Twice Told: A Lupa Schwartz Box Set

By J. David Core

This box set contains all of the Lupa Schwartz novels and novellas which have been released since the first. The entire series; Extreme Unction, Common Sense, Fair Play, Shared Disbelief, and Five Secrets; tells the story of Cattleya Hoskin, journalist for Gamut Magazine who moves from Cleveland to Pittsburgh to chronicle the investigative caseload of Lupa Schwartz, the outspoken PI with a love for women, classic cars, comedy movies, and good meat; and a strong disdain for religion, bad parking, and wasted time.
Book one, Extreme Unction, is available to read for free, so this set, which brings books two through five together in one place, makes owning the entire series easier than ever before.

• Language: English
• Publisher: J. David Core
• Release date: Apr 21, 2016
• ISBN: 9781310862304

J. David Core

With a profound interest in religion, liberal politics and humor, Dave began writing in High School and has not given up on it since. His first professional writing jobs came while attending the Art Institute of Pittsburgh when he was hired to create political cartoons for The Pitt News and to write humor pieces for Smile Magazine. Dave has worked in the newspaper industry as a photographer, in the online publishing industry as a weekly contributor to Streetmail.com, and was a contributing writer to the Buzz On series of informational books and his story, The Bet in Red Dust, was published at the Western online anthology, Elbow Creek.Dave’s science fiction novel, Synthetic Blood and Mixed Emotions, is available from its publisher, writewordsinc.com.Dave currently resides in his childhood home in Toronto, OH with his beautiful girlfriend and his teenage daughter. He enjoys participating in local community events and visiting with his two adult children and his grandson.

Book preview

Chapter One

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter One

Why don’t I remember more about that moment? Was it the cop, the one who had escorted me into that room and pulled back the sheet, was it his fault I don’t remember? Had he pre-conditioned me to expect more? Is that why I don’t remember more details? Or had I done it to myself? Had I presumed too much? Were my expectations out of line with reality because of all the horrific images I’d been trained to expect from television and the movies?

I’ve spent my life training my memory. My high level of recall is what makes me a good reporter. It’s what Schwartz valued so much when we’d worked that last case. It’s what I consider my defining characteristic. So why don’t I remember more about that day?

I don’t know what I expected to find, really. Did I think he’d be paler? Bluer? Bloated? Wetter? He’d probably only been in the water for an hour or so, tops, and he’d been fished out more than 24 hours before. Of course he wasn’t bloated or still wet … or pallid. So when the sheet came back and even his lips looked like him … like the lips I’d kissed when I took his name … like the lips I’d fallen in love with all those years before … like the lips I’d foolishly grown to trust.

It’s no good. All I remember are his lips. I vaguely remember saying, Yes, that’s him, and being escorted out of the room, but that’s it. I don’t even remember going back to my car; but I did go back to my car. I got in and began driving, and I remember thinking back to the night before, when I’d gotten the call.

***

It had been five months since I’d last seen Beverly, the live-in housekeeper and cook at the home of the renowned Private Investigator, Lupa Schwartz; but the telephone correspondence we had maintained made it seem like a lot less time. Has Mia gotten over hating me yet? I asked, and Beverly laughed gaily.

I suppose she has, Beverly answered. Did I tell you that she and Yitzie aren’t dating anymore? Yitzie was Jimmy Yitzosky, and he was the reason that Mia Geovani had been holding a grudge against me these past few months. He was a narcotics cop, a Sergeant in the Pittsburgh Police Department, and she’d wanted him to move on to homicide; but I had foiled her plan in favor of my own then-favorite homicide dick, Detective Trevor Johns. Unfortunately, the scheme I’d hatched blew up in my face, and it had cost me the affection of both Mia and my own Ishmael (as I called Trevor.)

No, I said in honest surprise. What happened?

Long story, Beverly told me.

I’ve got time, I said, and I meant it. I’d had no life for more than a month. My job at the Cleveland office of Gamut Magazine had become the only thing I did. When I’d returned from Pittsburgh that past July with the story of the brilliant detective work Schwartz had used to solve the case of a Catholic priest framed for the last-rites-poisoning of one of his parishioners, I’d thought it would be the kick-in-the-butt my career had been in need of. Ever since my ex-husband had hijacked a utilities story that had been rightfully mine, I’d been somewhat stagnated. It probably would have been a sufficient boost too, except that I’d allowed that charmer-of-an-ex-of-mine to worm his way back into my life and had started dating him again while I was still riding the high of my own literary success. Then – as if I’d never had our young marriage annulled – I’d moved in with him. He’d started screening my email, and had snaked another story that had been rightfully mine. He was over a hundred miles away living in a quaint B&B with a company expense account working another utilities story, while I waited to edit his copy and keep house patiently awaiting his return. Of course, what he didn’t know was that the only reason I was actually awaiting his return was so that I could see his face when he saw what I’d done with a little benzene to his prized CD collection right before I dumped his sorry ass again.

So I listened to Beverly’s story, running up the tab on Dave’s (my ex-husband’s) phone bill – since the one concession I’d gotten him to agree to when I’d moved back in was keeping all of the utilities (including a house phone) in his name. Although even winning that compromise had cost me some concessions; like no frills such as caller ID, call-waiting, voice-mail, or any other extras.

So Beverly told her tale. It seemed that Mia, who was Schwartz’s mechanic (he had an extensive antique and classic car collection in a huge underground garage on his property,) had been pestering Schwartz to allow Jimmy to take credit for collaring one of Schwartz’s murder cases as he’d solved it so that Jimmy could possibly get out of the Narcotics division. Apparently Schwartz, a sucker for a pretty face – which Mia definitely had one – had agreed twice in the past month, but Jimmy had found a reason both times to make a drug bust instead. Mia had finally had enough. She’d stopped accepting Jimmy’s invitations to dinner, and she was back to playing the field. So, Beverly said, Mia has no more reason to be angry with you. It was all Jimmy’s deal the whole time.

At that moment, my handbag had begun to chirp. Hold the line a minute, would you, Bev? My cell phone is ringing. It might be Dave.

Then let it ring, Beverly said. You’re dumping the jerk next week anyway, aren’t you?

Yes, I said, If it’s important, he can call back, right?

Exactly, she said. So are you going to just let it ring?

Yes, I am, I said proudly. So how are things with you and Lupa?

Cattleya, Beverly said, you know that our relationship is strictly professional.

Did I say anything to suggest that it wasn’t?

You implied it, she said, by the timing of your asking about it. I laughed, but the distraction of that incessant ringing was driving me off my nut.

Hold on, Bev, I said. Whoever this is, they’re being really persistent. It must be important. I set the handset down and pulled the ringing phone from my purse. Hello?

Cat, it’s Jana, the voice said announcing herself to be a co-worker from the magazine office.

Hi, Jana, I said. Can I call you back? I’m on long distance to Pitts...

Cat, listen, Jana said interrupting. I think maybe you’d better hang up that other call. We just got a call at the office from the Mississauga, Ohio Police. I think something has happened to Dave. They’ve been trying to get a hold of you, but...

What did they say about Dave?

They wouldn’t say anything specific. They just wanted to know if you had another phone number they could call since they kept getting a busy signal. I didn’t want to give them your cell number because I know you had it changed since you’re planning to – you know – to dump Dave again. I thought it might be a trick or something. Anyway, they’re going to call you back in a few minutes.

Thanks, Jana, I said. I’ll let you know what I find out. Goodbye. I hung up and got back on the line with Beverly. Bev, hi. Listen, I’ve got to clear this line. Apparently the Mississauga, Ohio police are calling to talk with me about Dave. He’s down there covering the story he stole ... on a story, so he might be in jail or something. I’ll talk to you later, okay? Bye.

I hung up and turned on the television while I waited for the phone to ring. Less than a minute had passed when the sudden sound startled me. Hello, I said.

Cattleya Hoskin? the voice asked. I responded in the affirmative, and the voice continued, This is Captain Hank Street of the Mississauga Police department down here in Mississauga, Ohio. Is David Hoskin your husband?

Yes, I said, "my ex-husband is David Hoskin. He’s down there working on an assignment for Gamut Magazine. He’s a writer."

Yes, ma’am, we know, Captain Street said. Um, I’m sorry to have to tell you this, ma’am, but there’s been a ... well, there’s been a sort of a ... a sort of an incident.

Is Dave under arrest? I asked.

No, ma’am, Street said. I’m afraid he’s dead.

It may have been a whole minute or barely a moment or any other length of time between Street’s stating the word and my repeating it as a question. I can’t say, because for me time stopped. Dead? I said, though whether immediately or finally — I can’t be sure.

Yes, ma’am. Drowned, Street said, in the river. He was night-fishing on a pier, a sort of public dock. We’d like for you to come down and identify the body. It’s procedure. We’re sure it’s him. Could you come down in the morning?

Chapter 2

It must have been in the back of my mind, since — after all — I’d packed a small bag, but I didn’t consciously make the decision until about a quarter of the way home up the state’s eastern border when I saw the sign that I was only about forty miles from Pittsburgh. I hesitated only a moment before slowing and committing to the right turn onto Rte. 30 into Pennsylvania.

Within an hour, I found myself on the familiar walk to the semi-circular porch that fronted the Queen Anne style home at 808 Hazelwood Ave. at the top of Murray Avenue in Pittsburgh’s largely Jewish Squirrel Hill section. Knowing Schwartz’s schedule as I did, I knew that unless he was out on an important case, he would be in his basement garage, napping or tinkering for another half hour; and he wasn’t currently working a big case, because I’d just spoken with his house-keeper and ersatz wife, Beverly, the night before.

Except for the fact that I’d brought my own car, a late model suburban that I was leasing for way too much money, this was exactly the same way that I’d presented myself four months earlier; unannounced, unaccompanied and unprepared for what was about to follow. I rang the bell and waited, but nobody came. Since it wasn’t Saturday – grocery day, or Sunday – free day, I knew that somebody must be home. Somebody (usually Beverly) was always home. I rang again, but still nobody came. Sometimes Beverly would spend her afternoons gardening, but this was late October. The harvest was over. None-the-less, I strolled around the left to the back yard in search of Beverly.

I found her there in coveralls and work-gloves holding a trowel, but she wasn’t gardening. Rather, she was mortaring bricks onto some sort of foundation in the far corner of the lawn, her blonde pony-tail swishing from side-to-side rhythmically. This had been her flower garden when I’d been there in July. Now, the rich soil that had been in this spot lie in piles scattered about the lawn, and in its place was a large rectangular groundwork of cinder-block and brick. Beverly, I called, what are you doing to Schwartz’s lawn?

She looked up from her work, dropped the tool and called my name. Cattleya! Wha... when did you... Hello, dear.

***

We were in the kitchen drinking tea. I’d explained that on the way home from identifying my ex-husband, I’d suddenly felt the need to see some friendly faces. She’d then explained that because she hadn’t managed to can as many vegetables as she’d wanted to this season, she was going to build a hot house to grow some for the winter and to have a better head start for the next spring planting season. Schwartz had agreed to let her move her flower garden to the front slope since it had become too difficult for Beverly to mow the slope anyway.

You mow the slope? I said.

I do all of the yard-work, dear, she explained. It’s part of my job, and it gives me something to do when I’m not cooking or cleaning, and I enjoy it.

Well, I said, it’s your business. So what are you going to plant out front?

She told me her plan to put tiger lilies at the retaining wall with Irises lining the walk. The lawn would be a scattering of wild seed, and whatever grew grew, but the house itself would be edged with sunflowers and ferns. Are you going to start that in the greenhouse too? I asked.

Oh, no, she said. The bulbs for the lilies and irises are already in the ground, and I’ll scatter the wild seed right after the sunflowers have sprouted which I’ll plant them just after the last frost. I want to wait until after the dandelion harvest, before I...

Dandelion harvest? I interrupted.

Yes, we get a lot of dandelions in the front lawn, and I use them to make wine. I don’t know where I’ll get the dandelions spring-after-next. I suppose I’ll have to gather them down at the park.

I was about to ask her why she made wine from dandelions when Schwartz and Mia came noisily up from the garage. Schwartz, his green shirt still tucked neatly in his black pants, was saying something about the cylinder head on his Delehaye when he spotted me. Ms. Hoskin, he said. This is a surprise. I understand you’ve suffered a loss. My condolences. As he spoke, Mia walked past him, approached me and embraced me in a seemingly sincere hug. How she managed to do it without getting any grease on my white cardigan... But that sounds bitchie, and she was really being nice.

***

Is that a difficult question? Schwartz was saying. We’d moved into the dining room, where Beverly was gathering dried rosemary to toss on the embers of the large fireplace. Mia was seated across from me with sympathy plastered onto her too-beautiful-for-her-own-good face. I’d finished describing my surprise at how easy it was to identify Dave since – after all — he’d been pulled from a river after drowning. I’d thought he’d be bloated or discolored, but he’d looked like himself. Then out of nowhere, Schwartz had asked me if Dave had often gone night fishing alone, and I’d gone suddenly mute. That’s why he’d asked me if the question was a difficult one.

It shouldn’t be, I conceded. I mean, I was married to him, but he’d surprised me so many times. I’d never expected that he would steal a story from me, but he did – twice.

So you’d never known him to be a fan of night fishing?

He might have just picked up the hobby recently, or maybe he was just testing the hobby that night.

Was he an avid day-fisherman? Schwartz asked.

Again I went mute. Again it was a simple question, but the answer just made the whole situation more puzzling. No, I acknowledged.

Chapter 3

I lay on my bed. My foot dangling to the floor absently twisted and untwisted in the strap of a discarded bra I had been too depressed to pick up off the floor for almost a week. The words Schwartz had spoken in that question about Dave’s newfound fishing habit nagged at me.

I thought back to all of the meals Dave and I had taken together. Sometimes he would eat tuna salad or shrimp, but I could never remember him ordering the fresh catch or even so much as the salmon steak. Our late night television watching generally wound up with him assuming control of the remote, and he never paused at the fishing channels. Our vacations, which I had always planned, generally put us on planes, not boats; and he never once suggested a lake house or a canoeing excursion. Dave Hoskin was not an outdoorsman, and he was not somebody I could envision joyfully gutting a bass.

The seed Schwartz had planted was beginning to take root. The more the shock wore off; it seemed more and more implausible that my ex-husband had suddenly become such a devotee of night fishing that he would be alone on a pier in late autumn. If he was fishing at all, it was for his story, and that means somebody was with him. Whether he’d been killed intentionally or had fallen in by accident, there was a witness somewhere out there who saw it happen.

The funk gradually turned to resolve, and I decided that I was going to go to Mississauga myself. Come hell or high water, I was going to expose the hell of the high water that had killed the man who had given me his name.

I stood and began the first tentative steps toward my bathroom, intending to wash the running mascara from my eyes, but decided first to toss the sloughed brassier into the hamper. I bent over and lifted it, and my eyes caught site of my laptop on the stand. It had been several days since I had checked my email, and I was sure that by now I had several messages of condolence that deserved reply. I decided to peek.

There were a few. Jana had sent me a note. My editor, Beverly, one of Dave’s friends from college, my divorce lawyer; each had sent their sympathies. Then I saw a name I didn’t immediately recognize. Next to the subject line Sorry to hear what happened to your old man I saw the name Dain.

The name seemed somehow familiar, but I couldn’t place it. I supposed that there would be more context in the email itself to help me figure out who this Dain might be. I opened the message.

Cattleya, the message began, You should know that your ex-husband loved you very much. You should also know that his death was not an accident. That’s when I remembered where I’d heard that name before. I’d never seen it written, though, and assumed in my head that it would be spelled Dane.

Dain was the name of the person who had found my name in the Contact Us section of Gamut Magazine, and had sent me an email alerting me to the small-town utilities scandal which Dave had coopted for his own. He’d found the message in my in-box one evening shortly after it had come. He’d then forwarded the email to his own account and had deleted it from my hard-drive and server. The following day he pitched the story to our editor, and he’d been sent to investigate.

I was so proud of him at first. He quickly uncovered that a city council-woman and one county commissioner had devised a scheme to get the small community of Mississauga to build a new water treatment facility based on a promise from the county that they would contract water service for county residents who lived outside of the corporation limits of Mississauga proper. That promise, however, was never fulfilled. The commissioner and council-woman had conspired to use the threat of giving the county’s water contract to Mississauga in order to extort bribes from the city council of the larger neighboring community of Fayetteville, Ohio, who desperately wanted to keep that lucrative contract for their own. The story wound up causing the council-woman to resign in disgrace, the mayor of Fayetteville to find himself under federal indictment, and the commissioner to disappear before her own indictment came down.

The story received national attention. Dave appeared on several network television programs. The magazine submitted the article for several journalism awards. I was the proud wife of a real journalist. Then I overheard one side of a conversation, and everything changed.

Well, I didn’t actually overhear it. I had begun to grow suspicious that Dave was snooping in my computer. I noticed that my email trash folder was being emptied by somebody other than myself. The only person it could have been was Dave. I secretly downloaded a keystroke recorder, and ultimately found an email reply Dave had composed to somebody he called D. The email apparently went out from my email address, and it was a response to an email I never saw which assured D that I was perfectly happy to have let Dave handle the investigation, and no I wasn’t the least bit resentful of all the accolades he was receiving on a story which had originally been intended for me.

It didn’t take long to put the pieces together, and that evening I asked Dave who D might be. I showed him my computer screen with his treachery reconstructed – misspellings and corrections and all. That’s when he told me about Dane and two months later the annulment was complete.

Time passed, and I gradually forgave Dave, especially after I had successfully repeated his success in the investigation I had completed with Schwartz and the accolades the resulting story had brought helped the wound heal a little too.

Then history repeated. Dave had returned to Mississauga on yet another assignment he’d gotten from an anonymous source. Of course, it was possible that he’d made connections while there the first time. Surely he wasn’t stealing from me again.

Fortunately, since the previous experience I had taken precautions. Now when I got an email, an alert was sent to my cell phone. The alert told me nothing about the content of the message, but if the mail alerts didn’t match the number of mails in the inbox, I knew something hinky was afoot. Unfortunately, I’d never had the chance to tell Dave that I was onto his second treachery.

Now here I was finally reading an email Dane had sent, only Dane was really Dain, and Dain wanted me to know that Dave had never stopped loving me. Who the hell was Dain, and why the hell did he know so much about my relationship with Dave?

I was going to find out, damn it; but I was probably in over my head and I knew it. I was going to find Dain. I was going to learn the truth about what happened to Dave. I was going to call Lupa Schwartz and beg him to help me. First though – first I was going to take a long soak in a warm bath.

So much for being depressed or even resolved. I was pissed now, damn it.

Chapter 4

I took a bus from Cleveland to Pittsburgh that Monday morning, and Schwartz sent Mia to pick me up. Mia came into the station and found me seated on a bench next to a stout grandmother who was very excitedly showing me photos of her grandchildren who she had come to spend the holidays with. The pictures showed several husky boys and plump little girls in Halloween costumes. Apparently all Hallows Eve and Dia de los Muertos were not considered the holidays in her family. Thanksgiving, however, was just a few weeks out, and this would be the first holiday meal they’d ever shared together and blah blah blah.

Mia spotted us from across the way. She used the crowd to pass unnoticed to a spot on the wall behind us where she could watch me in my misery for several minutes before making her presence known. Meanwhile, as grandma or Bubba or whatever her chunky grandkids called her kept going on and I continued vainly stealing glances toward the entrance hoping for my rescue. Finally, Mia decided that my misery had gone on long enough, and she made her presence known. Cat, she said as if she’d only just noticed me.

Mia Geovani, I said unrealistically happy to see her and her over-teased black hair. I’d like you to meet my new friend, I said. Mia this is...

No time, she said walking away rudely. Schwartz is waiting.

***

How long were you standing there watching my suffering? I asked as we climbed into some old muscle car from Schwartz’s collection.

Long enough to learn and memorize the grandbabies’ names if I had a mind to.

Well, you were a little bit rude, I scolded playfully.

I didn’t want to have my cheeks pinched, she said. I work hard to maintain just the right amount of color.

I decided to change the topic. Beverly tells me you and Yitzie broke up.

Not a biggie, she said. I have my line baited for a bigger trout.

Anyone I know? I asked, and Mia only smiled with duck lips and gave me a sidewise glance.

I was sorry to hear what happened to your ex, she said changing the subject.

Thanks.

Men are bastards.

Yeah. Have you ever heard of the Bechdel test?

What’s that? she asked.

It’s a rule of thumb for writing fiction – novels, movies, television, whatever. The rule is that a story is only realistic if it has at least two women characters who talk to each other about something other than men. I’d like to also put it into practice in real life.

She considered briefly. We could talk about cars.

We could talk about that nice lady’s grandkids.

We could talk about the holidays.

What are your plans for Thanksgiving? I asked.

Mine? I have my grandmother and Beverly always makes a big meal, so I’ll probably eat twice. The better question is what are your holiday plans?

Why is that a better question? I asked.

I don’t think I can answer that without talking about men, she said, and she was right. I hadn’t even taken a moment to consider that; but with Dave gone, I had nobody to share my holiday with.

I installed the cam in this baby myself just last week, she said stroking the dash.

That nice lady’s grandkids were all born a year apart. There are six of them, four boys and two girls aged three to nine.

Beverly makes her yams with real maple. I could talk about getting you an invitation to join us.

I’m not even sure the investigation will be finished by Thanksgiving, I said.

Mia slowly shook her head. Do you really think it’s wise for you to get directly involved in the investigation?

Did Schwartz tell you to ask me that question?

You can stay with Beverly and me in the house while he looks into things for you.

I appreciate that, I said, but I have to do this.

***

Schwartz was in his office by the time we arrived. He’d finished his morning time with his cars, and was busy arranging his schedule to allow for the time he’d promised to spend with me in Ohio. I knocked and he bade me enter.

I want to thank you for agreeing to help me on this investigation, I said entering the office and sitting across from him at his desk.

Do you recall the arrangement we made before our last case together? he asked as he sprayed water from a mister onto his fern.

I recall that I was not to ask about our shared family history, I said cautiously. Schwartz was about ten or so years my senior. He’d been raised in a Jewish enclave in the Balkans, but his maternal grandfather had emigrated to the states decades before to establish his own private investigation firm. That New York firm had been my father’s main employer for years.

Schwartz’s mother had remained in what was then Yugoslavia to aid in the overthrow of the Tito regime, and when the iron curtain fell, she and her ex-CIA husband found themselves in dire straits. My parents had gone to Europe in an attempt to extricate the Schwartzes, but only Lupa and his childhood friend, Ulric Devaki, made it out with their lives. For his own reasons, Schwartz was adamant that we never discuss those facts.

What else do you recall about it? He was stone-faced, his dark, crinkly eyes impassive.

I recall that you asked to use my cell phone whenever needed.

Anything else?

"I recall that I was to report to you verbatim all conversations I had without you and you did the same for me.

Very good, he said. Those rules still apply. How is your credit?

My what?

Your credit? Do you have a strong credit rating?

It’s not bad, I said. I do okay.

Excellent, he huffed. You will be responsible for assuming all expenses.

Fair enough, I said. I’ll pay you as well of course.

You’ll do no such thing. Even if I wanted to charge you – which I don’t – Beverly would never forgive me if I accepted any payment from you.

That’s very gracious, I said, but I insist. After all, this is what you do for a living.

I received quite a bit of work after you wrote the tale of our last adventure for your magazine, Schwartz admitted. I assume you’ll be writing this story as well once I have solved this murder. That will be payment enough.

What if it wasn’t a murder I muttered.

What was that? Speak up, he demanded, and I repeated myself. Was Mr. Hoskin a heavy drinker?

No, I replied.

Was he an invalid?

No.

Then how could he accidentally drown in four feet of warm water? Of course he was murdered. You know it and I know it. Now we have simply to prove it. Have you made reservations at the bed and breakfast?

***

That afternoon we arrived at the home of Hyram and Margaret Ligea, a beautiful Plantation style facing the Ohio River a block from the small waterside park where Dave had passed away. The Ligea’s had rented a room to Dave on each of the occasions when he had come to town. The house sat on a corner with neighbors all around and a large Episcopal Church kitty-corner from the B&B.

We entered the breezeway, luggage in hand, and Schwartz rang the bell. Soon a smiling and very pregnant Margaret Ligea greeted us and welcomed us to her home. A petite strawberry blonde with green eyes and white lips, she spoke a cursory condolence on my loss and had us sign the registry. She explained the rules about breakfast hours and the community bath, then she showed us to our respective rooms. First Schwartz was taken to his room, a large and garishly decorated boudoir with a private balcony facing the street. My room was the room Dave had used, a more masculine room toward the back. I knew the proper thing to do would have been to offer to switch rooms with Schwartz, but I really didn’t want to; and both he and Margaret seemed to understand why.

As she was about to leave, something caught my eye. A bundle of papers sat on the nightstand. Is that a manuscript? I asked.

Oh, that, yes, Mr. Hoskin had agreed to read it for the neighbor across the street, Thomas O’Dell. I’ll dispose of that for you.

No, I said the disappointment that it was not a manuscript of Dave’s probably evident in my tone. Leave it, please. Were Dave and this O’Dell friends?

Tom O’Dell doesn’t have friends, she hissed. When he learned that we had a writer staying, he imposed himself opportunistically on your husband.

Ex-husband, I corrected.

Of course, Margaret said stroking her pregnant belly. My apologies. I’ll leave the papers if you prefer.

Where is the landing where Mr. Hoskin drowned? Schwartz asked. I’d like to take a look at it before dinner.

***

The road to the dock was a long winding slope leading to a boat ramp. To the side of the ramp was an open field with several concrete picnic tables on concrete slabs and one shelter. When we arrived, the shelter was populated by three retirement aged men in jeans and jackets, each ignoring the no alcohol sign on the shelter face in favor of a forty ounce lager.

Schwartz pulled his vehicle, a candy-apple red 1953 Buick convertible, into the oversized parking space usually reserved for a car with a boat trailer attached. We got out and strode down to the bank. We did not go unnoticed by the locals.

The pier ran out about twenty feet into the water and then turned at a 45 degree angle to the right extending out another thirty feet before culminating in a widened deck at the end. The entire pier floated on several pontoons and was tethered to several very tall metal poles which were anchored to the river bed. Schwartz was right; a person falling in who was not impaired could probably walk to the shore. It made no sense to believe that a man who was simply fishing and lost his footing would drown unless he had banged his head in the fall or was otherwise incapacitated.

I walked out onto the pier and stared for several minutes into the murky water that had claimed Dave’s life. When I returned to the bank, I found Schwartz in conversation with one of the locals who had come to the park to drink malt liquor from a paper bag.

Ms. Hoskin, Schwartz said, this is Ricky.

Pleased to meet you, ma’am, Ricky said extending his hand anxiously. Ricky was about sixty, with silver hair and a tall skeletal frame. I shook his long fingers and then hugged myself to ward off the chill of the cool air that was coming off of the river.

Ricky is the one who found Mr. Hoskin’s body, Schwartz informed me. He came over to ask about the Buick, and the conversation wound up at that unhappy coincidence.

I’m very sorry for your loss, ma’am, Ricky said.

How did you happen to find Dave’s body? I asked.

I don’t sleep well, Ricky said. Sometimes I take late night walks down here and enjoy a drink and a fire in the trash can. It ain’t exactly legal, but the police leave me alone. Ricky shrugged. That night I came down and noticed somebody had left fishing tackle on the dock. I got curious, so I walked out to see what all was there, and that’s when I saw him floating face-down in the water. I could tell he was dead, and I considered going in the water after him, but then I thought to use the fishing pole. I turned it around and pulled at him with the reel end. His body turned over, and – well, I could just tell there was no more use trying, so I walked up the hill and went to the police station and reported what I’d found.

Did the police take a statement from you? I asked. Ricky nodded.

They come down with the ambulance and fished him out. I stood right over there and watched the whole thing.

What happened with the fishing gear? Schwartz asked.

Ricky shrugged again.

Chapter 5

As we pulled up on the side street, we saw that a short, bow-legged, pot-bellied man was placing Thanksgiving decals on the outside of one of the windows of the O’Dell house. As we disembarked from our trip, Schwartz shouted a greeting across to the man. Hello! Mr. O’Dell?

The man turned and squinted at us. That’s me, he said jovially. Can I help you?

Yes, Schwartz said, My name is Lupa Schwartz. Unfortunately, Mr. O’Dell was unable to hear him. In honesty, I am only able to report it because I know it’s what he must have said. I didn’t hear it for myself either. I doubt that even Schwartz could hear himself at that moment, as a cacophony of chimes and carillon began in the Episcopal belfry.

We could see that O’Dell was laughing and shaking his head. He waved us across the street and signaled for us to follow him into his house. Once through the front door, O’Dell said, Seven o’clock. He shut the door to the noise. Every night at this time the bells chime for about ten minutes.

Amazing, Schwartz said. I looked. I didn’t see a bell even moving. Actually, I only saw one large bell. This sounds like chimes.

I don’t think they’re real chimes, O’Dell said. "Or rather, they’re recorded and played through a speaker system. There are two other churches in town that do the same thing several times a day. Sometimes it’s just the chimes, and sometimes it’s actual songs – hymns. Joyful, Joyful, We Adore Thee or Onward, Christian Soldiers. Ah, hear that? I believe that’s Day by Day."

Aren’t there noise ordinances? Schwartz asked.

Bells in churches are exempt. Believe me, I’ve checked into it. When I bought the house, the church had only the bell in the belfry. It isn’t nearly as obnoxious, and they didn’t ring it quite so often, so it was tolerable. By the way, I’m Tom O’Dell. Who might you be?

Oh, Schwartz said, forgive me. I’m Lupa Schwartz. I’m rooming across the street.

Schwartz? O’Dell said. "The detective? Oh, then this must be Cattleya Hoskin, Dave’s wife. I read the article you did on Mr. Schwartz in Gamut a few months back. Extraordinary. So sorry to hear about your husband."

Thank you, I said without bothering to make the correction that he was my ex-husband. Did you speak with David much?

Yes, several times. Come into the kitchen, please. Would you like a drink? Coffee? Hot chocolate? We followed him to the back of the house. Soon, we were sitting around his table drinking cocoa and discussing the church-bells. Schwartz had preferred that topic to the fact that O’Dell had admitted to having read my work. To me, this seemed to clearly mark him as a potential suspect for Dain, the anonymous source.

To this point, since entering the house, we had learned that the church-bells went off several times a day, every single day; and that the only way to escape the racket was to retreat behind closed doors. O’Dell had contacted the police, his councilman and the mayor about reigning in the churches, but to no avail. Most people in town, it seemed, found the bells soothing and spiritually uplifting, but then most people in town didn’t have to live directly across the street from a set of them.

He’d actually gone so far as to post on the local website’s message board about it, trying to garner support, but most people thought he was being petty since they personally found the bells added to Mississauga’s traditional hometown atmosphere; despite the fact that the bells had been ringing for only a few years, and residents who owned property abutting the churches had been complaining the whole time.

The site that you posted on, I said, would that be Mississauga Online?

Yes, it is, O’Dell admitted. I probably shouldn’t have admitted to that, because I’m anonymous on the site. They even let me write a local-interest opinion column under an assumed name. Even the webmaster doesn’t know who I really am. You know how that is, Mrs. Hoskin, he said directing his comment to me. Once people know who I am, it would make it impossible to write honest opinions considering the politics of a small town.

Do you know a lot about the politics in Mississauga? I asked.

I read the paper, and I know some of the people at the city building real well, he answered, but I’m not what you’d call connected. Still I try not to base my opinions on hearsay alone. Most of what I write is just what I consider to be common sense.

Interesting, Schwartz said. Here you are living in a county named for another man named Thomas – like yourself – who wrote one of the most significant documents of the Revolutionary War. He too felt that the separation of church and state – one of the hallmarks of the First Amendment — was critical to a free society. Yet the politicians of this county are afraid to enforce rules meant equally for everybody simply because enforcing the law against churches might cost them an election. It’s preposterous! What are they elected for if not to defend the principals of the Constitution?

So Schwartz was back on the bells. Are the bells just as loud down at the Douglas Point Park? Schwartz asked, and I realized that he was working the case after all.

Yes, O’Dell said. I’m sure they are.

So if Mr. Hoskin was down there meeting with a contact when the bells began, he would be unable to conduct his business?

Probably, O’Dell conceded. He then excitedly offered more as he was struck with a revelation. And if somebody was to drown him, during the chimes would be the perfect opportunity since nobody would hear his screaming. That’s why you wanted to talk with me, isn’t it? You don’t think his death was an accident.

Does the name Dain mean anything to you? I asked.

Dane? he asked, and then he spelled it. D a n e?

No, I said, and I gave him the correct spelling.

No, he said. Should it?

Possibly not, I said. Do you know anything about the local power plants?

Not much really, he said. What do you want to know?

Have you heard anything about fraud or graft or billing irregularities? Anything from either plant?

No, I wouldn’t know anything about that. I’m just a photographer with hopes of being a writer. Oh, hey, that reminds me. Do you know if your husband ever got around to reading a story I wrote?

Mrs. Ligea just gave it to me and I told her I’d read it over for you. I saw that it had some notes in Dave’s handwriting. I’ll get to it for you as soon as I can, I promised.

***

Schwartz retired for the evening, and I asked for and received directions to the local library. With just about a quarter hour to go before they closed, I wanted to check out the unabridged Dictionary for clues to Dain, and I wanted to check the Internet for clues to O’Dell.

I pulled two large dictionaries and could not find the word dain in either. I did find a reference to the Daintree River National Park in Queensland, Australia, but I doubted that was any clue. So I looked up disdain to see if it could offer any clue to the origin of the root dain, but it seemed unpromising since the spelling had been changed from the French desdeigneir.

Of course, not finding that dain was a word did not mean that there was no hope of determining it’s origin as an email identity. It might have been an anagram or acronym, or it could have been a shortened form of dainty or a similar word. Of course there was always the possibility that the word had no discernible meaning whatever, or that determining the meaning might still be no clue to the identity of the anonymous source. My best hope, it seemed, was finding proof that O’Dell was the source. So I got temporary Internet access from the librarian and set about researching O’Dell’s anonymous posts.

At the homepage for Mississauga Online, I immediately found the archive of O’Dell’s opinion columns. He wrote under the pen name Jim Ho, and he posted as IMHO on the message boards. His articles were rants about everything from the church bells to the cost of gasoline at the local pumps. He wrote about his congressman’s political posturing and his councilman’s ineffectiveness with traffic zoning. But none of the articles seemed to hold any clue linking O’Dell to Dain. The librarian informed me that it was closing time, so I took a quick cursory look at the message board. I found that posts were stamped with date and time of post, that there was a log showing who was signed in and when, and that the newest member was someone calling him or herself PghPI. This PghPI had joined just ten minutes before. I guessed Schwartz wasn’t in such a hurry to get to sleep after all.

***

As I drove back to the B&B, I noticed the fuel gauge indicated low. I pulled into a convenience store with a self-serve filling station a block behind the Ligea house. After pumping the fuel, I headed for the store. As I pushed open the door, I noticed a sign announcing that they sold Canadian earthworms and meal-worms for the local fishermen. This set my mind in motion.

At the counter, I paid for my gas and struck up a conversation with the woman behind the counter. Fifteen dollars worth on pump two. Um, can I ask you a question?

If I know the answer, she said smiling.

You know that reporter who drowned here in town the other night?

It’s a small town, she said pushing her hair back from her face. Everybody’s been talking about it. He came in here a couple times.

He was my husband, I said, and a look of compassion swallowed her smile. I realized that I’d stopped referring to Dave as my ex-husband, and to myself as his ex-wife. I guess I thought I’d get better cooperation as his widow than as his former wife. I just want to know what kinds of things he bought when he was in here? Did you talk about that at all?

Well, she said, I only waited on him a couple times and that was at the drive-thru window. He prepaid gas and bought a paper I think. Sherry said she sold him some chicken from the deli, and Bruce says he sold him a map and some photocopies. That was the most interesting to us, because he forgot the original in the machine. That happens all the time. He never came back for it. Would you like to see it?

She pulled a folder from under the counter and removed a page. It was an eight-and-a-half by eleven topographical map of the Mississauga city cemetery and the hill above. It clearly showed the old reservoir and several features around it. I’d supposed that the copy Dave had made was an enlargement of this section of the map.

Can I have this? I asked.

Sure, the woman said. Is there anything else?

Did Dave always shop alone?

Usually. Although one time I did notice Hy Ligea sitting in the passenger seat when he came through.

The guy who owns the B&B?

Mmm-hm.

Do you know Hy Ligea? I asked. Does he ever shop here?

Well, yes, but I can’t be as specific about what we sold him. Unless you maybe want to know what brand of beer he drinks. He’s here too often to remember specific visits.

Did he ever buy bait here? I asked.

Oh, yeah. All the time. He wanted me to check that it was active – you know — alive, but I wouldn’t do it. Come to think of it, I remember selling him some through the window once, and your husband was with him. Huh? Ain’t that funny? I’d forgotten all about that.

That is funny, I said agreeably.

Anything else? she asked. I have to stock the cigarettes.

Just one more thing. On the night that Dave, my husband, died; did he by any chance come in to buy bait?

That I can answer, she said. We haven’t sold much bait at all in almost two months. People around here just don’t fish the river after September. They ice-fish in the West Virginia hills instead.

So that’s would be a no? I asked.

Yes, ma’am, she replied. That would be a no.

Chapter 6

We’d been clearly told that breakfast at the B&B was served from seven to nine. I rose at eight, which was my normal waking time with or without an alarm, and found the community bath to be available. I hurried through my morning primping to give ample time to Schwartz, and made my way down into the dining hall.

There I found Mrs. Ligea reading a magazine which featured autumn colors and a photo of a pumpkin pie on the cover. Good morning, Mrs. Hoskin, she said as she stood and turned to the kitchen. How do you like your eggs?

Whatever is easiest for you, I said. Will your husband be joining us this morning?

He has already left for the day, she said. He was sorry to miss you.

Wow, so you’ve already cleaned away his dishes. Aren’t you industrious?

It’s not as if I have a whole lot else to do.

So what does your husband do for a living? I sat at the table and absently skimmed through a pile of decorating and food magazines.

He looks for work, Margaret said somewhat hostilely. He hasn’t had a job since the power plant closed four years ago. Not a full time job, anyway. That’s why we run this bed and breakfast. It helps pay the bills. Other than that, we’ve been living off of our savings and the few odd jobs Hy picks up from the city or friends.

He must have a lot of spare time on his hands. Margaret slyly rubbed her pregnant tummy. That’s not what I meant, I said grinning. Does he like to hunt, or fish?

Hunting, not so much, Margaret said dismissively. He loves to fish though. In fact, he’s the one who got your husband – I’m sorry – your ex-husband interested in it. She tilted her head taking note of my silence. I’ll go start those eggs.

***

The breakfast time passed and Schwartz had still not descended the stairs. Then it began; the cacophony of the bells. The American version of the Anglican Church let loose with a volley of clamorous discordant dinging and donging. The house practically reverberated with the non-melodious din. Ten minutes later, the sound of Paul Bunyon’s wind chimes had shifted to a more harmonious pre-recorded tune.

Schwartz stumbled into the room, his hair akimbo, his eyes not fully open. Nine o’clock in the morning! he grunted as the refrain of How Great Thou Art provided the soundtrack.

Why are you sleeping so late? I wondered. You never sleep this late.

At home I have things to get up for. Beverly prepares the most delicious breakfasts, my paper awaits, I have to be prepared for potential clients, and I get to tinker on my cars after I eat. I’m not on a schedule now. I wanted to take advantage of that, so I was up until four in the morning exploring this town on foot. I thought I’d get to sleep until at least ten.

He sat at the table across from me, and Margaret Ligea entered the room. You missed breakfast, she announced.

I’m aware, Schwartz replied. Is there at least coffee?

***

We pulled the Buick away from the house by eleven and Schwartz steered us directly toward his objective, having memorized the layout of the town during his early morning excursion. As he drove, I filled him in on what I had learned at the library, the Kwik-Eze Market, and from my conversation with Margaret. Soon we were pulling into the lot at the city building.

We approached the window overlooking the dispatcher’s station and Schwartz cleared his throat. A middle aged woman in a uniform shirt glanced over her shoulder. May I help you? she said atonally.

I’d like to speak with somebody in authority please, Schwartz said declaratively and with confidence.

The woman pushed a button on her console and spoke into a mic. Chief, there’s somebody here to see you.

I’ll be right there, Gina, a voice announced over a speaker.

Chief Franks will be right with you, Gina told us.

Moments later the door to our left opened and a hulking man with black hair dappled with flecks of gray greeted us. His jowls and eyes sagged like a Basset hounds, but his torso displayed the barrel-shape of a man who works out. I’m Chief Franks, he said. What can I do for you?

This is Dave Hoskins’ widow, Schwartz said not quite honestly. My name is Lupa Schwartz. I’m a family friend. We’d like to as a few questions about the circumstances of Dave Hoskins’ death.

Franks offered his condolences and ushered us into his office. He instructed Gina to put out a call to Captain Street and have him meet us in the office. We walked down a well-lit hall and entered the Chief’s office.

Captain Street is on patrol, Chief Franks announced. It’s a small town so he should be here in a few minutes. What exactly did you want to know?

We spoke with a man named Ricky last evening, Schwartz said. He told us that he had been the one to find Mr. Hoskin’s body.

Ricky Tate, Chief Franks said supplying the remainder of Ricky’s identity. He’s something of a local character.

In other communities he’d be known as the town drunk, Schwartz said.

I suppose so, Franks said defensively. We like ol’ Ricky though, and prefer to think of him more generously as just a lost soul trying to find his own way. Franks sat. Anyway, what about him?

He said that he found Mr. Hoskin after noticing some abandoned fishing equipment on the dock. We were wondering what became of that equipment?

That equipment belonged to Hy Ligea, Chief Franks explained. It had his name on the tackle box. We called his house, and his wife came in and claimed it.

So do you think Mr. Ligea was present when Mr. Hoskin met his end? Schwartz asked.

There’s no evidence of that. It’s not unusual for a guest to borrow something from a host, you know.

Have you asked either Mr. or Mrs. Ligea if they loaned Mr. Hoskin the equipment?

Are you suggesting that you suspect foul play? the Chief asked.

I joined the conversation. My husband was not the outdoor type, Chief Franks. I believe that he would only have gone to the pier to meet with somebody – which would mean that somebody was with him when he went into the water.

At that moment Captain Street knocked on the door. He was a top heavy man in his late thirties with a receding hairline and pop-bottle lenses. His uniform was festooned with a badge, a clip on walkie, a gun belt and weapon, and his Captain’s bars.

Captain Street, Chief Franks said, this is Dave Hoskins’ widow, and her friend Mr. Schwartz.

We’ve spoken on the phone, Street said. I’m sorry for your loss.

They suspect foul play was involved, Franks announced. Did you see anything untoward that evening? Street pursed his lips and shook his head.

Would it be possible for me to examine the police report and the coroner’s findings? Schwartz asked. I’m a licensed Private Investigator in Pennsylvania.

I’m afraid I don’t think that would be appropriate, Franks said. A Pennsylvania license isn’t exactly valid in Ohio.

May I see them then? I asked. "I’m not only his wife, but I live in Cleveland – which is in Ohio – and I’m also a working journalist with media credentials from Gamut Magazine."

Are you questioning the quality of our police work? Captain Franks said puffing his chest but still not extending it past his substantial gut.

I’m sure you did the best you could, I said. That’s why I want to examine the reports, to put my mind at ease.

I assure you, there’s nothing in those reports to indicate a second party was present, Chief Franks declared.

I’m sure of that as well, Schwartz said. That’s the problem.

Franks stood. Now hold on right there. I don’t like what you’re implying about my town and my men. Mrs. Hoskin, you just said that you were Mr. Hoskins’ wife, but we happen to know that you have no such standing. The two of you were divorced. Now if you don’t mind, I’m going to have to ask you to leave.

There’s just one more thing, Schwartz said.

What’s that? Franks said coldly.

We’re staying at the Ligea’s bed and breakfast which is directly across the street from that large Episcopal Church.

I’m aware of it, Franks said.

Is there any way that you could contact them and alert them to the fact that their pre-recorded bells are a nuisance which violates the noise ordinance so that I can sleep in past nine tomorrow? I’m on a sort of vacation.

Chapter 7

We returned to the B&B and found Margaret Ligea doing some strange sort of stretching exercise on a mat in the family room. It wasn’t exactly yoga, and it certainly wasn’t Kagel exercises, and I wasn’t in any mood to chat about what they might be. Schwartz peeked into the room and asked if she could let him know when her husband was in as we had a few questions for him.

Oh, he was just here for an early lunch. You just missed him, she said as she pulled her left leg up toward the back of her skull.

Schwartz paid her antics no heed, and asked, Well, when do you expect him back?

Hard to say, she replied. He’s not having much luck with the local job search, so he and a friend are going to Columbus to look for work.

Which friend? Schwartz asked.

He didn’t say, she said exhibiting absolutely no evidence that she was concerned in the least.

Well, when do you expect him back?

Not sure, she said as she leaned backward catching the floor with her hands and forming a very pregnant arch with her back. Maybe a day or two. She lay on the floor and rolled to her side. Maybe more.

Thank you, Schwartz said. Well, if you see him while we are still here, can you inform him that I’d like to speak with him?

She raised her leg pointing her foot toward the ceiling and did a half split, then bent her knee so that the upper foot rested on her prone thigh. Will do, she said.

Schwartz and I went up to the second floor and he gestured for me to follow him into his room.

Did that strike you as odd? he asked.

If I didn’t know better I’d swear she was flirting with you in a weird kind of way, I said.

I know when I’m being flirted with, he said. That was definitely a come on of some sort, but I meant her lackadaisical attitude toward her husband’s leaving town on short notice and she has no idea with whom or for how long.

Put those two facts together and what do you get? I asked. Trouble in paradise I said, not giving him a chance to respond.

What was your impression of our experience at the police station? I asked.

That was a different kind of weird, I answered. Wife or widow, as a credentialed journalist I have a perfect right to see that report.

"Not to mention the simple professional courtesy of showing it to a licensed PI working