Dates to a Prom-2
1942 Words
In this day and age, I could have set up work at home, but I was never a fan of working from home. I need distance, a place to keep work at work and home at home.
I next went to the file named FRANK, double-clicked that, and when his photo snapped into focus, I whispered, “Same planet, different worlds.”
I spent some fruitless minutes pursuing various dead-ends on the Internet, not finding much about Gil Wyman. Not too surprising, for he seemed like the kind of guy who didn’t have the time or interest to spend on the Internet, and I almost envied him. I saw a news brief from the online edition of The Purmort Weekly, with him going before the zoning board to seek a variance on clearing trees off a piece of property, and he was listed as the second-place winner in a chili cook-off at last year’s Purmort Old Home Days.
That was it.
My email pinged and I opened up a message from gwyman@woodsmail.com and saw there were three photo files attached, with no accompanying message.
No surprise, Gil Wyman didn’t seem to be the chatty type.
The file named CARL I double-clicked and opened, and it was a sweet-looking young man, dressed in a shirt and tie, standing behind some sort of lectern. He had on plain eyeglasses, and his brown hair was carefully trimmed. It looked like he was making a presentation in class.
I next went to the file named FRANK, double-clicked that, and when his photo snapped into focus, I whispered, “Same planet, different worlds.”
Frank was stocky, standing outside, wearing a black baseball cap backwards, face frowning and thick eyebrows, five-o’clock shadow, and wearing a sleeveless white T-shirt, upper biceps heavily tattooed. He looked like he had just told the photographer to put the effin’ camera away before getting punched.
Quite a spectrum of boyfriends indeed.
The last one was JESSICA, and remembering her Dad, wondered what she would look like, and after the double-click she came up and I just sat up and paid attention.
She was a beauty.
Jessica was one of those perfect-looking high school girls that got hate and affection in equal measures from various members of the student body. The photo had her in a classroom, wearing a simple white turtleneck, turning and smiling at someone, skin flawless, long blonde hair, nose a perfect shape, and light blue eyes.
Now I realized why Gil was working so hard to protect his girl from her troll of an ex-boyfriend.
I checked the time, saw I had a few minutes left to do some more investigation.
I shut off my computer, checked the locks on my windows and my file cabinets, and went out in the bright afternoon sunlight.
The Purmort Police Department was in the basement of the Purmort Town Hall, a two-story brick building that held a meeting room for the three members of the Board of Selectmen, along with the Town Clerk and an auditorium for the annual March town meeting, plus desks and filing cabinets belonging to the building inspector, health inspector, and fire inspector, which happened to be one person this year, Franny Cox.
I went through the front door and past the receptionist’s desk—Betty Lucianne was out again; being in her 80s, she had a lot of doctor’s appointments in the afternoon—and I could see the police chief, one of three full-time police officers for Purmort, in his office, door wide open, tapping away on a keyboard.
“Chief, got a sec?”
Chief Jeff Picardson looked up from his keyboard, said, “Answering an email from a concerned citizen saying skunks are prepping an invasion of his backyard. Sure, I got as many seconds as you need.”
He was about my age, slim in his dark-blue uniform with a gold star on each collar, nose slightly pug and brown hair cut short and flecked with white.
I swung open the waist-high wooden gate that separated the receptionist area from the rest of the office, which had one other desk, filing cabinets, and cardboard boxes with old records piled up in the corner. Inside his small office I sat down and he said, “The new Tom Hanks movie is showing over in Hanover. Feel like a dinner and movie night?”
“When?”
“This Saturday night,” he said.
“Sorry, got a date.”
His eyes looked pained at that—we’ve been casually dating for a few months, and it scared me for a second that I could hurt him with that phrase—and I took pity on him and said, “No, a work date. Sorry. Currently, my heart belongs only to you, Jeff.”
“How current?”
“Quite current,” I said. “Just don’t push it.”
He smiled. “What’s going on Karen?”
“Looking for some information,” I said.
“Accident report? Arrest record? Background check?”
“A background check of sort,” I said. “Gil Wyman.”
It seemed like his skin and facial muscles tightened up. “Gil Wyman. Certainly one of Purmort’s best. What are you looking for?”
“Whatever you can give me. I think he’s a big fan of yours.”
He leaned back in his chair, put his hands behind his head. “Gil is a permanent ‘person of interest’ in a variety of illegal activities and crimes, here and elsewhere in the county. Growing and selling m*******a. Crystal meth. Break-ins at lake summer cottages. Loan sharking.”
I said, “Loan sharking? Here?”
Jeff nodded. “Sure. You got a kid who needs to go the ER, or has emergency surgery. You don’t have any health insurance for a variety of reasons. Bills pile up. You think the First National Bank of Purmort is going to lend you any money? So desperate people who don’t want to see their bank accounts seized or cars repo’ed, they go to Gil Wyman. Which leads to other offenses.”
I said, “Enforcement.”
“Glad to see P.I. work hasn’t dimmed your reporter’s instincts,” he said. “You get behind on payments, Gil will tune you up. Something easy at first, like a broken toe or finger, but it’ll progress the longer the payment goes unpaid. And then…”
Overhead the pipes rattled as someone upstairs used the town hall’s toilet. “Then it gets worse,” he said.
“How worse?”
We weren’t told he ever stood up. “And this is when I’m glad you’re no longer a newspaper reporter. At least two young men with criminal records have gone missing, with circumstantial evidence pointing to Gil Wyman. Currently, there’s bits and pieces of info that Gil is looking to expand his criminal enterprise. Hooking up with one of the Quebecois motorcycle gangs from up north that do real dirty stuff, give him wider markets and protection. Satisfied, Karen?”
“How come he’s getting away with it?”
Jeff said, “Lower budgets, lower expectations in law enforcement. Major crime like that, the State Police or maybe even the county sheriff might take an interest, but that takes time. And they’re overwhelmed with investigating breaking crimes that have a lot more evidence behind them.”
“There’s got to be more than that,” I said.
“Sure,” Jeff said. “He’s got a cousin from away who’s a damn good lawyer. Backs up Gil with as many alibis as he needs. Anything else?”
I started thinking things through when Jeff said, “Please don’t tell me he’s your client.”
“Ask me no questions, I’ll tell you no lies.”
“Karen… what the hell are you doing for him?”
“Jeff, you know the confidentiality of what I do.”
His face tensed up and colored some. “Speaking as the chief law enforcement officer for the town of Purmort, I do hope you tell me something so I know where to start looking for you when—not if—Gil Wyman loses his temper with you.”
In the months I’ve known Jeff, he’s never once said anything like this.
I didn’t like it.
There were rules, and there were suicide pacts.
I don’t like suicide pacts.
Jeff added, “What are you doing for him? Surveillance? Background check?”
I took a breath. “Bodyguard work.”
Jeff burst out laughing. “Him? Gil Wyman? Was he drunk when he asked you?”
“He was sober, and he wants me to accompany his daughter Jessica to her prom this Saturday. She has an ex-boyfriend who’s threatening to make trouble, ruin her special night.”
“Mmm,” he said. “Ex-boyfriend’s name?”
“Frank Young,” I said. “Lives over in Montcalm. Know of him?”
Jeff shook his head. “Nope. Give Randy Adams a call, he might help you.”
I said. “Randy Adams hates me.”
“Really? You don’t seem hate-able to me, Karen.”
I said, “The police chief of Montcalm hates newspaper reporters and private investigators. I used to be one, and now I’m the other.”
“What’s your plan, then?”
“Go to the prom, hang out in the corner, make sure her ex-boyfriend doesn’t show up. Four hours work. Very well paid.”
Jeff gave me a big cop smile. “Good luck getting into the prom, then.”
That puzzled me. “Why?’
Jeff said, “Rhonda Cloutier is the principal of Purmort Regional, and she’s a hard-ass when it comes to security. You wouldn’t believe how many active-shooter drills and prep we’ve done for her school… not that there’s anything wrong with that. But she’s hired off-duty cops for security that night, and unless you’re a teacher or a family member, you’re not getting into that prom.”
Later that night I was making dinner in the kitchen of my small Cape Cod house with my main man Roscoe keeping an eye on things. Roscoe was a black-and-white cat that’s about the size of a racoon, and his type was called a tuxedo cat, leading one to think he was fussy and formal.
Not hardly.
He would bite my toes at night if they were hanging outside the bed covers, and if he was bored and decided to play, he’d sit on my pillow and lick my face, like at about two a.m. or thereabouts.
But over the years we’ve been together, I’ve come to trust his advice.
I stir-fried up some rice and veggies, put them in a bowl, and then started working on thin strips of beef. The smell of cooked meat quickly filled my kitchen, and Roscoe eased his black and white bulk over the counter, closer to the stove.
I said, “Here’s the deal, bud. It seems I’ve agreed to do bodyguard work for one of the criminal masterminds in our fair town. A thousand bucks for four hours work, and if I’m lucky, that’ll mean just standing in the corner of a gym, wearing ear plugs and watching young’uns have a good time.”
Stir, stir, stir.
“But he’s got a temper. He’s got a record. He may be a murderer. Which means the money he paid me might have blood on it… maybe even literally. Does that make me an accomplice of sorts to his misdeeds?”
I dumped the beef into the bowl with the veggies and rice, stirred it up some with the juice, and set it aside to cool for a moment as I poured myself a glass of ice water, and another glass with a nice Australian Cabernet Sauvignon. I took a bracing sip of the wine.
The next day I was in the office of Rhonda Cloutier, principal of Purmort Regional High School…
“But look at it this way, Roscoe. The thousand bucks he’s overpaying me might have come from his legit business. And however you look at it, I’m doing something for his daughter, and not for him. And protecting teen girls from i***t ex-boyfriends is right up my alley. Don’t you agree?”
He seemed to nod and then licked his lips as he came over and plopped himself down next to my dinner.
I took out a small piece of beef, blew on it to cool it down, and then put it down in front of him.
He immediately started eating.
Payment for services rendered.
The next day I was in the office of Rhonda Cloutier, principal of Purmort Regional High School, and feeling like I was back in my old high school in Manchester, being called up to the principal’s office for some misdeed or ballyhoo.
- Writer
