity of people moving in and out of the frame of your quotidian happenings but I was, in fact, in existence yesterday wearing my yellow uniform."
Tannehill's next sip of coffee was no more secure than his prior one.
Vera groaned slightly, "anyway, quit deflecting from the matter at hand. Let's go through the timeline of events that occurred yesterday and see if we get any closer to the 'information' you and your new pet ape are seeking."
Tannehill straightened a bit and took a slightly more confident sip of coffee. Vera continued. "You started off meeting the detective on the case right? The one who's an inch shy of staring down Frankenstein?"
"Yes, and then I stopped by here for breakfast."
Vera's face brightened, "Oh, so you encountered Flo?" She whistled and rolled her eyes.
"Yes. What is it you do in between shifts here, anyway?"
"Turn tricks down at the pier."
"Fine, I won't ask."
"Geez, I go to school. C'mon, quit procrastinating. There's got to be something here that'll help us out."
Tannehill was intrigued by Vera's use of the word 'us' but didn't correct her. "Ok. After my initial interview with Lieutenant Murphy, I stopped by here and then went home to grab some shut-eye."
"And then?"
"Murphy called me back into the precinct to deliver the news that they'd identified a suspect - one who'd recently confessed."
"Your uncle friend from the apartment building, right?"
"Yes."
"What then?"
"He handed me an envelope with Snell's belongings and sent me on my way."
"And then you encountered your new friend in your office?"
"Correct."
"And all you know about him is that he's asking for 'information'?"
"Yes."
"What makes you think the story as it plays out now with your uncle friend as the murderer isn't straight?"
"Too coincidental. And Beederman - the uncle - was in the same location I was in when Snell was getting offed." Snell glanced toward the ceiling thoughtfully.
"What?"
"Otto - my assailant last night - didn't get Beederman's name right. You'd think that if they're connected in this, he wouldn't make that mistake."
Vera shrugged, "maybe they weren't close."
Tannehill shook his head, "no, I don't think that's it. This isn't some vast conspiracy where everyone connected only refers to one another by some secretive, theatrical name."
"What does that imply then?"
"I don't know. I'll have to chew on it."
"What was in the envelope?"
"What envelope?"
"The envelope Murphy gave you with Snell's belongings."
"His wallet and a cigarette case. I found that somewhat odd since Snell didn't smoke."
Vera raised an eyebrow. "Do you have the envelope with you?"
"No, but I can run to my place and grab it."
"Ok. I'll wait here for you. I don't have much going on."
A voice boomed from the kitchen "Vera! Stop chit-chatting! We've got a breakfast rush."
Vera rolled her eyes again and sighed, standing up in deliberate fashion. Before walking back to the counter, she leaned over to Tannehill and whispered, "come back at 10. I've got some free time before I need to head to the pier." Tannehill glanced at her sideways and smirked, taking another confident slurp of coffee.
---
When Tannehill reappeared, Vera was camped comfortably in a booth with her own cup of coffee intently working on the day's crossword.
"Who was the last emperor of the Julian-Claudian dynasty?" she asked as Tannehill approached. He opened his mouth to respond, but she raised an exuberant finger in the air and exclaimed "Nero!" before he could indicate he had no clue.
She put her pencil down and eyed the manila envelope tucked under Tannehill's arm. "Let's see the goods." Tannehill settled into the booth and slid the envelope across to her.
She pulled out the wallet first and flipped it over, revealing nothing. "No cash?"
"It's already been passed through precinct processing so I'm sure they've collected any requisite city taxes on Snell's behalf for dying."
She continued thumbing through the wallet to find anything of use, pulling out Snell's identification card in the process. "Huh, he was older than I expected. Didn't look half bad for his age." She paused briefly, "his middle name was Augustus?"
Tannehill shrugged. "I suppose. I forget my middle name pretty frequently, so I'm not likely to remember anyone else's."
She replaced the identification card and tossed the wallet aside. She slid the cigarette case from the envelope and looked at the engraving - "RAS". The A stood out prominently, one and a half times as large as the "R" and the "S". "The initials fit - Richard Augustus Snell. He didn't smoke?"
"Nope."
"It could be a keepsake. Do you know if his father had the same initials?"
Tannehill shrugged again. "Not sure, but he wasn't a sentimental individual by any means."
Vera opened the case up. It was completely stocked with a cheap brand of cigarettes. She began removing them one by one until the entire lot was scattered on the table. She ducked her head closer to the case with a quizzical look. "What's that?" She placed the case on the table and pointed.
Tannehill stared at the case and noticed a small slip of cardstock peeking from one corner. He looked briefly at Vera and matched the bemused look that had appeared on her face with his own. He pulled on the crossbar of the case and both of them watched as the interior of the case separated from its exterior. A silver key clinked on to the table unceremoniously.
Floating belatedly behind it was a torn matchbook cover with an address scrawled inside the cover - Loving's Bakery 9360 S. Oceanside.
[Author's Note: Today's edition is 1190 words for a New Year's total of 22397. I hope to be a bit more consistent in my upcoming chapters but I often rush to write my 1000 words on the weekend which causes me (a little) anxiety. If I can write a few words throughout the week I'll still stick to the Sunday release schedule. Otherwise, I'll slow things down a bit so I don't stress myself out for some arbitrary goal.]
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