Shay O'Hanlon Caper 04 - Chip Off the Ice Block Murder (14 page)

“WHAT?”

Nope, she didn’t take it well at all. I got out.

“Shay!” JT yowled. “You’re crazy if you think I’m going to let you go in there and get shot.”

I secured my footing in the snow as I turned around. “It’s okay. When he hears it’s me, he won’t pull the trigger. Then I’ll call your cell to let you know to drive on in. Trust me.” I leaned in and gave her a quick peck.

Before she could further state her case, I said, “Stay here till I come back for you,” and slammed the door shut. Coop and Eddy would make sure JT stayed put.

I walked away from the Escape, wishing I’d thought to bring a
flashlight. Oh well, the whiteness of the snow made the going
somewhat easier. I followed the drive as it curved to the right, and soon the headlights from the Escape disappeared and the darkness swallowed me.

My heart always beat a little faster when I made this trek, and I hadn’t done it for years. I think the last time I’d been to the shack was when I’d graduated from college.

I marched along with my feet in a tire rut and my hands buried in the pockets of my jacket. As I walked I thought about my dad, wondered where he was, and what the hell was really going on. How had things come to this? I was so confused. A degree—okay, a small degree—of the anger that had been burning in my gut since Whale summoned me to the Lep on New Year’s Eve had lessened, but I was bewildered and disconcerted. So many things weren’t adding up.

It wasn’t too long before the edge of the shack came into view. There were no lights illuminating the yard. The windows were dark on the one side of the structure that was in my line of vision.

Most evenings (and well into most nights) Limpy Dick sat on his covered, unscreened porch in darkness made even deeper by the tall pines and deciduous trees that surrounded his battered homestead. Waiting. And watching.

All these years later he was probably still anticipating a visit from some dastardly hooligans who were going to rush his property and make an end run for his buried treasure. The man sat on that porch in the heat, in the cold, in the snow, in the rain. The only time the routine was broken was when he periodically left for supplies and a semi-monthly trek to the Leprechaun to play poker.

I navigated some particularly uneven footing and recalled that one time, Limpy Dick told me that if any of those nincompoops—his word, not mine—tried to break into his shack, there were plenty of surprises they’d run into before they even set foot over the threshold.

For the first time, rational thought seeped into my thick skull. This probably wasn’t the brightest idea I’d ever had. But then again, I didn’t have any other creative solutions brewing like a light bulb in the dark night, and I certainly didn’t want him taking a potshot at my new vehicle.

Nope, the time to act was now.

I figuratively girded my loins and literally cut off the trail into trees to my left. Cautiously I edged around the house, keeping a good fifty-foot cushion between it and me. The only sounds in the night were the rustling of the trees in the wind and the crunch of shin-deep snow that trickled over the tops of my shoes, turning my feet cold and damp. The iciness of the snow seared the skin above my ankles.

When I was close to what I judged to be the front of the house, I let rip a loud whistle. The call of a semi-sick whippoorwill bounced off the trees around me. I whistled again, sounding a little less like a choking duck, and edged forward until the porch came into view. It was too dark to see where Dick was, so I went ahead another ten feet and whippoorwilled again. This time the whistle was ear-piercing. I was impressed that particular ability came back so fast.

From the porch, I caught a shadowy movement.

BLAM! A bright flash and a thunderous explosion ripped from the shack. Bark chipped off trees next to me, stinging my cheek.

Apparently the whippoorwill no longer worked. I hit the deck with an “Oh shit!” My heart hammered as I pressed my cheek deep in the snow, waiting for the second explosion.

KA-BOOM!

Silence reclaimed the forest. I counted to three, propelled myself to my feet, and dodged forward and to the left. Limpy Dick had creatively placed stumps and rocks around his property as intruder deterrents and I swore I hit every one.

“Dick!” I screamed as I skinned my shin on another obstacle. “It’s Shay!”

I took two more strides, but another cannon-like report issued from the porch. I hit the ground face-first and tried to burrow into the snow.

Without breathing, I waited for him to fire off the second round.

The second blast sounded like it was right over my head. The resulting thunder echoed through the trees. Before Limpy Dick had a chance to finish reloading, I bounced up and charged the last few feet to the porch.

My throat felt raw. I launched into a long, low dive and slammed into the side of the shack to the right of the porch steps.

There were definitely going to be bruises.

Huddling against the siding, my arms over my head, I screeched, “Dick, it’s Shay, Pete O’Hanlon’s kid!”

For a second overwhelming silence roared in my ears. I heard a clunk, and the sound of the slide on the shotgun slamming home. There was a thud, and Limpy Dick said gruffly, “Shay O’Hanlon? That really you? Where the hell are you hiding?”

I rolled my eyes, tried to breathe. “I’m. Right here. Don’t. Shoot. ’Kay?”

He grunted, and I took that as his agreement to cease fire.

My legs shook. I pulled myself to my feet, stumbled to the steps, and staggered up them.

Limpy Dick stood in the middle of the porch bundled in a thick jacket. A knit stocking cap was perched at an angle on his head, and camouflage snow pants with one leg cut off at the knee kept his lower half warm. A prosthesis stuck out below the end of the shortened side of the pants and a felt boot was attached to the foot. A long, grizzled, gray-and-white beard covered his face. He looked like Minnesota’s version of the guys on
Duck Dynasty
.

He clumped forward and grabbed me in a tight bear hug, lifting me off my feet. Every one of my bruises screamed in pain.
He blustered, “Little O! Don’t you remember the whippoorwill?”

The side of my face was mashed against the rough fabric of his coat. “I—”

“Speak up,” he bellowed. “I can’t hear a goddamned thing any-
more.”

Things got a little out of control when JT, gun in hand, burst through the trees screaming my name. Thank god I thought to grab the shotgun from where it rested against the porch railing before Limpy Dick got his hands on it. I attempted to explain—as we played tug-of-war—that the heat-packing, wild-eyed crazy woman wasn’t a danger. It took three tries before he understood JT wasn’t out to steal his money and she understood he wasn’t threatening me.

Any longer, anyway.

A few minutes later I huddled inside the shack with Coop, Eddy, and JT around a table made from a gigantic tree trunk. It was six inches thick, maybe five feet across, and must have weighed five hundred pounds. The top had a thick, clear glaze on it that protected the wood beneath.

I hadn’t been inside Limpy Dick’s place in a very, very long time. It felt like Alice in Wonderland’s version of déjà vu. There were several upgrades in the intervening years that shocked the socks off of me. He now had a 50-inch HDTV on a stand a few feet in front of a huge, overstuffed wood-framed couch and a matching recliner. A laptop computer and printer were set up on one half of a breakfast bar that was pushed up against the wall beneath one of the blacked-out windows. On the other side of the bar were at least fifty, if not more, tiny figures carved out of wood. They ranged from delicate butterflies to slinky foxes to roaring black bears.

Eddy picked one up—a tiny, perfect replica of a caterpillar—admired the intricate detailing. “Cool,” she said.

Limpy Dick grinned, his yellow teeth peeping between strands of shaggy beard like off-color Chiclets. “Doc said I needed to get me a hobby to help deal with stress. I started putting knife to wood a few years back. Got hooked. Now I sell them little things on Etsy.”

Etsy? How had Limpy Dick ever heard of Etsy? What had happened to the man I once knew? However, there was pride in his tone, not the derision I was certain would have been there long ago when talking about a markedly feminine crafty site.

Some things do change after all.

Now Limpy Dick busied himself hustling around his kitchen, pulling espressos from a single pour, commercial-grade machine. I didn’t remember him being much of a coffee guy, much less a fan of the fancy stuff. Most of Dad’s friends considered coffee drinks foo-foo and made for women—well beneath them and their rough and tumble “give me a Bud for breakfast” exteriors.

Once Limpy Dick set tiny cups—on saucers, mind you—before us, he dropped into a chair with a grunt.

JT slid me a wide-eyed, “Is he nuts?” look. I shrugged my shoulders. I had no idea anymore.

“Sorry agin’ about that little to-do, Shay,” Limpy Dick said gruffly, staring intently at the mug that looked child-sized in his meaty, fingers-missing hand.

“It’s okay,” I said. “I’m sorry I startled you like that. I didn’t know how get a hold you any other way.” I kind of wanted to reach over and hug him, let him know that I held no ill will after being taken for a moving target. JT, however, wasn’t feeling so magnanimous. I could still feel the waves of angry tension rolling off her body. I was definitely going to have to make this one up to her in a big way very soon.

I took a hit of the espresso. The scalding liquid reminded me painfully that I wasn’t in the midst of a peculiar dream where things as I knew them were turned on their ear and then inside out for added entertainment. Once again, the
Twilight Zone
theme song raced through my mind.

Limpy Dick brought me back to the moment when he said, “I know I’m not the easiest guy to get a hold of. But these days you can send me a note on that contraption over there. I’ll give you my addy.” He jerked his thumb toward the laptop and still avoided looking at me, directing his comments to the table’s shiny surface. When he picked up his cup, his hand shook slightly as he ever so delicately sipped his espresso. When he set it down again, the ceramic cup clattered against the saucer.

Email? Espresso? Etsy? This was so opposite the mountain man I used to know that I could hardly gather my wits. I shifted uncomfortably in my seat.

I heaved a deep sigh and felt a reassuring squeeze on my knee. I glanced at Eddy, and she gave me a meaningful “get on with it” look. It was a wonder Limpy Dick hadn’t asked what the hell we were doing here this late. Maybe the shock of almost shooting his good friend’s kid knocked the sense right out of him.

Here we go again, Shay.
I said, “You played poker with Dad on Friday night, right?”

Limpy Dick scratched behind his ear with a finger and sniffed it. Guess he wasn’t quite as tamed as I thought. “Yup,” he rumbled.

Was he always a man of so few words? I tried to remember. Before I could formulate my next question, Eddy said, “What was wrong with Pete the night before New Year’s Eve?”

Limpy Dick said, “Wrong? With Pete? Before New Year’s?”

“What are you, a parrot?” Eddy squawked. She had the ability to skewer someone if she wanted to. “Yes.” She spoke slowly, as if addressing a five-year-old. “What was wrong with Pete that night?”

For a good fifteen seconds, Limpy Dick’s lips took on a life of their own, twitching like spasming inchworms. Then he managed to regain control. “Why, nuthin’ was wrong with Pete.”

Maybe nothing was wrong with Pete, but something certainly seemed to be bothering Limpy Dick.

JT’s leg bounced up and down against mine, most likely because she was still agitated after thinking I’d been blown to smithereens. She leveled her patented “if looks could kill, you’d already be dead” cop glare at Limpy Dick and said, “Was anything out of the ordinary that night? Something that wasn’t right?”

Limpy Dick’s frown now extended to the corners of both eyes, and his left eyelid twitched. Without meeting JT’s fiery gaze, he said slowly, “Nope, no. Nothing like that. ’Course Roy and Mick were none too happy they lost. Mick’s a hothead, ya know. Always says bullshit he don’t mean. Roy, he was quiet most of the night.”

Not a whole lot to go on there.

I hated to ask the next question but figured it would be less painful to cough it up so we could scram. “Have you noticed if my father’s been drinking?” I amended, “More than usual?”

Another long pause. “I dunno, Shay. He’s always got a drink close by. You know how he is. Though, come to think of it, maybe since he’s been dealing with that sewer problem he’s got in the basement, the
drinking might have picked up. I think it’s a money thing.” This time he did catch my eye for half a second before he resumed his intense study of the tree trunk.

Desperation dampened the back of my neck like a wet rag. No one had any information that was going to help us find my father and unravel the mystery of who killed Ice Cube Man. I tried one last shot before I ran out of ammo, pun intended. “Did you see my father anytime after Friday night?”

“Oh no,” Limpy Dick was quick to answer. “No sir. I ain’t seen hide nor hair of Pete, I surely haven’t.”

I wasn’t sure if Limpy Dick was in the midst of losing his marbles or if he wasn’t coughing up the whole truth and nothing but the truth, but something was weird. First Mick Simon fought with my father about his refusal of a loan, and here one of his good friends was acting like he was sitting on a beehive as we peppered him with questions. Maybe he’d had too much espresso. Somehow, I didn’t buy that, but we were getting nowhere fast. It was time to call the game for the night.

I finished my drink and set the cup gently on the saucer. “Thanks so much for chatting with us, Limpy.”

Limpy Dick brightened, maybe at the prospect that we might be done badgering him. “It’s no problem at all, Little O. No problem at all.”

Yeah right.