The Sinister Secrets of the Deadly Summoner Page 5

  In the living room, they saw a photo album opened on the couch. They looked at each other and tiptoed over. The book was open to a picture of a bunch of kids outside a bar. Phone still in hand, Grace took a picture.

  “You find it, Grace Longstreet!” A voice wailed from the kitchen. “You find the thing that took my boy!”

  Chapter 12

  Grace’s hand shook as she fumbled out the keys. “Oh my God, that was horrible. I can see why you stopped being a cop.”

  “That was pretty intense.” Paisley slid into the Prius. “But that’s not why I stopped being a cop.”

  Grace waited for more, but nothing was forthcoming. She fiddled with her phone, zoomed on the photo. “Aw, man. The High Tide? I hate that place.”

  Paisley tapped a face. “That’s Junior. I found some of his social media. I think I recognize some of his friends, too. We should probably check it out.”

  “Kinda early.” Grace checked the time on her phone.

  “You think shart-stains like Junior’s lowlife friends are following the five o’clock rule?”

  “Shart-stains? Do you mean—”

  “These guys aren’t that substantial.” Paisley buckled up. “If a bunch of craptastic prescription drug dealers learned their buddy was dead, and it’s Labor Day weekend, and there’s no Clam Fest to speak of, where else would they be?”

  Grace drove north. It was hard to say which side was the wrong side of the tracks near the High Tide Tavern. On the Beverly side sat the train station, surrounded by vintage former hotels, now disreputable bars. On the New Carfax side, there were only disreputable bars. Judging from the parking lot, even in the late afternoon, in the middle of a nor’easter, the High Tide was jumping.

  On her iPad, Paisley brought up photos of Stanley, Junior’s, friends. Grace pulled up the one she had taken from Sara Polaski’s photo album. They shrugged at each other. “All we can do is go in.”

  The High Tide smelled the way it looked, stale beer, a trace scent of pee, human un-washed-ness. College ball filled several TV screens. A jukebox pounded out the hits of 1978 or so. Surrounding a pool table were four likely suspects. Grace checked her phone against the faces.

  Paisley broke off and bellied up to the bar. Two older men at the end took a look at her green hair and vampire makeup. With palsied shakes and pale skin, they half-fell off their stools. One headed out the door, the other disappearing toward the bathroom sign.

  “What are you doing?” Grace sidled up to her.

  “Buying a drink. You look conspicuous if you don’t buy a drink.”

  A quick survey showed that everyone within view of Paisley was staring. There were a lot of ball caps, plaid, safety orange sweatshirts, but not a Goth in the house. “Right. Let’s be inconspicuous.”

  A few hundred pounds of sleeveless bartender waddled over. “What’ll it be?”

  “Gimme a Blue Shoe.” Paisley ordered.

  Features beneath a shaved head crinkled. “Never heard of it.”

  “Milk and Cookies Cocktail?”

  Head shake. “Nope.”

  “Ginger Lime Fizz? Copa Verde?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Girlie.”

  Paisley slapped her palms on the bar top. “Oh, c’mon, this is a bar, right? That’s liquor in front of the mirror, right?”

  “Sure is.”

  “How about Cuddles on the Beach?”

  “Raining out,” the bartender said. “And my wife wouldn’t approve.”

  Paisley smirked. “”What do you recommend?”

  “My mixology skills extend to a beer, a shot, and a combination of those two items,” he rumbled.

  “I don’t drink alcohol. Oh, how about Poison?”

  He scratched his shaven head. “You mean like mix up all the sodas into one drink?”

  “Well, duh, what else would I mean?”

  “Yeah, okay. This is a clean place. No dealing out of here.” The bartender shrugged, dragged out his soda gun. “You want all of ’em, diet, regular?”

  “Just the regulars. Diet soda has too many chemicals.”

  Grace ordered a beer as Paisley sampled her drink. “Excellent work, my good sir.” She pushed a ten over the bar and knocked. “Could I get a cherry and a little umbrella?”

  Over at the pool table, the winner took on the next challenger, who vanished into the crowd arguing near the juke box. Some favored “Because the Night,” by the Patti Smith Band, while others wanted to hear “Hot Blooded” by Foreigner. Grace started over, Paisley sucking her straw and trailing in her wake. “What’s our play here?”

  Snorting and then choking on her Poison, Paisley gasped, “Losers like that? Just get close and be female. They won’t know what hit ’em.”

  The one leaning over to line up a shot lifted his eyes to them and froze. He was thin as a rail beneath his plaid shirt, with a prominent nose and Adam’s apple. It bobbed up and down as he swallowed. For a moment, Grace thought he might bolt at the sight of Paisley, like the old guys at the bar. She tried to forestall his flight.

  “Hi, I’m Grace. This is Paisley. We were friends of Junior’s.”

  “Hey, I’m Marc,” the shooter stood up. “With a C.”

  “Sorry to hear about Junior,” Paisley said.

  The guy to the left of Marc, sporting a neck beard and a backward ball cap, gestured with his beer bottle. “I don’t remember Junior being friends with a cougar and a dead girl.”

  “Hey, dead girl, I got me a sudden case of hemophilia.” The one on the left heaved a beer belly around as he ground his hips in an almost suggestive way.

  “You mean ‘necrophilia,’ you idiot,” Paisley said.

  Grace clenched her teeth. “Who are you calling a cougar?”

  “Old, dead, don’t make a difference to me,” Beer Belly continued to gyrate his hips, the fat around his middle hypnotizing. “You wanna party? Remember ol’ Junior right?”

  Neck Beard chimed in, slithering up to Paisley. “What are you supposed to be? A witch? Salem’s across the bridge, baby. What are you doing here? This is our place. Don’t they have witch bars? Or are you looking for local talent?”

  “Are those yoga pants?” Beer Belly turned his eye to Grace. “God bless the man who invented yoga pants. Even on an older woman, gets me going.”

  Paisley’s lips went flat. She faced Grace, setting her glass on the felt of the pool table. “I say let them all die.”

  It was tough to argue. Paisley stalked out. Grace followed, but Beer Belly grabbed her arm. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

  Grace shook him off. “Your friend Junior stole a few things. Cursed things. A walking stick, some books. We’re trying to prevent another death.”

  Beer Belly angled his head. “Say what?”

  “There have been two so far,” if you counted George Ryan, which she actually didn’t. She turned toward the exit. “Good luck to the rest of you.”

  Chapter 13

  “Ugh, even with all this rain, I need to take a shower.” Paisley waited for Grace to beep open the Prius. “That place is gross!”

  “I thought all we had to do was be female, and they wouldn’t know what hit them.”

  “The problem is, we’re female humans. I’m not sure what those guys are.” Paisley rattled the door handle. “C’mon, it’s raining.”

  “Hold your horses, I gotta find my keys.” Grace dug through her purse. “I didn’t think we’d be leaving so quick. Not that I’m not glad we left so quick. You’re wearing a raincoat anyway.”

  “Hey, Grace! Paisley!”

  They faced the source of the voice, and found Marc-with-a-C pulling his hood up against the rain. He jogged over to the Prius.

  The women exchanged a look. “Now what?” Paisley asked.

  Marc-with-a-C opened his mouth, then closed it. He closed his eyes and made a face. “Look. I know my friends are brain-dead turd-weasels.”

  “That’s really a thing?” Grace asked.

 
Paisley hiked her shoulders, her raincoat squeaking. “I think they’re more shart-stains.”

  “Yeah, or douche canoes, maybe,” Marc agreed. “Anyway, I didn’t recognize you until the last part, about us dying of a curse. You’re Grace Longstreet, right? Got that shop on Antiques Alley. My old man talks about it sometimes, when he’s drunk. Something about Dave Longstreet and a switchblade that…” His eyes shifted between the two women. “Anyway, about Junior.”

  Marc didn’t go on.

  “Anyway, about Junior,” Grace repeated.

  “Right. I can’t talk about it out here.”

  Paisley cocked her head. “So why come out in the rain?”

  “No, I need to talk to you about Junior. I can’t do it here. Not with the others watching. It would be like squealing.”

  “Why?” Grace stepped closer. “Because Junior stole George Ryan’s walking stick and busted into antique shops trying to figure out what he stole?”

  “Very much like squealing,” Marc nodded. “Junior did steal the walking stick or blow horn or whatever it is. But it was my idea to look it up in books. I didn’t mean for him to steal any books. I gotta get back inside. Maybe I can meet you someplace. Tell you what I know.”

  “Once again, why?” Grace lowered her brows and squinted. “It’s not just about Junior, is it?”

  “Nope. I’m afraid for my life, actually, especially the way Junior died in the water like that. I’m hoping if we talk, I can save my own skin. Besides, you aren’t cops.” He eyed Paisley, then Grace. “Are you?”

  “How about we talk now?” Paisley said. “Get it off your chest, maybe save your skin, like you said. I mean, are you really afraid for your life?”

  “Either way,” Marc said. “Those guys in the bars may be total dubbas, but they’re dangerous. You know Junior was busted for carrying Fentanyl, right? He gave up some guys, got out of jail. But he was still in a shitload of trouble. The guys he ratted out were from Southie. They don’t know the North Shore for crap. But Junior was so dumb, he pasted a bunch of stuff about New Carfax Clam Fest on his Facebook page. Even Poison addicts can add two and two.”

  “Ah-ha,” Paisley said. “Now I understand that exchange with the bartender.”

  Marc turned. “I gotta get back in.” Then he faced back. “Oh, I gotta ask a favor. I told them I was gonna get your number.”

  “My number?” Paisley balked. “What for?”

  “Because I’m supposed to be out here hitting on you. I could hit on you, if you want.”

  “No.”

  “Okay, but I can get your number?” He pulled out his cell phone eagerly. “It’s my cover story.”

  Grace butted in. “She’ll give you her number. Where and when do you want to meet up?”

  “Tomorrow,” Marc said. “You name the place.”

  “I’ll be in Judy’s Java before noon, eating fried clams.”

  Paisley’s mouth fell open. She snapped it shut. “Wait a minute!”

  Grace growled, looking up at the storm clouds. “Just give it to him already.”

  “Fine.” Giving Grace the evil eye, she recited her cell number. Those slit eyes turned to Marc. “But you better not call me. You better lose it after we talk.”

  “No problem,” he said, tapping the contact information in. Marc looked at Grace. “You think you know what that stick is? I’m getting pretty freaked out.”

  Grace frowned. “You tell us what you know, we’ll do our best to figure it out.”

  “Before you die,” Paisley said. “So don’t be late.”

  They watched Marc jog back into the stinky tavern. Grace beeped open the Prius.

  “You think he’ll show up?”

  Paisley hopped in. “Maybe he’s in on this with Junior. He might try to pump you for information.”

  “This well is dry, as far as that stick goes. I don’t know a thing about it.” Grace started the car. “For his sake, I hope he comes clean. If he really is in on it with Junior, who knows what might happen to him.”

  They pulled from the lot, heading south. “I suppose you need a ride home again.”

  Paisley gazed out the window, features downcast. “If it ever stops raining, I can drive home. Until then, I’m hitching a ride with Uber.”

  “You said something about losing a car?”

  Paisley waved it away. “Oh, yeah, no worries, I’ll dig it—” Roger Daltrey’s voice cut her off, singing the musical question, “Who Are You?”

  “Unknown number,” Paisley explained. “Hello?”

  “Hey, baby. Just checking, you know.” Marc’s voice came from her iPad, followed by a lot of “Attaboy!” and “Woo!”

  “What did I just tell you!” She swiped the phone off. Mouth puckered in anger, she eyed Grace. “Thanks. Now some douche canoe has my phone number.”

  “We all make sacrifices.” Grace turned to get on 1A. “There wasn’t any way he was getting my number. I’m a cougar, remember?”

  “Put on a nice sweater dress and tights, and suddenly you’re mature? If I put on a nice sweater dress and tights…”

  “What?” Grace asked.

  Her partner made an exaggerated pout and shook her head. “I don’t know. I’ve never put on a nice sweater dress and tights.”

  “You want to get clams before I drop you?”

  “Nah.” Paisley put her iPad back in her bag. “I’m going to check my wardrobe for a nice sweater dress and tights. You enjoy.”

  Chapter 14

  Overnight, the nor’easter broke into sudden downpours and breaks of gray sky. Grace moseyed through her closet. Maybe the sweater dress was too mature. She found a nice red blouse and black jeans that still had a lot of black in them. After a turn in the mirror, she thought she looked stylish—but not too stylish. After a moment’s look, she added hooker hoops and fluffed her hair. Should she add a hat? Two hung in the closet, one a half sprung straw hat for gardening, one a Red Sox cap. The hell with it. Her shoes matched her purse. Sort of. She was stylish enough.

  The air was brisk, but the day was heating up by the time Grace made it to Judy’s. Once again, Grace arrived between the thinning of the breakfast crowd and the lunch line up. Judy’s bee hive was stuck with four pencils. There were bags under her eyes. She lifted her eyes as Grace sat at the counter, but not her head. “I suppose you want clams.”

  “You bet.”

  Judy didn’t turn. “Clams and rings!” she shouted.

  “What, no crazy diner patter today?”

  “I’m too tired. I keep having to run to the fish market at the butt crack of dawn.” Judy yawned. “The damn price of clams went up, too. It’s like the things are disappearing all over. I just hope I break even.”

  Grace made a consoling noise. “At least you seem busy.”

  “Yeah, but the customers are a bunch of tourists. They all want clam strips.”

  “That’s a sacrilege!” Grace accepted a cup of coffee. “Why not just fry up a spare tire?”

  Judy huffed. “Soft shell clams are too small to get strips off the foot. I just lie and tell them they’re clam strips. They’ll be disappointed as hell if they order clam strips anyplace else in the world.”

  “Why are you gorging on clams?” Paisley popped up behind Grace.

  Grace nearly spat out her coffee. “Don’t sneak up on me like that!”

  Today, Paisley actually wore a sweater dress. The collar was scooped, lacy sleeves draped all the way to her knees. Looking close, Grace saw a subtle pattern, a colony of bats rising from the hemline. Her tights were black with a tiny print. At first, Grace thought the print was little silver flowers. When Paisley sat next to her, she saw that they were the trefoil of bio hazard symbols. Her Doc Martens were studded and spiked. Green hair was worn in two enormous pigtails. Her lace choker depicted a death’s head moth.

  Paisley caught her staring. “So I thought I’d try something different. So what?”

  Grace’s clams arrived, and she ignored the Goth.

  �
�The usual?” Judy asked Paisley.

  “Yes please.”

  Judy dragged herself to grab a French press and a packet of kopi luwak. “Scrambled eggs on toast,” she called through the pass.

  Paisley leaned closer to Grace. “No diner talk. Is Judy sick?”

  “Just tired,” Grace managed through a mouthful of clams.

  “Clams again? Why, Grace, why? You can get fried clams at Woodman’s any time.”

  Grace swallowed. “Woodman’s? The best fried clams are at the Clambox of Ipswich.”

  “Woodman’s invented the fried clam.”

  Raising her forefinger, Grace pronounced: “The Clambox perfected the fried clam.”

  It was an eternal debate on the North Shore.

  Paisley gave up. “Our guy Marc show?”

  Grace stuffed more shellfish in her mouth, only managing a head shake.

  “What a poop gopher.” Paisley’s attention fell on Judy. The café owner hand-ground the expensive coffee and dumped it into a glass cylinder. From the coffee machine, she grabbed the hot water and poured it over the grounds. Paisley accepted the coffee press and plunger with reverence. Taking out her iPad, she set the timer. “Oh, magic litter box of deliciousness, thank you for your caffeine-derived energy.”

  “Seriously, Paize? It’s just coffee.” Grace sipped her own.”

  She got crazy eyes for her comment. Grace focused on the onion rings.

  Paisley studied the glass tube as if she were concocting a cure for cancer. When her iPad dinged, she gently inserted the plunger to the top of the brew. Gently, she poured a cup. She wafted the smell up to her nose.

  “You want cream and sugar?” Grace pushed them toward her.

  Paisley covered her cup. “’Tis blasphemy you speak, woman! Do you want frozen clam strips?” With shaking hands, the Goth brought the cup to her lips. Before she could sip, the iPad played “Who Are You?”

  “Ah. The poop gopher in question.” She set the cup down. “Wait. Seven-five-oh exchange. Isn’t that the Sheriff’s Office?”

  “Answer it already.” Grace pushed her empty plate away.