The Whiffenpoof Man: An Acey Tapp Mystery

By S. E. Schenkel

After orchestrating the capture of a man trafficking in children, Acey Tapp and Megan Bork travel to the backwoods of Pennsylvania to visit the haunts of a long-dead serial kidnapper. They search for clues that would allow one of his now aging victims to finally reunite with his family after an absence of seven decades. Only in stirring up the past they appear to have awakened a dormant menace.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Wings ePress, Inc.
• Release date: Aug 13, 2023
• ISBN: 9781597050388

Book preview

One

THE MONITOR SHOWED rain pounding dark storefronts. I tapped a combination of keys and zoomed in on the corner pub. An overhead light cast a yellow smear inside the pub’s recessed entrance.

Having fun? asked Webb, from his side of the booth.

I turned the laptop in his direction, with the screen now on a close-up of a brass door handle. I punched more keys and zeroed in on the head of a screw. That’s one powerful camera we got.

Webb stood. It’s time.

Don’t go and get drunk on me, I said.

You okay with what we’re about to do? he asked.

Sort of.

If I was younger, I’d trade places.

Can’t let you have all the fun, I said.

Webb smiled, only other thoughts seemed to seep in and spoil the effect. Old demons alive and kicking.

I said, Get out of here, or we’ll miss our chance.

You see me exit, we abort.

Yeah, yeah.

At any time. Even after we’re both inside. I leave, you leave.

I know, Webb.

Once you’ve made contact, we’re committed. We won’t have a second chance.

I know that, too.

I thumbed him toward the front of the van. He reached the cab and ducked. Don’t know why, as short as he was, he could cruise the length of our home on wheels and still not connect with the ceiling. Me, I had to do the monkey walk to keep from being clobbered.

The van door slammed. Using the keyboard to adjust the camera, I watched Webb cross the street. For all appearances, just a short skinny nobody off to quench a thirst. The rain had stopped. At least we had that in our favor. Webb reached the bar and disappeared.

I maneuvered the camera skyward and got a view of one gray-black mess of clouds. I tooled around looking for a star, grateful to the client who’d provided the camera and gave a new meaning to private eye. His way of thanking us for doing what the police couldn’t—find his son. He even paid for the installation of a false roof on the van, and one-way glass, and tracks that allowed the camera to move in any direction.

Nine-forty p.m. Almost time. I aimed the camera at the store fronts, switched on the video recorder in the cabinet overhead, and then trudged to the rear of the van to get my jacket. The spread on the bed was wrinkled from Webb’s recent nap. He seemed to be doing that a lot lately—napping, recovering from something or other. Forty winks were turning into four times forty, and whatever malady was in season, he got.

Even his enthusiasm for the job seemed to have taken on the vitality of a corpse.

I smiled, recalling a recent rare few days when he turned super-sleuth. Looking for a song, of all things, one he’d heard on the radio. In a way, I was sorry he’d found a copy of it on cassette. Because now he was playing it nonstop. I mean, how many times do you need to hear about little lambs that had lost their way? To quote the song, baa-baa-baa was right. Or rather ba-humbug. I needed to buy Webb a pair of headphones so he could keep his listening pleasures private.

Putting on my sport jacket, I glanced at the toy truck on the small stand nearby. The thing that Webb never left home without. He’d probably had it from childhood, judging from its antique appearance. The engine was shaped like a radiator turned sideways. The tires were skinny and white and between them stretched running boards that arched up to form fenders. Webb kept his pills in the truck’s bed. Trinkets of youth and old age keeping company.

My head low, I scooted down the narrow aisle and exited from the passenger door. I locked up, and in imitation of Webb, patted Charlie’s metal flank for good luck. Charlie being the name we gave our van. Webb’s way of honoring Charlie McMunn, deceased founder of our little detective agency, and Webb’s savior, mentor and surrogate parent.

The air was misty and threatening more rain. Perfect setting for my mood. Getting cozy with evil was how Webb had described what I was about to do. This was it; the next few hours would be the culmination of three long months of investigation. And there would be no take-two.

I crossed the road feeling as nervous as a naked man in a pit full of snakes. I stopped at the curb and looked back at the van. The magnetic sign on the side was barely visible. A & W MOVING... and a phone number. Our cover this time out. Plain script, gray on black, nothing to attract attention or inspire confidence. I took a deep breath and headed for the entrance.

The Nightcap wasn’t much of a place, even for a bar. Single story brown brick, fronted with a weed-sprouting sidewalk and sharing space with a boarded up clinic. I moved into the recessed entrance, caught a whiff of urine. I grabbed the door handle, thought better about taking a final deep breath, and went in. A gray darkness met me—cut with tobacco clouds and pale lights struggling through dirty glass fixtures.

An old man at a table on my right snored into what remained of a beer. His gray hair was long like a girl’s and tied in a tail with a strip of black cloth. Webb was parked in the far corner nursing a tall glass of something, his eyes downcast, and his balding crown shiny in the dim glow of a ceiling light.

I took in the rest of the room, counted heads. Thirteen in all. Including Ted Munslow. He was at the counter, his features reflected in the beveled mirror behind the bar. Friendly looking type, lined chubby face, thick mane going silver with a lock of curls front and center. A typical aging gramps to anyone with no conflicting info to factor in.

The stool on his right was empty. I slid onto it with ease, my long legs allowing me that. I shrugged out of my threadbare sport coat, dropped it across my lap, then rubbed my face with both hands and muttered something inaudible. I sensed Munslow turning, giving me the once-over. I yawned, swinging my head as though that would chase away the weariness.

I turned in his direction and yawned again. Sorry, I slurred. I covered my opened mouth, did some more head shaking.

Long day? he asked.

Long hour, I answered.

The bartender lumbered over and I ordered a Bud. He fished one out from a tank of ice, set it on the counter, and waited, giving me a lazy stare, his hand still holding to the neck of the bottle. When I didn’t provide what he wanted, he pointed to a hand-written sign by the register. No Cash, No Splash. I hauled a fat wallet out of my jeans pocket, freed a twenty and slapped it on the table. Don’t keep the change, I said.

He walked away, wiping his hand across an apron that rode his belly like the skirt of a pregnant woman. I closed the wallet, left it on the counter. I uncapped the beer, raised it to Munslow and drank greedily.

Those are some pretty bad scratches you have on your hands, Munslow said.

Yard work. I downed more beer, aware of Webb’s familiar, hacking cough coming from the back of the bar. Worn-out lungs putting in their two cents. Something they did a lot, lately.

The bartender brought my change. Any motels around that don’t take you to the cleaners or put you in a sty? I asked.

He looked me over, probably pricing my pullover and factoring in my need for a haircut. I gave him back in kind. The man was homely as hell, middle-aged and had more hair shading his eyes than warming his head. Which wouldn’t have been all that bad had it come in a less belligerent package. I shoved a couple of singles in his direction. He picked them up and stuffed them into a hip pocket.

The Clemson Motel down the road should do you. He started to walk away.

Think maybe that tip could buy me better directions? I called out.

My neighbor chuckled. The bartender lifted a finger and after a long pause with it pointed straight up, hooked it to his left.

I faced Munslow. What’s with him?

He’s not big on strangers. Been held up a couple of times by people passing through.

Can’t be big on repeat business, either, I mumbled. I worked what remained of the twenty into my wallet, singles with singles, fives with fives. A pair of photos fell out onto the counter. Polaroids. Both were of young boys at play. I snatched them up and shoved them back in with the bills.

Your sons? asked Munslow.

Yeah, sure.

Handsome boy, that black one.

I turned a hard look on the man. Our eyes met. He laughed, put out a hand, Ted Munslow.

Acey Tapp. We shook, turned back to face our drinks.

Where you from, Acey?

No place nice.

Popular spot.

Not by choice.

What brings you to our little corner of Ohio?

Is that where I am?

He laughed, ordered himself another whiskey and bought me a beer. I could feel his eyes studying me in the mirror; hard eyes, deep-set as though in shadows. I played with the wallet, turning it, toying with an edge, setting it up like a tent, reading in the shape an inverted V—as in victims... vigilance... maybe even victory. After a long silence, Munslow asked, That black boy in the photo, you a kind of big brother to him?

I laughed.

He said, Well, it’s either that or you’re married to a black gal and the kid ended up with all her genes.

I laughed again, halfheartedly this time. I shouted a question at the bartender, asking if the Clemson was within walking distance.

He didn’t answer.

No wheels? Munslow asked.

I’m between wheels, between towns... between a lot of stuff. I finished my beer.

Yeah, you can get there on foot, Munslow offered. Take you about twenty minutes. Just keep walking south along Summit. When you see a schoolyard you’re about a block and a half away.

I looked up in a sudden show of interest. Again, our eyes met, this time in the mirror. I worked the wallet into my back pocket, said something about needing to put a long day to bed, grabbed my jacket and began to ease off the stool.

A hand grabbed my arm. I didn’t pull away. Munslow said, If you wait a minute, I’ll give you a ride.

For a ride I can wait a bunch of minutes. I stayed half on, half off the stool. Munslow finished his drink. We headed for the door. I sensed Webb taking us in, worrying. He wasn’t alone.

The clouds had lifted a little and a few stars quivered in one corner of the night sky. I glanced at the van parked across the street. Inside on a small screen would be an image of me and Munslow exiting the bar. Machine memory collecting evidence of time, place and present company. I wished myself back in the van behind the wheel, heading home, with Megan at the end of the road. The two of us creating another moment of grace.

Munslow started down the street at a quick clip. I turned and followed. We approached a shiny black Infiniti I30 parked near a lamppost. I whistled. You drive that and drink there? I turned in the direction of the bar, saw Charlie’s dome light blink on, saw Webb’s bent form just before the door closed and darkness swallowed him.

Munslow ignored my question and unlocked the car with a remote. He opened the passenger door and stepped back. The leather sighed as it took all two hundred and thirty odd pounds of me. I pulled my legs in.

No luggage? said Munslow.

Damn snazzy, I said, running a hand along the dash.

Luggage? repeated Munslow.

In a locker at the bus station, I answered.

He remained by the passenger door, hand in his pocket. Holding on to something? Or just making a fist? My gut tightened. You leave your things at the bus station and come all the way over to the Nightcap for a drink? Why’s that? he asked.

I was chasing down a job, and didn’t want to give the impression of passing through. That okay with your highness?

He slammed the passenger door, came around and got in behind the wheel. You get the job?

I’m supposed to call back.

Doing what?

Shoe salesman.

Shoe salesman. You don’t look the type.

It’s more for the perks, I replied. Last time I tweaked female toes I ended up with free lodging and some pretty good meals.

He laughed, started the engine and we pulled away. Minutes later, I could make out the Clemson sign. I sat a little straighter, my attention bouncing from one side of the road to the other. We came within a few yards of the rundown motel. Didn’t see no school, I said, looking back over my shoulder.

Oh, that’s right. The school’s south of the motel. Munslow’s voice carried a hint of amusement.

A vacancy plaque hung beneath the Clemson sign, and a few nondescript vehicles were parked near closed doors. I kept the motel in sight as we drove past.

Was I supposed to jump? I asked.

I thought you might like a second option. Better quality. Cheaper.

I’m not looking for a handout.

You can work it off.

I shrugged.

But first we’ll get your things.

You don’t have to do that, I protested.

Bus station’s not that far out of the way.

Wish you wouldn’t bother.

A man needs his things. Munslow switched on the stereo—Bette Midler singing Megan’s favorite, The Wind Beneath My Wings. Seemed almost sacrilegious hearing it now, in present company. I hit the CD button on the dash and a child’s silly little song took over. Munslow punched the power off and a hard silence settled. I wondered if I had just bought a one way ticket out of the car and off the case.

You got kids? I asked.

Munslow glanced my way. Then with his attention back on the road, he chuckled softly and said, None I’ll admit to.

Up ahead, a neon sign flashed BUS STATION. We eased up to the glass fronted entrance and stopped. I didn’t move. At the side of the building, a bus spewed a gray stream of exhaust.

What are you waiting for? asked Munslow.

I got out, slammed the door, jingled something in my pocket for a few seconds then went inside. Four luckless pilgrims occupied the waiting area, all seated as far from each other as one could get without going outside. Beyond the benches were the rest rooms, vending machines, and a bank of lockers. The ticket clerk eyed me as I passed his cage, his hands out of sight, body language unfriendly. Best bet, he didn’t like my looks or the size they came in.

Inside the men’s john, I parked in front of a chipped, stained sink and stared into the mirror. Time stared back, relentless, unstoppable, definitive. Twenty-four hours and all would be history. Thank God. For Webb’s sake. This case was stirring up too many of his old unwanted memories.

I felt for the padded vest under my shirt and mentally reviewed my instructions.

When I came out of the rest room, I noticed Munslow fish-bowled in a phone kiosk across the street. The ticket clerk resumed his wariness. I turned toward the lockers and slipped a key into the one at the top left corner. The door opened and I pulled out a dirty black duffel.

I came out just as a bus was pulling away. The Infiniti’s trunk popped open. I dropped in the bag and slammed it.

Two

W hat else do you do for a living besides clean yards and sell shoes? asked Munslow as we headed out of town.

Used to drive a big rig coast to coast, I answered honestly.

Now that’s something you look like you were born for, so why’d you stop?

Back complained too much. And when you get to medicating so you can’t see straight, well... I shrugged.

We were quiet for a time. I stared out the window, watching the city and its islands of light morph into farm country where night reigned. Munslow stepped on the gas and we plunged forward, the Infiniti’s high beams tunneling through the darkness. We barreled up a steep hill and for a few seconds the lights seemed to touch nothing but space, and then, for more seconds, nothing but pavement. We leveled off, slowed down.

A sign announced the town of Lorage. We turned down Main Street and every now and then sent a spray of water onto the cobbled walks. The shops were closed and most of the traffic lights flashed an indifferent yellow.

Just outside of town, we stopped at a red light. Seconds ticked off. I tried some distracting mind travel, imagining Megan on my return, her smile, and the goodness which oozed from her like warmth from a fire. I thought of our exploits in the Sahara two years earlier, how we came out of that leeching desert with more pride in ourselves than all our years of plenty had ever provided.

Penny for your thoughts, said Munslow.

I didn’t answer.

Just past the light, he made a left and we headed down a wide avenue with a manicured median. Pretend bridges connected the cross streets and splendid homes lounged on their own extra large parcels of wooded land. A week earlier when Webb and I were actively investigating Munslow’s connection with our case, we had made this same trip wearing suits and driving a rented BMW. Just two rich fellows no more out of place than sparrows trekking the sky. That was when we decided on an elevated patch of thick bramble for our surveillance blind.

I looked at my hands. Ten-finger-witnesses to the work of hollowing out enough of the bramble to allow the installation of a small black tent. After that it was just a matter of camping inside, training high-powered binoculars on the backside of Munslow’s estate, eating from a backpack, fertilizing the vegetation, and staying until we had all the intel needed.

You go a long way for a drink, I said, touching a deep puffy scratch on the back of my hand.

Some bars offer a better kind of anonymity.

I hear that, I answered.

Munslow made several turns that took us into a densely forested area and up a narrow road flanked by trees, brush and several signs marked ‘private property, keep out.’ Headlights glided off tree trunks as we moved up the winding road. A rabbit froze for a second in the harsh light, then just short of becoming fertilizer, scurried off. We splashed through a few low spots, and then approached a large house heavily veiled by darkness and giant willows.

I said, Don’t see a vacancy sign.

Oh, but you know the owner, Munslow replied.

Better than you think, I wanted to answer back.

We neared the house. It was a two-story mansion built of gray stone and matching shingles. You live as well as you drive, I said.

Yes, I do. He drew the words out, stretched them as though to imply much more than car and house. We pulled around to a side garage. The huge door was already halfway up. Munslow parked beside a black van with tinted windows. The garage door started down. He switched off the engine. Headlights continued to illuminate wall-lined, white cabinets. Nothing lay about, no tools, trash cans, gardening equipment. Neat freak down to the last details just as Webb had predicted.

Opening the car door, I said, You make a habit of sharing your place with strangers? Can’t say I would.

He looked at me and smiled the way a spider might do to a circling fly. He came around to my side, passing close, then keyed in some numbers on a pad by a door. We stepped into an alcove finished in a pale shade of lavender and smelling of disinfectant. The floor was white marble. A second activated key pad allowed us into a wide carpeted hall. I got a whiff of furniture polish and air freshener.

A hall clock chimed the hour of eleven. I moseyed over and studied the long pendulum. It was shaped like a logger’s ax and its swinging steel blade reflected light from the fancy ceiling fixture. Burnt into the wood of the handle was a circle enclosing four identical trees with their trunks on the rim and their crowns meeting at the center.

Munslow laid a hand on the clock’s case. My family made its fortune in logging. That pendulum was made from the ax used to cut down the first tree.

He took the lead down the hall.

This place come with a nightcap? I asked.

He stopped, looked at his watch.

I glanced back at the hall clock. You turn into a pumpkin or something at midnight?

One drink, he said.

One will do me.

We entered the kitchen through an arched doorway. Munslow switched on a bank of inside and outside lights.

Make yourself at home. I’ll be back in a minute. He took the cordless phone from its cradle and left. A door opened and closed.

I walked over to the patio side and looked out onto a wide, two-storied deck that ran the length of the house. A section was enclosed in glass. Can’t have weather limiting the master’s enjoyment of the outdoors. I stared out toward where the surveillance blind had been, thought of the twenty-four hours entombed in canvas and bramble and my own stench.

Munslow returned, put the phone back, got two beers from the refrigerator and iced glass mugs from the freezer. He filled the mugs, then pointed me to a cherry wood table with matching upholstered chairs. In the center of the table was a larger version of the four-tree emblem I’d seen on the clock’s pendulum.

Family crest? I asked, running a hand over the polished surface.

More of a business symbol. My father’s lumberjacks came up with it.

Attractive. I draped my sport coat over the back of one of the chairs and sat. We drank for a time in silence. The iced edge of the mug stuck to my lip and when I yanked it free, beer spilled onto the table. In an instant, Munslow was out of his chair and heading for the paper towel dispenser. I plucked a small bottle from my pocket and squirted the contents into Munslow’s beer. It drew little lines in the suds. Damn. Munslow returned with towels and a stack of cocktail napkins. Bit of a klutz, aren’t you, he said, mopping up.

Sorry. It’s been a long day.

Well, we won’t linger. I’ve about had it, myself. He looked at his watch. Again! Made me wonder if his guardian devil did a bed check at midnight.

We drank up, left our glasses on the table, and headed back down the buffed hall, our footfalls resounding like tap-dancers out of steam. We reached a narrow staircase and started up. The man had a rear as wide as a woman’s and a roll of flesh that pushed his shirt out over his belt.

Munslow led me into the first room to the right of the landing. I gave a short whistle as I took in the king-sized bed and the multiple pieces of matching furniture. I dropped my coat on an upholstered chair and stretched. My host swung open the double doors on a large armoire. Inside was a twenty-seven inch TV-VCR. I whistled again and said, Should have told me. We could have stopped at the video store.

I’ve a room full of anything you could possibly want to watch. Tomorrow night you can treat yourself to a film fest.

What? Two nights for the price of one? I asked.

Maybe three. I might have a job for you. Unless you’d rather sell shoes. He looked at his watch. I’ll get your bag from the car; be right back.

I heard him descend the stairs. This time, I was the one to check the time. The drug I’d put in his beer would take effect within the next ten minutes. I ran all of Webb’s cautions through my head.

Munslow entered, holding my duffel at arm’s length. He dropped it on the floor.

Sorry it’s so dirty, I said.

It is that. He smiled. I think you and I are going to get along fine.

I shrugged and sat on the bed. He stepped out and closed my door. I could hear him moving quickly down the hall. From what I’d learned during my surveillance stint in the woods, he was heading for a room at the opposite end of the house.

I set the duffel on the bed and unzipped it. Everything looked pretty much the way I’d packed it. Pretty much. I removed a change of clothes, sneakers, Polaroid camera, and a plastic bag of toiletries. The dog-eared paperback lay at the bottom of the bag. Conquest IV. Fiction for the pedophile. The cover showed a man and a boy mounting stairs to a flat. I checked for the strand of hair Webb and I had pasted across the gathering of pages at the lower edge. It dangled like some thread spewed by a spider. Either the paste hadn’t held or the book had been handled. I opened it to the page that hid the photo of the naked youngster. It was up one line higher and over several