Savage Fall

By Ruth Bainbridge

“Private investigation just got Savage.” – Mike O’Brien

Curt Savage is back and has his hands full. Wedging himself further down the rabbit hole, he’s hot on the trail of who murdered his fiancée. His only clues are those given to him by an anonymous caller that he’s dubbed Dr. Shadows, and a conspiracy theorist named “Crazy” Blanchard. If untangling truth from fiction isn’t bad enough, Marge Danvers, his feisty sixtyish neighbor, volunteers him to help solve her friend Bebe Clauson’s dilemma. Bebe is convinced that her husband is having an affair, and it falls onto Savage to prove whether her hunch is true. But the disappearance of a little girl puts all those cases on hold. Savage and his buddy Mike dig in with all four feet to bring that child home—anyway they can.

This is the second installment in The Curt Savage Mysteries. The four-parts are:

Savage Summer
Savage Fall
Savage Winter
and
Savage Spring

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ruth Bainbridge
• Release date: Dec 5, 2015

Ruth Bainbridge

Born in the idyllic, sleepy town of Ithaca, NY, Ruth Bainbridge has been a lover of mysteries for her entire life. Ever since a child, she has consumed detective stories at regular intervals, becoming enamored with all the superstars of crime. She loved nothing more than to match wits with the likes of Hercule Poirot, Miss Marple, Thomas Pitt, Lord Peter Wimsey, Richard Jury and Edward X Delaney, becoming inspired by their brilliance. Hoping to emulate her writing idol's achievements in dreaming up such characters, she started composing her own short stories. However, life interfered with her plans of becoming the next hopeful to try a life of crime-on paper at least. Devoting herself to her marriage and the raising of four children, the empty nest syndrome gave her the impetus to return to her first love -- murder.

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

I did a lot of thinking on the plane ride home to Creston— and occupying the middle seat didn’t deter my thoughts from multiplying like rabbits. Rabbits? I was back to rabbit holes. Perhaps I was caught in one and didn’t even know it. It was all that damned Dr. Shadows’ fault.

To add to the mental landslide of instability, there was the abduction of Amy Weissman to contend with. After all the work Mike, Mrs. Danvers, and I put into watching Henry Wallace, my squirrelly neighbor. I’d gone so far as to physically detain him and, even after all that, Creston’s finest couldn’t find a goddamned pretext on which to hold him? The police just let him go so he could make good on the kidnapping? I couldn’t wait to confront Wolfie about that one, and I’d already made arrangements for him to meet me after he finished work tonight. Since I couldn’t go any further in pursuing what had happened until I spoke with him, I swept the Weissman abduction aside and concentrated on Ruthie.

I couldn’t shake loose what that phantom had alleged about Becca. Had she lied? Of course, bringing up the very concept sent me off on a philosophical tangent. For instance, what was a lie? And how did I know that was what she’d told?

By strict definition, a lie was: (noun) A falsehood. Something knowingly told with intent to deceive, but weren’t there gray areas? How about little white lies told for someone’s own good? I mean, does a child in an orphanage really need to know his mother didn’t want him? Wouldn’t it be better for everyone concerned to say that the birth mother surrendered him to ensure a better life that she couldn’t provide? And if you told this falsehood to a child in this situation, would it be classified as a lie, even though it met the criteria of being told with intent to deceive?

What that rationalization had to do with anything, I didn’t know. I was just giving my fiancée’s bff a wide berth since I didn’t want to judge someone Ruthie had considered so important in her life. But perhaps if I were in Becca’s position, I would have lied too—if indeed that was what she’d done. In order to assign guilt without proof, I would have to take Dr. Shadows’ word for it—and at least Becca had not only a face and form, but a context in which to put her in. Dr. Shadows was just that—a nameless blob on the other end of a blocked caller ID. Since I was in no position to make a decision on veracity—I filed the allegation away in that mental cabinet marked Dr. Shadows. It was getting mighty full.

As soon as we landed, I grabbed a cab and grappled with what I’d say to Wolfie about Amy Weissman. I didn’t want to come down hard on him for his part in failing to protect her, but he was the only one I could hold accountable. I decided not to do anything, but be genuine. Honesty is the glue that keeps things intact and that includes friendships. It includes telling someone that they’re an asshole sometimes, but it’s done out of love and comes from a warm and fuzzy place.

Wolfie would be fine with me spouting off. If there was one thing that could be said for good ole Rupert, it was that he was a stand-up kind of guy. You could ask him any kind of question and he’d answer it as best he could, even if it meant making himself look bad. Wolfie was all about case solving, and didn’t care if his ego was sacrificed in order to get at the truth.

As soon as my foot hit the pavement in front of mi casa, Marge’s silhouette appeared in her front window. As the taxi hightailed it to the next fare, the former loan manager toddled out of her house. Mooch was in her arms and going crazy. Guess he thought it’d be another weekend spent at Uncle Curt’s, but Marge wasn’t going to let that happen. But a quick hello? Another matter entirely. As soon as she put Moochie down, he zoomed in on me like a swarm of killer bees, albeit a lot cuter.

Hey, Mooches, I cooed as I put one bag down in order to scratch the little dickens behind his left ear.

I guess you’ve heard.

Marge was direct all right. I thought I had a six-shooter of a mouth, but hers took the Annie Oakley Award. I wiped the doggie slobber that was collecting on my hands on the side of my jeans.

Yup. Wolfie’s coming over after work to discuss.

I feel sorry for him, she responded.

You do?

Sure. It must be hard working with such jackasses, and after all our hard work. Come on, Mooch. Oh, and for God’s sake call Bebe Clauson before I bop you one.

With that, the crusty old broad made her way back into the flamingo-colored interior of what she lovingly called home. Me? I went inside my residence and unpacked, cleaned, and showered before I threw a couple steaks on the barbie. I knew two men experiencing serious hunger pangs would be needing to be fed shortly.

* * *

Wolfie.

Savage.

We bonded by giving each other the crazy handshake we used sometimes. It was a take-off on some fancy baseball player grips I’d seen exchanged in the Angels’ dugout. We developed one just as outlandish over the course of our "cohabitating office space." At least, that was how Wolfie put it, but then, he always had to stick a big word into every conversation. Show-off.

Drink?

What do you think? he retorted.

I think a keg should do.

He nodded. Rubbing at the stubble decorating his cheeks, the growth appeared around this time each day. Like everything else about Wolfie, it was consistent.

Here, I said, handing him a bottle of Sam Adams’ best. Putting it in his hand, I thought, what did Europe know about brewing beer anyway? I set things up in the back, I elaborated.

He followed as obediently as Mooch trailing his favorite treat. After Wolfie safely transported the brewski I’d given him, we each sat down on one of the matched chairs that my dead fiancée Ruth Warwick had picked out, I stretched out on the chaise lounge. If there was even one second to kill, I knew how to do it prone.

Thanks for not starting in on me, he grumbled as he guzzled down the lager. I pointed at the chest on the picnic bench, which was overflowing with ice.

There’s more in there, I remarked. I’d be damned if I’d get up just to play fetch when he needed another, and, no, I didn’t care if it cost me the medal for Host of the Year. And as for not ripping you a new one, the night’s young.

It got a chuckle out of him, but then, he always appreciated my humor. He took a few solid gulps and made the beer go buh-bye. Since Dorothy had him well trained, he did indeed retrieve the next bottle all by his lonesome. Well, started to, but then remembered he was driving. There’s something to be said for having a chauffeur.

My internal clock went off. The steaks needed turning over. I got up and ambled to the chest, grabbing hold of the bottle he’d put back. Handing it to him, I whispered, I’ll call you a cab.

The light in his eyes was priceless, but what can I say? I’ve always been an idea man. Madison Avenue was missing out on a gold mine ‘cause I was staying put in Creston.

A nice sear was developing on the rib eye while the center was pretty in pink. I had an unerring intuition where protein was concerned. Wish the police could say the same about molesters of little girls.

Wolfie half-drained the liquid before ceasing and desisting. That was good because I was about to have my lawyer send him a registered letter threatening action if he didn’t. Okay, so I don’t have a mouthpiece. Sue me for taking liberties with the truth.

Hank’s our man, he admitted as the thick glass banged onto the cedar table.

And how’d you figure that out? I queried. Piercing the tender flesh that was cooked to perfection, I placed it on a plate. Wolfie’s was put right next to it. I left them alone to do whatever inanimate objects do to pass time. You’d be surprised how many amateurs cut right into meat without letting it rest first. Will those fools never learn?

I took the baked potatoes and corn on the cob off the grill. All sealed in aluminum foil, everything was steaming hot and fresh.

I learned it from Tommy.

Don’t even tell me that kid was the culprit again.

Sure was. Even after his parents warned him about Mr. Wallace.

Why the hell don’t kids ever listen? I wondered out loud. Further, why do we adults always ignore the fact that they don’t listen and just not let them outside the house until they’re twenty-one?

Because adults don’t listen either, he filled in.

Goddamn if we don’t. So what did Master Thomas Weissman have to say this time?

He said that Hank came around, assuring him that the surprise party was still on. He told Tommy that he needed little Amy to finish setting it up. When Tommy got Amy, Hank asked her if she’d like to plan a party for Mommy, and guess what her answer was?

Poor kid. Never stood a chance, did she? I responded as I served dinner. Sitting down, I unfurled a napkin, stretching it across my lap.

No. We were her only hope and—

Careful there, buddy, I cautioned as I pointed my fork at him. I more than did my part, so don’t you be making me out to be culpable by ‘we-ing’ me.

I know you did and I wasn’t going there, he said, taking a quick sip. Wiping at his lower lip, he gave me one of his looks—the one that had persons of interest crying for their mothers. Don’t suppose you know how that porno got in his possession? he questioned as he cut into the steak and took his first mouthful.

Since it has nothing to do with anything and was the only evidence that got him put behind bars for a few hours, that would be a no.

Suppose that’s the answer I should have expected.

Yes, you should. Now let’s move on to what’s being done.

The usual. APB. And, of course, his photo is being broadcast—Amy’s also. FBI has airports on alert, so he’s not leaving this country with her. I guarantee he’s not!

Wolfie was hot under the collar. It wasn’t often he lost his cool, but with children, he gets a little impassioned. Personally, I’d rather see a cop show some emotion rather than be indifferent. As long as it didn’t affect the officer’s judgment, it was all good.

Hey, Wolfie. It’s not your fault, even if Mike and I did try to tell you. Now what’s the name of the judge that set bail? When I stick the pin in that doll I finish making, I need to say his name. That’s how the ritual works.

"Be sure to aim for the ass and it’s a she. Dora Jackson."

Ass it is. Has she given you guys problems before?

No. That’s what surprised me. Dora’s usually a law and order kind of gal, but not this time. Didn’t want to hear anything. He just walked.

Yeah, right into the Weissman’s backyard, where he grabbed Amy. Shit!

At least the steak was good. We chewed in silence for a few minutes before my phone interrupted the sullen despair.

Savage, I answered.

Mr. Savage? It’s Bebe Clauson. Marge Danvers’ friend.

A check of my watch confirmed it was 8:35 PM, a little late to say hello. That left her husband as the reason for the ring-aling. Why did I get the feeling he’d flown the coop?

I’m sorry for calling this late— … here it came… but, well, I just didn’t know who else to turn to— … coming, coming, coming… but my husband Nigel just left— … bingo dingo… and I think he’s meeting Mildred.

Mildred? That took the wind out of my sails. Who the hell cheats on a wife named Bebe with a gal named Mildred? There had never been a hot Mildred born … unless she was a Milly.

Milly? I ventured.

No, Mildred. I happened to see a text.

If this Mildred worked at the library, it would be a double whammy.

Mr. Savage, are you there?

Yes, Mrs. Clauson. Do you know where he’s meeting her?

Certain that Bebe was going to answer the Dewey Decimal Motel, I pictured the errant spouse tiptoeing into the reading room to meet her.

I have no idea.

Several fast heaves told me she was crying. Christ! Was I really about to go skulking around Creston looking for a grandmother named Mildred that was no doubt outfitted in snazzy green orthopedic shoes?

But I did find some receipts … from motels, she continued. But th-there’s a-a d-different one e-each time.

There went more waterworks. Only one thing to do and that was to punch in my timecard.

Send me the receipts along with a picture of your husband—and the make and model of his car. Oh, and a description of Milly if you have one.

Mildred, she corrected. "And, no, I don’t know what she looks like, but she wears red lipstick. Filthy red."

She’d collected herself in record time. Women will do that in order to deliver a zinger.

Don’t worry about anything, Mrs. Clauson. If he’s in Creston, I’ll find him.

After all, I have all night and all day and the rest of my life.

The addendum was internal dialogue not meant for Mrs. Clauson’s ears. I figured she had enough to deal with. By the time I made it back on the patio, Wolfie was breaking open his fourth. Damn, he was slugging them down.

Whowaszhat?

It’s a known scientific fact that compound words were originated in bars—by drunks.

A client. Her husband is cheating with someone named Mildred.

You must mean Milly, he garbled. See? Even a drunk knew it had to be Milly.

Nope, it’s Mildred. Millicent’s are Milly’s, I explained as I called AZ Cabs, my favorite cab company in the world. Never on time, the meters were only hot by a small percentage of what the other Creston thieves ripped you off for.

415 Wymar Drive going to 79 Monroe. Thanks.

With that done, I waited for the chariot to pick up yon stinko prince. I’d never seen Wolfie so wasted, but then he’d never been complicit in letting a sexual predator out before and it was hurting him like hell. But instead of my dwelling on how Dorothy was going to react to her husband being dumped on her doorstep, I gathered the equipment I was going to need to capture Nigel in flagrante delicto. And I wasn’t feeling at all guilty about being a traitor to my sex, I figured that was what he deserved for boffing a woman named Mildred.

CHAPTER 2

Bebe had done her job, and I was doing mine. I’d taken a look at the motel receipts she’d sent, punching in the addresses and discovering that they formed a cluster. All were located in Creston’s famous sleazy west side; it was where I was headed.

While identifying the pattern reminded me of the good old days spent on the police force, the rest didn’t. Yes, I drove endless miles while on patrol, but when doing it in a blue uniform, I felt more a protector—a guardian. This felt darker and dirtier. I was a predator tracking down its prey, or something like that.

I turned into numerous parking lots, slowing down in order to discern the numbers on license plates. Naturally, I only bothered with vehicles matching Nigel’s car description since, theoretically, Bebe providing it was supposed to make things easy-peasy, but it was a slow go since the first twelve motels scouted were a bust. So far, seven black BMWs spotted, but not one had the magic numbers.

It came as a surprise to me that Creston had this many fleabag establishments that catered to rentals by the hour, but I’d been wrong before. An I told you so expression that Mike often wore flashed through my mind. I could just hear her telling me that she knew how many motels-on-meters operated in Creston even without checking maps and listings, but then imagining these types of one-upmanship situations was understandable. I think it was guilt eating at me more than anything else. After all, she’d been right about little Amy and that poor excuse for a man. I regretted not shooting him in the knee. Limping would have slowed him down. A lot.

There were no Beamers in sight, so I checked The Late Night Inn off my list and diligently drove to the next roach motel. Positioned right down the street, it was named The Twisted Cherry. I’d bet all the chai tea in India that it was just that.

My ears perked up at spotting an automobile that was the right make and model sitting in the middle of the sparsely filled cement lot. Upon closer inspection, bingo! My imitation of Moochie developed into a full-blown happy dance. Nigel’s wheels were parked in front of the unit numbered 12.

I took out my camera and snapped a pic of the plate and car as proof of Bebe’s hubbie visiting at this strange hour. I next went up and down the line, taking shots of all the other cars. I mean, if Nigel didn’t drive Mildred, she had to get here somehow. Couldn’t picture her walking to a lover’s rendezvous.

I got back into my jeep and pulled in an available parking slot that was trimmed in white. As I padded on over to the office, my sick aesthetic came up with a new design scheme for delineating parking spaces. How about painting a chalk outline of a corpse? That ought to pull in a few customers, if only to gawk. I entered the office and found a puke-colored man sitting behind the desk, looking like he hadn’t washed in about a year. How didn’t I anticipate this one?

There are a few rules in investigations, and one is to never cringe at the person’s appearance that you’re about to pump for info. It establishes the wrong vibe and all