More Than a Vintage Death

By Dennis R. Miller

The murder of a respected book collector sends Alec Knight and former FBI agent Ravi Khan on a quest to find clues to a buried treasure in an upstate New York town. They soon find they are in a deadly race against a secret Neo-Nazi organization and the mysterious, all-powerful Dr. V. Alec discovers throughout his quest that nothing is as it seems. Ripped from today's headlines, More Than a Vintage Death is full of twists, turns, action, suspense and humor.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Oct 12, 2018
• ISBN: 9780359151882

Book preview

More Than a Vintage Death

More Than a Vintage Death

Dennis R. Miller

All rights reserved.  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned or distributed in any printed or electronic form without the permission of the author.

Short excerpts may be used for the purposes of reviewing this book.

This book is a work of fiction. All characters are fictional and any resemblance to any person alive or dead is purely coincidental.

Cover art, design, typesetting and layout by Andrew Worthington

Other books by Dennis R. Miller

The Perfect Song (pseudonym, Damon)

One Woman’s Vengeance

One Bullet Beyond Justice

Facebook:  Dennis R. Miller

© 2018 Dennis R. Miller. All rights reserved

ISBN: 978-0-359-02121-5

This book is dedicated to my longtime friend

and colleague, Tucker Worthington.

Together we created worlds.

Imagine.

A society in the slow throes of suicide

is too sick to care about democracy.

Dr. V

It was a blackness beyond evil. The dirt floor I was lying on was cold. The stone walls on each side of me were clammy. Blind in the darkness, my other senses were heightened and I was sure I could hear the soft slithering of the snakes’ scales against the stone, moving forward, testing my body heat with flickering tongues.

I ached with the beatings and lay motionless, knowing that this small, sealed tunnel, emptied of its contents, was my tomb.

I began taking deep breaths to use up the little remaining oxygen and get it over with more quickly.

As I lost consciousness, I revised John Lennon’s observation: Death is what happens while you’re making other plans.

CHAPTER 1

It was a hot, humid August morning in Big Flats, NY when Santa called and the world turned to ice.

I was working in the garden, pulling the few weeds around the ghost peppers when my phone buzzed.  

I wiped off my hands, pulled the phone out of my pocket and looked at the screen.  His nickname was Santa Claus because of his shoulder-length snowy white hair and bushy beard.  Yes, Benjamin. His name was Benjamin Johnson and everyone called him Benjamin because he insisted on it.  He was a stickler for things like that.

In fact, if you called him Ben he’d cut you off with Benjamin! and all pretense of a cordial conversation shrank like a water-logged Wicked Witch of the West.

Alec, can you meet me at Barnes & Noble in an hour?

I’m kind of busy.

You’re retired.

That’s cruel.

I’m out of time, Alec.

What does that mean?  The phone went dead. I wanted to ask him if everything was okay but it obviously wasn’t.

I stood up, pocketed the phone and surveyed the raised beds of tabasco, habanero, ghost and fish peppers and the two beds of tomatoes and sweet peppers.  It was a good year for them — lots of sun, not too much rain. I walked back to my one- story ranch, stripped off the sweaty, tattered Elvis t-shirt, now entering its 15th year of service, and cleaned up.

I ran a brush through my hair which was full but graying at age 55, found a white t-shirt, brushed some dirt from the knees of my jeans and started up the battered Ford pick-up.  I plugged in my iPod to continue Croaker: Grave Sins by Paul Bishop. A 35-year veteran of the Los Angeles Police Department, he’s one of the most knowledgeable novelists in today’s crime fiction. I started down the long dirt driveway to Eacher Hollow Road heading into Big Flats. I crossed the bridge over I-86, passed the Wesleyan Church on the right with its huge painting of a smiling Jesus holding his hands out, beckoning. Any other human figure that size would invite defacement but Jesus always got a pass. Nobody even dared write their initials on his sandals. 

Why take a chance taunting the savior, especially when he was 10-foot tall?

My friend Ravi smiled at this kind of thinking.  He was Hindu and said reincarnation was the only hereafter belief that made sense. 

If you’re an atheist, you’ve put up with all the joy and sorrow to return to an eternal blank slate? If you’re a bad Christian you go to Hell with all the other bad Christians you never liked?  If you’re a good Christian you spend eternity with a huge group of Christ-centered hymn singers? It makes more sense that you keep coming back until you get most everything right — existence is just an endless dance among the living.

I had to concede his point. As far as I could see, the meek aren’t even close to inheriting the earth and the current band of politicians was trying to hurry up the Apocalypse so they can whoosh up in the Rapture and join all their white, self-righteous, women-fearing comrades.

I shut off the thoughts. In my younger days they worked their way up to my mouth and got me into trouble. 

***

I headed down County Route 64 as the audio book narrator describe a gunfight as only a police veteran can deliver. Gunfights aren’t pretty. They’re awkward and messy and a lot of damage is done before someone goes down.

The violence clashed with the slow movement of geese on the expansive lawn of Corning Research Division and the bright light green cornfield on the right. A few minutes later I pulled into the plaza that contained Old Country Buffet which served buckets full of greasy food to frugal seniors and buses full of Asian tourists. It was framed by a liquor store, T.J. Maxx and Barnes & Noble. 

Inside the bookstore, I found the large, hulking figure sitting by himself in the corner facing the door. He nodded to me, his face tight and suspicious.

I waited at the counter for the skinny kid with a cheap serpent tattoo to take my order.   What are you having? He asked.

The kid’s enthusiasm said he was new and fully into the Starbucks culture. The brainwashing would wear off in a few months and he would migrate to Popeye’s or McDonald’s and build a solid resume as a minimum wage server.

Small coffee, three quarters coffee, one quarter hot water, I said.

Room for cream and sugar?

No. Just extra water.

I paid for the coffee and joined Benjamin at his table.  I haven’t talked to you in six months. What’s up?

We had met 30 years ago at the Lowman flea market, both on a quest for vintage paperbacks. During the 1980’s vintage paperback collecting reached its peak with mainly white males in professional jobs seeking out the books that were printed on cheap paper with colorful, often lurid covers that originally sold for 25 and 35 cents. 

During those years you could find them at flea markets, rummage sales and used bookstores for 25 and 50 cents.  By the 1990s, as the collecting boom grew, many of them were selling for $10, $25 and some for as high as $100.

Back when Benjamin and I were at the height of our collecting, paperbacks were easy pickings. Dealers did not know of their increasing value in the collecting world, nor did they care. They had boxes of them from estate and rummage sales and wanted to unload them. 

Some collectors created newsletters and fanzines and the collectors formed a network, mainly on the east and west coasts where the majority of the population was and therefore the majority of the books were.

I’m okay, Benjamin said.  Still taking blood pressure medication.  Arthritis acts up. The diabetes is under control. Takes a shorter time to get into bed and a longer time to get out of it, but I hear that’s not bad for an 83-year-old man.

You didn’t sound okay on the phone.

"I didn’t know I said enough to not sound okay." 

I nodded.  Yeah.

Benjamin smiled.  Ever the marketing man, reading minds and souls.  I shrugged. Knowing what people want before they know they want it and figuring out how to sell it to them.

I disliked the stereotype of marketing and the professionals in the field but I sipped my coffee. Well, it’s good to see you. 

Benjamin glanced toward the entrance door and leaned forward, his bright, Sinatra-blue eyes intense.  I’ll cut to the chase, Alec. I’m being watched.

The intensity with which he said it sent a chill down my back. He stared, unblinking, into my eyes.

I cleared my throat which felt dry and was so taken by his stare that I took too large a sip of the steaming coffee and burned my tongue.   Why do you think that?

I don’t think it, he whispered in an offended tone. "I know it."

I sat back, instinctively distancing myself from his intensity.  Benjamin had a Ph.D. in electrical engineering. He spent 35 years at Corning Inc. back when it was Corning Glass.  When he celebrated his 65th birthday, he was sent packing with a couple expensive handmade glass artworks and an armload of stocks acquired over the years. 

Corning stocks plummeted during the dot.com market in 2000 then began a steady rise over the years, so I was pretty sure that Benjamin was a millionaire. He lived alone in a small farm house and spent money on nothing but vintage paperbacks.  He was financially well off but he lived — and looked — like a pauper; except when he played Santa Claus.

I waited while he stared.  It was just a question, Benjamin. You know, as in part of a conversation. The question is intended to encourage an answer. This may lead to another question or an opinion, but it’s all part of a two-way communication. I thought that’s why you called me.

Benjamin’s expression relaxed. He sat back and smoothed his beard with a large, soft hand.  I have an engineer’s brain, he said quietly. I don’t have the curse of imagination. I observe things. I build things. I study things — details — the places where the Devil hides.

I nodded in agreement. Benjamin saw things in paperbacks that most others did not.  Once when I was at his place, he pulled out two copies of Pearl S. Buck’s The Good Earth. The one on the left is the first printing, he explained. The one on the right is the fourth printing. See how it is just a half shade lighter and not quite as bright? I nodded, not really interested, but definitely seeing the difference. The printer was skimping on ink, saving maybe a penny a book. He held it up. But when you print 50,000 copies, it adds up.

He also saw the bigger picture. Benjamin was the only collector in the whole country who was trying to find every printing of every title published by Pocket Books.  One thousand two hundred and seventy- seven titles were published between 1938 and 1960. Some titles saw as many as 20 printings.

I pulled myself back to the present. Then you know someone is watching you.

Benjamin nodded slowly. 

No offense, but you’re an old man living a seemingly boring life.  Why is anyone interested in you?

Because they think I have a secret.  He glanced furtively at the door as a young couple entered.

I sipped the coffee and glanced at the others in the small shop.  Eight of the 20 tables were occupied. It was Tuesday, late morning.  A young woman sat hunched over her laptop. She was wearing glasses and was very intent, a struggling writer, perhaps.  An old woman at another table was wrapped up in a book by James Patterson, but I didn’t judge her. A guy and a girl, probably Corning Community College students, stared at an iPad doing homework.

Then there was the man, nondescript, lean, sandy blonde hair, slightly hunched, who stood in the Civil War section across from us. He didn’t tilt his head sideways to read the titles on the spines.  He just stared at the shelves.

I was surprised at how easy it is to get sucked into the world of feeling you’re being watched. 

Do you? I asked. "Do you have a secret?

Benjamin nodded, his eyes narrowing.  I have information leading to what may be a big secret.  He paused. A huge secret.

I shook my head and found myself again looking out the corner of my eye at the other customers. The college girl was focused on the English 101 lesson.  The guy was focused on her body. Ten thousand years of education and evolution will never backfill the caverns of the reptilian brain. I knew he wasn’t going to score in biology until he answered the English 101 questions correctly. Women have always been smart enough to use sex for more than sex.  

Why did you call me here, Benjamin?

He gave a slight, thoughtful nod.  I’ve been haunted by something for decades, Alec. He sipped his coffee and his right hand went down his beard gently, as if he were stroking a beloved old cat with unconscious affection. Decades. . . .  He seemed to drift away, then returned, his eyes bright with excitement. I’m nearly there. If I could crack it. . . . He straightened up, a move that accentuated his massive chest. He looked straight at me. It started out as something . . . personal.  His hand stopped and his fingers clutched his beard. Now it’s bigger. It’s something that— He stopped. It’s something that could ripple throughout — His eyes were bright with the immensity of his vision. I may have found too much, Alec. It’s bigger than I ever imagined.

I suddenly felt cold and confused, as if I’d had never really known this large, lumbering man who, as Santa Claus at the Arnot Mall, listened patiently to the Christmas wishes of thousands of kids. Over the course of the last few minutes he had morphed into a stranger.

I glanced again at the lean man now holding a book on Grant and Lee, then sipped my coffee without tasting it.  Are you going to elaborate, Benjamin? I’m starting to feel a little spooked.

Benjamin sniffed, cleared his throat and gave a minuscule nod toward the lurking man. He’s not very good. I had to agree. The game is coming to an end, I’m afraid.

I felt my jaw tighten. God damn it, Benjamin. I leaned forward over the small table and asked in a low voice. What kind of game are you playing here?  You called me, remember?

He studied me, realized I was right and let out an exasperated sigh.  I think I’ve stumbled onto an organization that spans the country, Alec, maybe the world, I don’t know.  What I’m looking for— he stopped to find the right words. In all the searching, I’ve picked up little things, rumors about this organization. He stopped again and shook his head. Listen, I’m sorry, I don’t dare talk here. If they’re getting this brazen, then they’re getting desperate. 

My impatience was now infused with worry.  Either Benjamin was creating some very scary scenarios in his mind or something big and even more frightening was unfolding.  I finally glanced over at the man with the book. He looked at me and our eyes locked. His eyes were devoid of expression. He blinked, calmly put the book back on the shelf and disappeared like a smooth, silent apparition around the stacks.

I don’t dare say anything here, Benjamin said. Not now. His hand now kneaded his beard nervously. They might be listening to us—

Here? I asked, not knowing whether to laugh or be frightened as my hands slowly swept the underside of the table. My finger bumped a wad of gum.  I didn’t think people did that anymore. I put my hands back on the top of the table, feeling like an idiot.

Come up to my place tonight, Benjamin said.  I sweep the place every day for devices. It’s the only place I trust right now. 

The old man let go of his beard and wound both hands around his coffee cup.  I reached over put my hand on his wrist. Are you okay?

Benjamin nodded staring at the table.  He picked up the battered brown fedora that he’d worn since I first met him 30 years ago.  I’m fine. I’ll see you tonight. He stood up. You’ll be followed but you probably won’t know it."

I’ll be followed?  I blurted it out without thinking.  The college students looked up at me, then back at each other, smiling at the two crazy men, and turned their attention back to their laptop. The old woman reading Patterson was listening attentively.  Drama in real life is always preferable to fiction. It’s much more immediate.

You’ll be safe.  They don’t want you.  They just want to find any clues they can to what they think I have.

What clues? I demanded in a stage whisper.

His admonishing look was intensified by the deep blue eyes. I’ll explain tonight.  Like I said, they think I know something.

Do you?

He shook his head with a weariness borne by old men with long vanished dreams.  No, but I’m close. Damn close, I think.

We walked out together.  The sun was bright, and the sidewalk and parking lot were heating up.  It was going to be a humid day in Big Flats. Is it about your books? I asked.

Benjamin looked at me.  He looked so worn and disconsolate that if he’d been dressed as Santa right now, kids would be asking him what he wanted for Christmas. The books are only the beginning. Unfortunately, it may involve you, too, but they don’t know that, yet.  Come up at 8 tonight.

I stood, frozen, feeling chills in the muggy August heat as Benjamin slowly got into his car.

At the end of the parking lot near Rt. 64, a man slid into a black Lincoln. Benjamin was snapping on his seat belt when the Lincoln smoothly and silently pulled away. 

CHAPTER 2

As I jumped into the truck, my phone buzzed with a text.  Be there in an hour.

It was Emma, on her way here from New York City. I noted again that she said I’ll be there, not I’ll be home.  We had been together for five years. I met her in New York on a trip for a client. I was in one of those trendy bars in Manhattan, having an overpriced sandwich and beer when she walked in and sat on the stool next to me. She was 5’ 1", trim and had dark brown hair with traces of auburn, high cheekbones and a small nose. I hadn’t paid much attention to her until she glanced over and asked me to pass the salt. I found myself looking into the most beautiful gray eyes I’d ever seen. When time finally unstuck itself, I realized I was still staring into her eyes. 

I’m sorry, I said and fumbled for the salt, knocking it over in the process. I picked it up and handed it to her with a small flourish that I wasn’t intending.

She smiled and said thanks. I stared at my sandwich, suddenly not hungry or maybe too self-conscious to lift it and take a bite. Nothing in humans is more ungainly than the act of eating, no matter how many layers of Emily Post you put on it.  The act of biting is violent. Chewing is ugly. Even its synonym sounds like something performed by a cow. Restaurants are little more than decorated gathering places for group mastication.

Are you okay?

I looked over at her and shook off my stupor. Yes. I’m fine. I searched for some shards of composure. Do I not look okay?

She smiled. You knocked over the salt and then you were just staring at your sandwich.  I just wondered if you were sick or something.

I smiled back. I felt clumsy with the salt. I guess that’s because I was clumsy. Then the sandwich made me feel self-conscious.

The bartender brought her drink and a small order of fries, on which she shook more salt.  You’re from out of town, she said, daintily putting a fry in her mouth and biting off a small piece.  I watched her and totally revised my feelings about eating. Pablo Neruda would have created a poem about that small, beautiful act.

No. I mean yes. I felt like an awkward high school kid. Upstate New York.

Where?

Uh, you’ve never heard of it. Big Flats.  It’s—

I lived in Corning for 10 years growing up!  She laid her half-eaten French fry down and wiped her fingers on a small white napkin. I’m Emma.

I took her extended small hand in mine and felt my face flush for absolutely no reason.

She explained that her uncle was a scientist at Corning Inc. and her family visited him twice a year for a decade before he was transferred to Corning’s Blacksburg, Virginia facility. When she graduated from high school, Emma moved to New York City to live with a cousin, earned her degree at NYU and now worked as a freelance graphic artist. 

I haven’t been back in 20 years, she said. Has it changed much?

I told her stories about the area, mostly true.  I tossed in a few about myself, mostly enhanced. We moved to a booth, ordered wine and talked for two hours. She finally said she had to get home because she had to work the next day. I’d been planning to return home but lied and said I, too, was very busy and had to prepare for a meeting. Perhaps, I offered, that we could put our work on hold for an hour tomorrow to have lunch.

She agreed. We had lunch the next day and dinner that night. I asked if I could walk her home.  She looked at me, smiled with just enough hint of mischievousness to call to mind a mature, playful Tinker Bell. I guess that would be okay.

Her small apartment contained a living room, tiny kitchen, bedroom and bathroom.  We drank more wine and talked and finally kissed. We made love, took a shower together, made love again, which surprised and made me deeply grateful because at my age, my fire power was usually limited to a single shot.  It led to a funny long-term relationship full of laughs, fights and nearly no dreams in common.

She made it clear she never wanted to get married. She had done that once. Her husband abused her, made her feel worthless to the point that she had considered suicide. One night he hit her, dislocating her jaw, and she left him. They divorced and she spent years in analysis, putting back together broken pieces of her soul, as she termed it.

I love you, Alec, she said after a year of bickering. I won’t marry you and as much as I once dreamed of having children, I’ll never bring one into this world.  If you love me, we’ll find a way.

My brief marriage to a woman named Savannah was another obstacle to our happiness.  Although Savannah was in the distant past, Emma was jealous of her. Once, during a particularly bitter fight, she accused me of being obsessed with my former wife.

This was not true. I thought a lot of Savannah. I loved her deeply and was depressed for months after she left me. But I did not think about her all the time; only in my darkest moments, more than a few inebriated moments, and times when I was paralyzed with ennui. Savannah was forever linked with the Twenty Second Conundrum.

So my relationship with Emma evolved into a part-time partnership. She drove to Big Flats once a month and we packed as much life and love as we could into her three-day visits.  I drove to New York four times a year. We ate in nice restaurants, took in a movie or play and did other things you do in the Big Apple after an hour of lovemaking.

And now it was noon and she would be here in less than an hour. I rushed home and picked up stacks of books and magazines, swept the floors and changed the sheets.

I’m not much different than most men. A home isn’t comfortable without a light layer of dust and some scratched furniture.

I drove to Minier’s to pick up eggs, bread, produce and a rotisserie chicken for dinner.  Minier’s is one of the true small-town grocery stores left. Henry Minier opened it in 1873 and it’s still in the family. 

Stability in marriage and business are unique and should be recognized as such in a country where divorce and bankruptcy seem to be the norm. I was loading my plastic bags into the truck when I noticed at the far corner of the parking lot the same suspicious car I had seen leave Barnes and Noble. I wanted to chalk it up to coincidence.

I knew I was lying to myself when I pulled out onto Maple Street. The dark car idled until I was a few thousand feet down the road and then it pulled out behind me.  It stayed an even distance from me for the next mile. When I passed the Big Flats Historical Society it turned right on Sing Sing Road toward the airport. I wasn’t relieved. It had been following me and I knew it. I wasn’t used to intrigue or being followed and I didn’t like either one.

At home, I had just finished putting away the groceries when the front door opened. Alec? I rushed out to the living room and held my arms out to Emma.   

Men watch sports and can tell by a player’s body and moves who’s a good athlete and who’s outstanding. Women read faces and body language, which is much more useful and has always put males at a disadvantage. 

She pulled away with a worried expression. What’s wrong?

I cleared my throat. Nothing. I’m just happy to see you.

No.  Something’s wrong.

I brushed her hair back. It was fine and she kept it cut short as a way to manage it. I usually look directly into her eyes with their beautiful shade of gray containing vast worlds of beauty and mystery — and occasional anger. But now I looked at her forehead, pretending to study the hair I was smoothing.

Let’s have a coffee, she said, breaking away and going to the kitchen. We sat and I finally told her about my meeting with Benjamin and his paranoia. Then, because she knew the story wasn’t over, I told her of being followed. Partially followed, I guess. They turned off. I played with the cup with the smiling sun on the side that Emma had given me for Christmas two years ago. Hell. I know I was being followed and I don’t know why and I don’t like it.

She was quiet for a minute, then said: Do I need to worry?

I touched her cheek. No. I’m sure everything’s fine. Just my wild imagination.

She smiled and put her arms over my shoulders. I need to show you how to relax. We locked the doors and indulged in the world’s oldest form of exercise followed by blissful relaxation. She was right. It was just what I needed.

Once rested, we got up and dressed. After supper I have to pick up Ravi and go up to Benjamin’s place at 8 p.m., I said. I don’t think we’ll be long.

Emma pulled a t-shirt on and tucked it into her jeans.  Why do you need to see him?

I’m not sure.  Like I said, he’s spooked about something. People following him. A secret he’s been pursuing for 50 years—

That’s a long time to chase a secret, she said, yawning. 

Well, he says he’s close to cracking it, and— I stopped. And I don’t know. I guess that’s what he wants to meet about.

And people are following him, Emma said, framing the question like a statement.

Yes. I believe him.

She hugged me from behind, then turned me around to face me. Then you need to be careful.

I gently pulled away from her.  I don’t think there’s anything to worry about, but, yes, I’ll be careful. Listen, babe, I’ll be right back.  I’ve got to run back to Minier’s. I forgot lettuce for the salad tonight.

***

The town of Big Flats is a small, sprawling place with the Minier’s Plaza providing the visual and active center. There are several churches, two cemeteries and no funeral homes, which seemed odd. People in Big Flats died at about the same rate as anywhere else. I’d never paid attention, but I guessed when you kicked the bucket in Big Flats you were exported for preparation and re-imported for your new accommodations.

The huge farms that once defined the area were now housing complexes, and a few retail outlets, antiques stores like Oldies But Goodies, a huge barn whose two stories are stuffed with antiques and collectibles. A collection of research facilities and corporate offices sit on former pastures, tobacco fields and wetlands — the new pockmarked face of rural America.

One of the Ice Ages, probably the Laurentide Ice Sheet, pushed trillions of tons of dirt in a way that formed a long oval