The More They Disappear (19 page)

Where other people found Mabel awkward and aloof, Harlan found her honest and humble. A welcome contrast to her husband. “I should have stopped by sooner,” he said. “At least said hello at the funeral.”

“I figure you've been busy.” Mabel led him into the kitchen and poured them two glasses of milk. “I need to make a run to the store. This is all I've got.”

“I could use the vitamins,” Harlan said. “I haven't exactly been taking care of myself.”

“It's been a rough week,” Mabel admitted. She pointed him to a Formica table and vinyl-cushioned chairs above which a calendar from the year before dangled by a nail.

“I have to admit this isn't entirely a social call.”

Mabel sat down across from him. “You're here to ask about Lew?”

He nodded. “We've checked in on plenty of people he locked up and we're still tracking leads, but there comes a time when you have to start finding out more about the victim—”

“You don't have to beat around the bush, Harlan. I was married to a lawman for nearly thirty years.”

Harlan grinned tightly; maybe it was a wince. “Was Lew acting strange in the weeks before he died? Did he meet with anyone out of the ordinary? It doesn't have to be a big thing, any small change you may have noticed.”

Mabel laughed a little. “Gosh, Harlan. I'm about the worst person you could ask. Turns out I wasn't very good at knowing what Lew was up to.”

Harlan wondered if Mabel knew about the affair. “What do you mean?”

“We went over Lew's will yesterday, and I learned that he was in debt and left me with a list of creditors.”

Mabel started to sniffle, and Harlan reached over and took her hand. With his other he pulled the bandanna from his back pocket and handed it over. He hated that he'd need to keep asking questions, that his job was to make people talk about their sorrows.

“How did he— Where'd the money go?”

“Cards,” she said. “He lost it playing cards.” She dabbed the creases below her eyes and handed the bandanna back. “I knew Lew liked to gamble but nothing like this. Poor Lewis. He was shocked. He idolized his father. No matter how poorly Lew treated that boy, Lewis came back to him like a lost puppy dog.” She looked around the kitchen. “You know I might have to sell the house.”

Harlan shook his head. “I'm sure that there are steps you can take—legal and whatnot.”

“I should have known. I would overhear Lew on the phone. He was always promising the person on the other end of the line that ‘they'd be fine' and ‘not to worry.' That's how most of his conversations ended. ‘Don't worry about it.' And you know if you're always telling people not to worry, they are, and things aren't going to be fine.”

“You can't blame yourself, Mabel. None of this is your doing.”

“People keep calling to offer condolences, and I keep accepting them, but what I really want to say is that my husband was a two-hundred-and-sixty-pound burden that pushed me onto a sliver of bed each night and kept me awake with his snoring. He bullied me and I let him.” She started to cry again, and Harlan offered the handkerchief once more, but she shook her head. “When we moved here, he was so full of … enthusiasm. He was just a deputy but he wanted to make a difference. And he was a good husband, too. When the doctor put me on bed rest with Lewis, Lew would come back on his lunch break to pour me a lemonade and dab my head with a cool towel. And at night he'd sing to Lewis in the womb. I don't know when it all changed. Pretty early on, I suppose. But it wasn't always bad.”

Harlan nodded. He knew better than to respond, to make light of her words by telling her marriages are tough or that men contain multitudes or some other false truism.

He sipped his milk in silence while Mabel stared off into space and waited a good long while before asking if she had a copy of the will. She shook her head. “I threw it in the trash.” A smile crossed her face. “Where it belongs.”

“Where it belongs,” Harlan repeated.

“I can get another from Jim Gardner for you, but the gist is that Lew owes a lot of money to the Silver Spoon.”

“The gambling boat?”

She nodded.

“How much?”

“Fifty thousand.”

“You know, Mabel. If there's anything I can do—”

She cut him off. “You're a good man, Harlan. Don't worry about me.” She stood up and refilled his glass from the fridge. “Now sit here and let's talk about better things. I was thinking it might be nice to plant a garden. What do you know about roses?”

*   *   *

On the door to Riverside Security, Lewis taped up a computer-printed piece of paper that announced:
CAMPAIGN HEADQUARTERS
. A minute later John Tyler came outside clapping a slow, sarcastic applause. “What the fuck am I supposed to do when someone calls here asking political shit?”

“First,” Lewis said, “keep the cussing to a minimum. Then take a message.”

“And when someone calls wanting a security system?”

“That's still our job, right?”

“We need a second phone line.”

“It's only going to be a few weeks.”

“Do you really want to be sheriff?”

It wasn't a question Lewis had asked himself when Trip mentioned the idea, but now he was certain. Some hesitation had disappeared when he learned about his father's gambling. The public perception of his dad would remain the same, but Lewis knew the truth about Lew Mattock. There was no more mantle to maintain.

“It's the right thing to do,” Lewis said. “Maybe I'll even deputize you.”

“No way. Writing speeding tickets isn't in my DNA.”

John Tyler pointed over Lewis's shoulder as Trip Gaines's Mercedes pulled into the parking lot and sounded two honks hello. Sitting beside Trip was Arthur Blakeslee, a big-shot lawyer from Cincinnati and the doctor's best friend. In the back Sophie sat with the girls. “Looks like the whole clan is here,” John Tyler said. “I'll make myself scarce.” He avoided Trip whenever possible and tried his best to ignore the doctor's passive-aggressive comments about how lucky he was to have befriended Lewis and become part owner of a successful business.

“Stick around,” Lewis said. “He won't be here long.”

“Long enough.” John Tyler shook the keys to the van. “Besides, I have work to do.”

Stella scampered from the backseat, pulling Sophie along after her while Ginny followed a few steps behind. Sophie wore a plaid skirt that Lewis had never seen along with a white blouse and beige cardigan. She'd looped a scarf around her neck and styled her hair so that stray strands fell in arcs across one cheek. She looked stunning. Lewis stepped up to kiss her. Then he hunched over and pretended to be a monster tromping after the girls, all loose limbs and grunts. Sophie said, “Don't you have a campaign to run?” but Lewis kept playing his part and growled in response. He caught Ginny in one arm and Stella in the other, snarled and snorted and zerberted them until they begged him to stop. Their lives seemed infected by new possibility.

Sophie pulled a box of his father's
MATTOCK FOR SHERIFF
signs from the trunk of her father's sedan and started attaching “Lewis” adhesives to them. “Isn't this smart,” she said. Lewis wasn't sure. He thought maybe it was disrespectful or maybe he wanted signs of his own, but when she handed him a sticker, he took pleasure in smacking his name atop the placard. She kept on with the stickers and recruited the girls to help her line the grass that fronted the building with campaign signs. Lewis had to admit it looked pretty neat, seeing them lined up there like a low fence.

“Have you met our future sheriff?” Trip asked as Arthur Blakeslee came up to greet Lewis.

“Great news!” Blakeslee exclaimed. “Great news!” He extended a thick hand bearing a white envelope. “For the campaign.”

“Go ahead,” Trip said. “Open it.” Inside Lewis found a check for twenty-six hundred dollars.

“When Trip told me, I was thrilled. Couldn't get out the checkbook fast enough.”

“Thank you, Mr. Blakeslee,” Lewis said. “But I don't know if I'm allowed to accept this.”

Blakeslee laughed and Trip put an arm around Lewis. “It's not only okay to accept,” Trip said, “it's necessary. You have a campaign to run and to run a campaign you need money. Arthur here is your first benefactor, and I'd like to be your second.” Trip pulled an envelope from his suit jacket. “I took the liberty of soliciting donations from other friends as well. Those are on the way.”

Lewis hadn't considered raising money. “This is very generous,” he said. “But I planned on walking door to door.”

Sophie came up and wrapped her arms around Lewis. “Gifts make Lewis uncomfortable,” she said.

“I just don't know what these gifts are buying.”

Blakeslee stepped back into the conversation. “They don't
buy
anything, son. This is standard procedure. As a lawyer, I wouldn't do anything that wasn't legally on the up-and-up.”

Lewis tried not to laugh.

“And it's not just about this election,” Trip added. “It's about building a career.”

“I guess I don't know what to say,” Lewis said.

“Say thank you.” Trip clapped his hands together to end the discussion and handed a piece of paper to Sophie. “Call this number, honey, and buy us a little time on the radio. We need to get the word out that your husband is going to be this county's next sheriff.”

“Do I need radio ads?” Lewis asked.

“I don't think it's wise to go knocking on doors,” Trip said. “Your father's passing is pretty fresh. It might not look right. We'll record one spot where you talk about how you are inspired to pick up where your father left off, extend his legacy, and so on. Then Sophie can record another with the girls. Those, along with a speech to announce you're running, should be enough. If it becomes necessary, we'll send you to knock on doors.”

Sophie beamed at Lewis. “Don't worry,” she said. “You're in good hands. Daddy knows a lot about this sort of thing.”

Blakeslee grinned.

Lewis couldn't help feeling he was getting sold something but what that was he didn't know, so he said his thanks and didn't ask too many questions.

Sophie hugged him and said, “I'm so proud of you.” Her eyes were shining.

Lewis had felt this way before—during that first year of marriage, when they'd found out Sophie was pregnant, the day he'd opened his business—but he'd begun to doubt he'd ever feel so good again. The times in between hadn't been filled with discontent so much as tedium.

Trip's pocket buzzed, and he stepped away to take a call on his cell before coming back to Lewis. “We should go to the bank and make a deposit,” he said. “Do you have the checks?” Lewis shook the envelopes. He'd never seen eye to eye with his father-in-law, but he was glad to have Trip leading the way. He felt confident he'd win the election, and then he could start building his own legacy. Lewis had thousands between his fingertips but little idea what they meant.

*   *   *

When Harlan mentioned Lew's financial woes to Holly, she handed him an official-looking envelope. “What's this?”

A smile slipped across her face. “A subpoena to look into Lew's bank records.”

“When did you—?”

“I started on the paperwork after you had me look at those court records. If Lew was accepting bribes, you might find evidence at the bank.”

“How'd you get Craycraft to sign the subpoena?”

“Look close.”

Harlan examined the legalese, stopped at the signature line. “Lee Smoot? The judge over in Mason?”

Holly nodded. “I didn't tell him my reasons, but he and Craycraft had a falling-out over a golf game, so he was more than happy to help out.”

Harlan smiled and called Paige in to cover dispatch so Holly could go with him to the bank. With Del and Frank in Cynthiana, there wasn't a single sheriff's deputy on patrol, but that wasn't the end of the world. The Staties had kept a couple extra officers in the county since Lew's death and the phone had stopped ringing off the hook and life had generally returned to normal just about everywhere except inside the sheriff's department.

“Does this mean you're on board with my investigation?” Harlan asked as they walked to First Federal.

“I've spent a couple sleepless nights thinking about Lew and the possibility he was crooked. If this helps us find who shot him, then we should do it, but I still hope you're wrong.”

“And if I'm not?”

“Then you'll track the leads that come from it. Regardless, it sounds to me like you need to get in touch with Little Joe O'Malley.”

O'Malley was a former flyweight who'd made a name for himself by taking punches and staying upright. Now he managed the Silver Spoon for an out-of-town conglomerate. Harlan asked Holly what she knew about him.

“Slow-footed,” she said. “But when he landed a left hook, it was over.”

The bank manager looked skeptically at the subpoena, adjusted his pale pink tie, and asked why Wesley Craycraft didn't issue it.

“I guess he was busy,” Harlan replied.

The manager looked unconvinced and Holly spoke up. “I believe it has to do with where the account was opened,” she said. “But it doesn't really matter, does it? Lew isn't the subject of the investigation. He was the victim. We think these bank records might help us find his killer.”

The manager didn't seem reassured—the law didn't come asking for bank records without expecting to find dirt in the account. “We prefer not to disclose our clients' private information,” he said.

“It is a subpoena,” Harlan said. “It doesn't matter what you prefer.”

The guy faked a smile and called over a teller with horsey teeth that she tried to keep hidden. He explained the nature of Harlan and Holly's inquiry in such a way as to tip the girl off that he wasn't thrilled by their presence. The girl said for them to follow her and tottered toward a back office in a stiff skirt and heels she hadn't perfected.