Tales From the Valley

Making Detectives-1

By Adyson Stalder

The Beginning

In the kitchen, my landlady, Mrs. Harris, is making breakfast, something I never have time to eat. I grab a waffle, a cup of coffee, and my backpack on my way out the door.

“Bye,” I say, stuffing a bite of waffle in my mouth.

Mrs. Harris smiles and shakes her head. “Be safe, honey.”

I’m off to my office, which was once my dad’s old auto garage. Inside the garage, I throw my backpack over an old tool box. I turn on the lamp, open my bag, and grab my journal, some post-it notes, and the red yard I need to work on a project I’ve been focused—no, more like obsessed with— over for the last three years of my life.

“How many people did Dad have contact with?” I mutter, staring at the tangled web of threads.

The old metal garage doors burst open and I pull my sidearm (force of habit) and spin toward the sound. It’s my partner, Logan, carrying a tray of coffee and a box of donuts.

“Morning, boss,” he says with a smile, seemingly unfazed by the g*n pointed at him.

“Why would you burst in like that? I could have shot you.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he says, lifting the donut box and shrugging.

“I’m serious,” I say, holstering the sidearm at my hip. Logan is nice, but not always the brightest.

Logan stares at my project as he sets the donuts and coffee on the table. “Don’t you think you’ve gone kinda overboard?”

Hands on my hips, I follow his gaze. “I don’t know. Maybe? But how can I not? It seems like everyone but me has forgotten. My dad’s murder can’t go unpunished. I have to know who did such a horrible thing. It’s been over three years and that’s going to change.” I grab a cup of coffee, take a sip, and return to my desk.

Logan hovers over my shoulder and says, “You’ve stared at that paper all week. Do you think staring at it will make it talk back to you or something?”

I turn my head slowly, sending him a dirty look and an eye roll before returning my gaze to the contract on my desk. I have stared at this piece of paper for days. My gut says this paper is the key. But I can’t see it. Leaning back in my chair, I look over the progress from the last few years. Clues on a board linked together with red yarn.

My dad had been a lawyer in New York City for years—long before he met my mom and they had me. Shortly before he died, his partner bought out his share of the firm and Dad hung up his ties and did what he’d always wanted to do: open an auto garage. This one.

This is where Dad was happiest. I would come with him as often as allowed. I’d help him do oil changes and tear apart engines. Without him, the place sits empty of cars, but full of those good memories. I’ll never part with the space, so I made it my office. And I will never stop looking for my dad’s killer, so I got my private investigator license.

Returning my attention to the paper on my desk, I finally notice something. The address on the contract looked familiar. I close my eyes and think. Larry Fisher! He used to send letters to Mom from that address. The property listed in this rental contract belonged to Larry Fisher. Until this moment, I never considered him. I’d checked every one of Dad’s old clients and contacts, adding more and more clutter to my yarn-covered clue board, but never, ever have I considered Fisher. Dad and Fisher were friends. Larry used to send Mom checks until Mom assured him Dad had left her and I financially fine…taking out a huge life insurance policy as if he knew he might not live long.

I close my eyes a moment and remind myself to be rational. It’s time to run a background check on Larry. I flip open my laptop and in seconds, red flags pop up, though I’d probably call them minor. A couple of DUIs and several speeding tickets, but that’s about it. I sigh and watch the site’s loading bar inch slowly across my screen as the entire profile loads.

Up pops a theft charge. Then another. I lean closer. Seems being a thief was Fisher’s hobby. I print out his picture and pin it to my wall of suspects before turning to Logan and telling him, “Looks like need to give Larry Fisher a visit.”

I pull a pen out of my desk and write down the address. “4098 Brooklyn Avenue.”

“We don’t have a Brooklyn Avenue.”

I pull my car keys out of my leather jacket pocket, grab my backpack and sunglasses, and say, “Silly guy. Brooklyn is in New York.”

* * *

Mom and Dad were city people. Dad was from New York. Mom was from Tucson, Arizona. Okay, so Tucson isn’t nearly as big as New York, but it is way bigger than the tiny town of Sardis, Ohio where they met and lived in at the…well, end. How two people from two very different places ended up meeting at a little county fair is still amazing. Mom was in Ohio visiting relatives. I have no idea why Dad was visiting a tiny fair in the middle of nowhere.

No matter the reason, he was in town, met my mom, fell in love, and got married. Together, they moved to New York, had me, and lived happily ever after until Dad was killed. So devasted by his death, my mom moved back to Arizona. Too many memories, I guess. She put Dad’s life insurance money in a trust for me and went back home. I know she hopes I’ll give up the investigation and come to Arizona one day, but I won’t. This small town is where I am the happiest. Sardis is my home and it’s where I have my PI business, if you want to call it that. There’s little crime to investigate in this tiny town besides my dad’s murder.

A tap on my shoulder gets my attention.

“Hey boss, we’re here.”

I follow Logan off the train and through Penn Station. As we go up the steps to the outside, the noise of the city filters through like a hum. When we step outside the wide doors of the station, we’re greeted by horns honking and the smell of grease, filth, and grilled peppers.

It’s a world of concrete. I immediately miss the smell of grass and the lush green hills of home.

“Let’s get to Larry’s and get home.” I grab Logan by the elbow and pull him into a yellow cab parked at the curb. I give the cab driver the address and off we go. Logan says nothing as he looks out the car window at the sky scrapers slowly passing by in the bumper to bumper traffic. It’s his first time in the city. He stares and gapes. Not me. I’m over it.

* * *

At Larry’s apartment, I knock on the door. To my surprise, a girl answers. She looks like she’s about sixteen with long brown hair, green eyes, and a warm smile.

“Hi,” she says. “Do you need something?”

“Yes, we do,” I say. “My name is Kalli Matthews and this is my partner, Logan Meyer. We need to talk to Larry Fisher.”

“He doesn’t live here anymore.”

“But you know him?”

“Of course.”

“Do you mind if we ask you a few questions about him?”

“Sure.”

I open the notepad on my phone. “Do you mind telling me your name?”

“Ashley White,” she says, her words sort of stuttering out of her mouth. My taking notes must be making her nervous. “I’m Mr. Fisher’s niece. Uncle Larry lets me stay here during my college breaks.”

“Have you seen or talked to him in the last twenty-four hours?”

Ashley nods her head. “I talked to him this morning. If you’d like, I can give you his work address and number, if that helps. If you don’t mind my asking, why do you need my uncle? Did he do something wrong I don’t know about?”

“I’m sorry to say it, but I think your uncle may be implicated in the murder of my father, Josh Matthews.”

Ashley’s jaw drops. “I’m sorry to hear that. So, is your dad the lawyer who left the firm to open the auto garage?”

I nod my head.

“I’m sorry about that. I heard about his murder on the news.”

“Thank you. I appreciate it.”

Logan clears his throat, a reminder this isn’t a social call.

“If I could get your uncle’s info, we’ll get out of your hair.”

“Yeah, sure.” She grabs a notepad and pen from a stand next to the door and jots down the address and phone number and hands it to me.

Fisher Law Firm

20466 North Street

7th Floor

Marietta, Ohio

123-345-5678

I look at the address, shake my head, and say, “Thank you for your cooperation.”

Then I turn to Logan and say, “Looks like we’re headed back home.”

Back on the street, we hail another cab. As we watch for one to make its way through the traffic, I notice a white SUV parked near us. It has Ohio plates. What are the odds we would bump into someone from Ohio during our trip to the Big Apple? Maybe pretty decent, but I’m still suspicious.

“Logan, take pictures of that license plate. When we get back to the office, I want to know who that car belongs to.”

“Sure thing, boss.”

I smile. Logan may not have the I.Q. of a Harvard student, but he’s always on my side.

* * *

Back in Ohio, Logan and I go straight to the address Ashley gave us. Marietta seems smaller now, but there’s more green spaces and the fresh air. We go into the building and are greeted by a young man, probably in his mid-twenties.

He comes straight at us as we enter the building. “Hi. Welcome to Fisher Law Firm. How can I help you?”

“My partner and I would like to have a word with Mr. Larry Fisher. Is he in by any chance?”

“He’s on his lunch break,” the young man says. “I could take a message—”

The young man doesn’t get to finish his offer because he is interrupted by the man in a khaki colored two-piece suit with a white dress shirt underneath. Mr. Larry Fisher in the flesh.

“Wow,” Larry Fisher says. “Kalli? I haven’t seen you since—well, too long. It was such a shame what happened to your dad. I often wish he’d have stuck with law and not become an engine boy. He might still be with us if he had.”

I clutch my fist. Logan puts his arm around my shoulder, probably to prevent me from punching this guy’s front teeth out.

“Uh, Mr. Fisher,” Logan speaks for me. “Do you mind if I have a word with you?” Logan smiles at me. “Kalli, you stay here. Or better yet, why don’t you run across the street and get some coffee? We’ve gone a lot of miles in the last two days. Why don’t you go and relax and read the newspaper or something? I’ll talk to Mr. Fisher and be right over.”