Downpour: An Acey Tapp Mystery

By S. E. Schenkel

A car is found neatly parked on the side of the road. A short time later, the spot is marked by a cross. Tapp and team are hired to find the missing driver, a middle-aged, Michigan woman. The investigation leads to similar cases where women vanish while on the road, and crosses appear shortly afterward. Where are these women? And what is the meaning of this common thread of car and cross?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Wings ePress, Inc.
• Release date: Aug 13, 2023
• ISBN: 9781597053983

Book preview

One

The ravages of winter had left the wooden cross bleached and a little lopsided, but it was still there at the side of the road—a lone soldier, marking the site of the unknown.

I parked on the shoulder and got out. Megan joined me near the front bumper, a yellow folder in hand. Our copy of everything the Washburn Police Department had regarding the disappearance of Kathy Zopak, a single, middle-aged female.

She opened the folder on the hood of the car. Pulled out the photo of the missing lady. A plain Jane with a full head of tight curls, big eyes, wide nose and a small mouth.

I presume you’ve read the file, said Megan.

Enough to know it’s pretty skimpy on details.

That’s what I was thinking.

We don’t even know if her car was locked when they found it abandoned, I said.

Megan removed a second photo. At least the police took some shots and we can be pretty sure Kathy wasn’t forced off the road.

Oh, yeah?

She tapped the fender of my Mustang. Look at the way you’re parked. The wheels are straight. You’re parallel to the road and snug with the woods. If someone had forced you off the road, you probably would have been nose-in and crooked.

She handed me the picture of the missing woman’s Plymouth Neon. It was parked flush to the woods. Just like mine.

Do you recall what month Kathy went missing? I asked.

August, last year.

I tapped the photo of the white Neon. The windows are up.

She probably had the air on.

Do we know where the car is now? I asked.

I would imagine her folks have it.

We should check it out, see if it has air-conditioning.

I walked over to the cross. It was a lot larger up close, and constructed of wood that was an inch thick and two inches wide. I gave it a tug. It barely budged.

Megan approached with a camera. She took some snaps of the cross and the nearby woods. Walked along the shoulder, looking around. I followed, enjoying the sight of her tall, lean figure and the sun highlighting the gray in her hair.

I said, How old was Kathy?

A year younger than me.

Men aren’t the only ones who get an itch for adventure in their middle years, I said.

Maybe, but that proves nothing.

Wasn’t she living with her folks? I asked.

Yes. So?

Only child?

Again, so?

If Kathy’s in her fifties, then her parents are probably in their seventies. Maybe older. And who do you think gets stuck with their care?

Oh, you mean like you taking care of your mother? Megan cocked her head.

A car passed. The first since we’d arrived. A vintage yellow Corvette going way too fast on a road that had more curves than a house full of females.

Plank Road sure doesn’t see a lot of traffic, I said.

People prefer the freeway, said Megan.

I still think Kathy bailed.

And leave everything behind? asked Megan.

What’s to leave? She’s living with her folks. Her car isn’t all that new. No kiddies or husband. Pittance in the bank. Bills piling up.

There’s nothing in the file about bills piling up or how much she had in the bank, said Megan.

Something to the side of the shoulder caught my attention. I crouched. This is interesting.

Leaves and twigs?

Yeah, when they’re nice and neat like this. I started sweeping aside the brush. A path emerged. Not much of one, but there nonetheless.

Someone wanted this trail kept secret, I said.

It does seem that way, said Megan.

Shall we check it out?

We’d better, since it’s not far from where the Neon was parked.

The cover of leaves and twigs ended a few yards in from the road. But not the trail. I pointed out the presence of weeds in their undisturbed infancy. Also the way the trail stayed a certain width.

I take it that means something, said Megan.

Means it was more likely made by a hoe, rather than foot traffic. As for the weeds, that suggests we’re the first this year to use the path.

Where do you think it goes? asked Megan.

I don’t know, but we’ll find out.

As we moved deeper into the woods, the trees and underbrush grew more dense and the sunlight more spotty.

The trail made a sudden dip into a shallow gully. We started down.

There must have been a stream here at one time. I pointed to pieces of rotting wood that spanned the gully floor—remnants of an old bridge.

We climbed the far slope and continued along the narrow trail.

I wonder if Kathy used this path? Megan said.

Someone did. Someone who wanted it kept a secret.

And I think I know why. Megan walked past me and stopped near a wide patch of high shrubs alive with pink flowers and plenty of thorns.

Are you going to fill me in, or do you covet the stupid look on my face?

She cupped my chin with her palm. It does have its charm. As for these nice little pink flowers, they’re about to give birth to blackberries. Making this a major berry patch.

And that’s important?

Could be. People can be very secretive and possessive of such finds.

I smiled. And you think the hoarder of this berry patch happened upon Kathy as she was helping herself, and did her in to keep her quiet?

One man’s motive for murder is another man’s motive for amusement. Megan studied the ground.

I’m going to have to start a file for Megan-isms, I said.

I’m so glad you think my words worth recording.

Come on, Megan... You’re not serious about this being a blackberry murder.

I think it merits a look around.

All right. I picked up a fat stick and started brushing aside leaves and debris, looking for anything that might suggest someone had been digging.

Megan laughed.

I turned.

I love it when I can pull one over on one PI Acey Tapp, she said.

I dropped the stick. Thanks for the trip to dope-ville.

I must say I don’t get to take you there very often, she replied.

If that’s your attempt at slapping on a Band-Aid, it failed.

We headed back.

My embarrassment aside, it was a nice day. Michigan spring at its best. The woods in their new green, boughs strolling on the arm of the wind.

We better get a move on, said Megan.

Get a what on?

You heard me.

Why the rush? I asked.

Kathy’s folks are expecting us.

News to me.

Webb told them we’d be there before noon.

Just then, a car door slammed.

Thinking my Mustang was about to be pinched, I took off at a run. Broke free of the woods out of breath and came face to face with a uniformed officer. One who’d had enough years to put on a belly and sprout some gray. He was wearing his business blues, enough hardware for an army and stood straight and somber.

I hope we’re not illegally parked, I said, glancing toward my car and the marked vehicle behind it.

Just checking to see if there’s an emergency. The officer acknowledged Megan with a nod and even took off his cap. Big mistake as his forehead was like a freeway over a hill.

So I take it there’s no emergency? he asked.

No, but thanks for checking. I offered my hand. Acey Tapp.

Bill Sessa.

Sessa? Aren’t you named as the investigating officer in the Kathy Zopak case?

Yes, but how would you know that? he replied.

The Zopaks hired our agency to look for their daughter.

Really...?

As of yesterday, I said.

Sessa turned toward the roadside cross. Glad to hear it. He turned back. I suggested that months ago. Even gave them the name of a friend of mine who has a detective agency in Washburn. Sessa studied me. I guess they found someone else.

I smiled. Your friend’s detective agency, it wouldn’t happen to be McMunn and Son, would it?

Actually, yes. Webb. Webb McMunn. You know him?

We work for him.

I’ll be—

So you know the boss, I said.

Oh, yes. In my family, he’s like the next best thing to God. He located my cousin way back when I was in grade school. Damn, haven’t thought about him in a while. Well, not since I told the Zopaks about him. How’s he doing?

He has a few health problems, but who in their seventies doesn’t? I said.

Who in their fifties? Sessa turned his attention back to the cross. Good luck with finding Kathy.

Thanks. I think we’ll need it.

Sessa replaced his cap.

How long were you on the case? I asked.

Not very long. There wasn’t much to go on, and nothing pointed to foul play, so the sheriff put it in cold storage.

Any tips? Hunches? Feelings about what happened? I asked.

Sessa’s face took on the seriousness of a politician in heat. Actually, I do have some thoughts on what went down.

Mind floating them our way?

Be glad to. In fact, I was just heading back to town for some lunch. Why don’t you join me?

Two

Megan phoned the Zopaks as I followed Officer Sessa back to town. When she’d ended the call, I said, Are they okay with our coming by a little later?

Sort of. She put the phone in her purse.

What do you mean, sort of?

I had the impression they didn’t know we were coming. But anyways, they do now.

The squad car turned into Rusty’s Place, a rundown restaurant on a side street in the older part of Washburn.

Sessa waited for us near the entrance.

I locked up and we hurried over. Didn’t mean to keep you waiting, I said.

No problem. He leaned our way. The place isn’t much to look at, but the food’s great. And I should know. I’ve been coming here for thirty years. He opened the door and waited for us to go in.

A middle-aged woman wearing a green work smock over white slacks turned our way. Putting out her cigarette, she smiled.

Trisha...

Bill... You’re late.

That’s probably our fault, I said.

You’re together?

Bill nodded.

Trisha grabbed menus and headed toward the rear, carrying her extra fifty pounds like a linebacker at the top of his game.

Didn’t know this place was here, I said.

It’s been here forever. Isn’t that right, Trisha?

"Forever and a day." She stopped near a booth with a place setting for one.

The three of us sat.

Trisha handed out menus that had seen better days.

You want your usual, right? she asked Sessa.

He nodded.

What’s your usual? I asked.

The Russ burger.

Works for me. I handed back the menu.

Make that three, said Megan.

Bill said, Trisha, these folks work with Webb.

The lady came to attention. Mr. McMunn?

I nodded. You know him?

I do. Although I haven’t seen him in ages. Actually, my mother dated him for a while. That was after my dad was killed in the Korean War. She glanced toward the counter. On the back wall was the fading picture of a man in uniform. Miniature flags stood on either side like honorary sentinels.

Trisha pulled a pad from her pocket, started writing. How is Mr. McMunn?

Hanging in there, I replied.

How’s your mother? asked Megan.

She tore off a sheet and put the pad and pen back. Not doing well. She’s been in a nursing home for the last few years. Trisha headed down the aisle. I better get your orders in.

A long moment later, I said, So Webb dated.

Megan touched my arm. We should make the most of our time with Officer Sessa.

Please, call me Bill.

Do you mind if we start with your best guess as to what happened to Kathy Zopak? I asked.

I think someone kidnapped her. Although my boss disagrees.

Why’s that?

Did you know Kathy lived with her folks?

Yes, we’re aware of that.

Well—and this is the sheriff’s view of things—Kathy was like her parents’ personal worker bee. She did everything for them. And that’s besides holding down a full time job. It just got to be too much.

Bill took a sip from the glass of water on the table. Things can do that, you know, overwhelm you. He turned to look out the window. Something was on his mind, and it wasn’t anything amusing. I waited him out, gave him whatever time and space his thoughts needed.

Sudden laughter from a neighboring table brought him back from where he’d been.

So, the sheriff thinks Kathy took off because her folks were taking over her life? Expecting too much?

Not her mother. She’s fine. But Mr. Zopak is a piece of work. Old school about women. Keep them barefoot and pregnant and busy. Although I guess the bit about keeping them pregnant doesn’t apply. Since Kathy is an only child.

Sessa took another sip, another glance out the window.

Do you remember if the car was locked when you found it? I asked.

Yes, it was locked up tight.

It didn’t say so in the file.

It didn’t? Bill looked more embarrassed than surprised.

I didn’t read anything about the car being locked. Did you, Megan?

Not that I recall.

You’re probably right. I wasn’t given a whole lot of time to work on the case. The sheriff just added it to my usual duties. I think it was more of a punishment for bugging him about it. Maybe if I’d had some formal training as a detective... Anyway, that was the first and only case I ever investigated. And it’s probably better that way.

His attention started to drift again. The man seemed more distracted than a kid at a carnival.

Did you check into Kathy’s banking? I asked.

Banking?

Did she close out her accounts?

He shook his head. Never thought to check that.

Any other reasons why the sheriff considered this a do-it-yourself vanishing act? I asked.

Oh, yeah. The biggie was the fact that there was no sign of struggle in or around the vehicle. And of course, people take off all the time, looking for something different from the same old, same old.

But you don’t think Kathy took off on her own, said Megan.

No, I don’t.

Could you elaborate? I asked.

You saw where we found the car parked. There’s no public transportation around. Not all that much traffic. Why not leave the car near a bus station? Or someplace where you could phone for a taxi?

I didn’t bother to mention that Kathy might have had a cell phone. So, I take it, you checked her place.

Yes. And it looked pretty much the way you’d leave things when you intend to return. Besides, if she was so fed up with her life, why not tell her folks where to go, and split. It’s not like they could have stopped her. Or haul her back.

Maybe she wanted people to think she was abducted, I said.

Was she dating anyone? asked Megan.

Dating...? Sessa fidgeted with the glass. Not that I was able to find out. She did have a few friends and they would sometimes go out on the town. Their names are in the file. That I’m sure of.

What did they think? I asked.

Some thought she split, others thought she was abducted.

Who found the car?

I did. Plank Road is my beat.

Any other reasons why you think it was foul play? Megan asked.

Kathy just didn’t seem to be the sort who’d take off and leave everyone in the dark. Plus, you know, being the only child, she was bound to inherit the family home once her folks were out of the picture. And the place is worth at least two hundred thousand. And since her folks both worked at one time, and were never really into taking trips or showering each other with gifts... He paused. So I would think they’d have plenty in the bank.

What’s the state of their health? I asked.

Not good. Eighty years is eighty years. And they’re both that plus.

Our meals arrived. Bill and I gave ourselves over to the task of doing the kitchen proud.

THE ZOPAKS LIVED IN a subdivision at the north end of Washburn. A brick ranch on a large lot on a street named Caloosa. Two car garage. Lots of big trees, plenty of grass to mow.

I parked at the curb and got out.

Might be better if you took the lead when we get inside, I said, following Megan up the walk.

The front stoop was a slab of concrete in the early stages of turning back into gravel. Off to one side was a flower box of the same brick as the house. It was full of weeds.

Megan knocked. We waited.

I knocked harder.

A woman answered the door. She was badly wrinkled and had long gray hair and drooping eyelids that gave her a bored sleepy look. She wore on a blue dress, probably nylons too, only that was still to be seen, standing as she was, up tight against the screen door.

Mrs. Zopak, I’m Megan Bork. This is my associate, Acey Albert Tapp.

Mrs. Zopak fiddled with something in her ear.

Megan took out a business card. A new one that listed the four members of our little agency—myself, Megan, Webb and Annie Raglan, retired sheriff and exceptional sleuth.

The old woman opened the screen and Megan handed her the card.

Oh, you’re the private investigators. I thought you said you’d be by tomorrow. She fiddled again with the teeny contraption in her ear. Damn thing, she muttered.

I looked away and smiled. Little old ladies swearing was as unexpected as birds barking.

We could come back, said Megan, if now is inconvenient.

No, you’re fine. It’s fine. I’ll just wake Henry.

I hope that’s not going to put us on his bad side, I said, rather loudly.

Mrs. Z looked at me and whispered, I’m afraid all his sides are bad.

I waited in vain for the hint of a smile.

She waved us into a large living room arranged with upholstered furniture, one of which held the sleeping form of a short thin man who reminded me of Webb. Except this man had more hair and a lot more wrinkles. His mouth was puckered and there were dentures in an ashtray on a nearby lamp table. There was also a cane laying snug between him and the cushions. Security blanket turned stick.

Mrs. Z ushered Megan and me into the adjoining kitchen, a large room with a picture window and a table cluttered with dirty dishes.

If you could wait here. Sorry for the mess. But Henry doesn’t like noise after lunch. It’s his nap time.

She turned slowly and reentered the living area.

I peeked around the door frame.

The old lady was advancing toward the occupied sofa like someone approaching a mad dog. Henry. she whispered—immediately taking a step back. When he didn’t stir, she called his name again.

The old man’s eyes opened. Anger spilled out like an uncaged animal. He took hold of the cane. What is it, woman?

We have visitors. The detectives we hired. I looked away, troubled by the panic in the woman’s voice and her sudden slouch, servant-like and fearful.

When I glanced back, Mr. Z was sitting up with the cane between his knees like a third leg. He snatched his dentures, popped them into his mouth, and then finger-combed his hair. I half expected him to send his wife to fetch a mirror.

Where are these people? he asked, using the cane to stand.

I moved over to the window and stared out, wondering if this was the way my folks would have ended up, had Dad not abandoned us. It gave a whole new perspective to how things turned out. Ma never under anyone’s thumb. Never another’s whipping post.

Shuffling footsteps—two pairs. Cane taps muffled by carpet, and then rapping kitchen tile. I tried to smile as I turned to face the old gent. At least, Megan would be taking charge so I could concentrate on keeping my antipathy under raps.

You people were supposed to come tomorrow, said the old man. He glared at Mrs. Z, turned back to us. I never wanted to hire you in the first place.

I’m truly sorry for the mix up, said Megan. And if you prefer, we could come back tomorrow.

You’re here. Might as well get it over with. Probably not your fault, anyways. This wife of mine can’t even adjust her hearing aid properly. Henry pulled out a chair and plopped down. He pointed a scrawny finger toward the other chairs around the table.

Megan and I and Mrs. Z obediently sat—his little shooting gallery all lined up for insults. Old Zopak sighting in on his prey. Standing by with potshots of verbal lead. Ready-aim-fire. I guess we all have to be good at something to make life bearable. Too bad the skills of some involve killing the joy of others.

I waited for him to say something about the dishes cluttering the table. Instead, his attention narrowed in on me. So, how is this going to work?

We’re going to try and find your daughter, said Megan.

I know that. I’m not an idiot.

I bit my tongue and allowed my mind to go on a tirade. Creating my own lineup of insults. Making quiet pop sounds as I fired off each in my head. Crowning the old man king of nasty. Jerk. Poster person for everything you don’t want to be at the end of life.

So, what do you need from us? Henry asked, continuing to address me.

I glanced down at his fluffy slippers, and I guess I smiled.

Are you a retard? spat Mr. Z. I asked you a question.

I’m just an apprentice, I replied. That’s for my boss to answer. I hooked a thumb toward Megan.

For one thing, we’ll need to have a look at your daughter’s car, said Megan.

Can’t help you there. Sold it to whoever hauled it away.

Do you remember the name of the towing service? asked Megan, her voice as mellow as a songbird’s.

Lenny’s Towing, replied Zopak.

Are they located here in Washburn? asked Megan.

No, in Timbuktu. Henry raised his eyes.

I wanted to snatch him up, chair and all, and carry him out to the curb for pickup.

I’ll take that as a yes, said Megan.

I stood.

Megan eased out of her chair and stepped in front of me. Do you think we could have a look at Kathy’s room before we leave?

Three

Mrs. Zopak led us into an enclosed breezeway off the kitchen. The little room had four doors in a sort of north, south, east and west setup. She unlocked the door facing the backyard. Kathy has her own apartment. We added this addition so she could have her, well, have her privacy.

The door opened onto a large room. At the back was a kitchenette and two closed doors.

It’s quite comfortable, as you can see. And Kathy has her own private entrance. She pointed to a side door.

It’s very nice, said Megan.

I thought Kathy was happy here. Her mouth twitched. I know Henry is a bit much, but he did pay for all this. And we didn’t charge her to stay here. Just asked her to, well, see to our needs.

She moved toward the breezeway. If you don’t need me, I should get back...

I said, It would be helpful if you could tell us a little about Kathy.

But if now’s not a good time, added Megan.

Would it be all right if I came back in a few minutes? Mrs. Z asked, her voice plaintive.

That would be fine, I said.

She went out and quietly closed the door.

I noticed a serious looking latch that had been added to the inside of the breezeway entrance.

Megan took out her camera.

I said, I think I’m glad my dad cleared out when he did.

No you’re not, said Megan.

He’s probably around the same age as old man Zopak. If he’s still living, I added.

But I bet he’s taller, said Megan.

I could have confirmed that. Could have said that, in my mother’s final days, when her mind had started to go, she would sometimes mistake me for Karl. Her long lost husband. And that, among Ma’s things was an old photo of my father when he was young. One I almost mistook for a faded picture of myself.

Megan moved over to the apartment’s lone window and opened the drapes. The view was of high shrubs and blue sky.

I walked over to the kitchenette and checked the fridge. Except for a box of baking soda, it was empty. Cupboards were bare as well, except for the ones housing dinnerware and the likes.

The first of the two doors to the right of the kitchenette accessed a utility room. Shelves were piled with everything from bedding and towels to laundry detergent. There was a washer dryer combo, small sink, a hot water heater, furnace, and a small trash can with a plastic liner.

I opened the dryer. It was still loaded with towels. When I peeked into the washer, I was surprised to see black bed sheets rung out and circling the sides like a wrinkled noose.

The end door accessed a small bathroom with sink, toilet, shower stall, an empty towel rack and a shelf with female paraphernalia, all dusty as hell.

I checked the small wastebasket to the left of the toilet. Just some tissue and an empty soap wrapper.

I joined Megan in the main room. I don’t think the bathroom or utility room have been touched since Kathy went missing.

Not surprising, as she was the one who took care of things, said Megan.

I began a tour of the main room. Our missing lady was neat and liked nice things. Wall to wall plush russet carpeting. Oak futon and matching chair with sleek black cushions that had to have set her back a good chunk of cash. Oak dinette set with black cushions on the matching chairs. Entertainment center hosting a huge flat-screened television and a rather expensive looking stereo.

I walked over to the TV—more out of envy than as a detective. Several copies of the TV Guide magazine sat next to the large screen. The top one was folded open. I picked it up. The page was dated the Thursday of the same week Kathy went missing. And some of that day’s programs had been circled in red. All cop shows. The fictional kind. I thumbed through the rest of the magazine, wondering if maybe she’d written a note to herself in the margin. Something like: Don’t forget to buy a bus ticket for Dubuque. I checked the guide for the previous week. Nothing. Just red circles around various shows.

I joined Megan just as she was aiming the camera at a framed collage of photos on the wall. Kathy as child, little girl, teen, young adult. One photo looked more recent and included a man and an older woman standing in front of a beige building with large green awnings and corner pieces. That was the only picture that showed Kathy smiling. In all the others, she stood alone, posed and somber.

We moved over to a free-standing oak armoire. I opened it. There was a rack of clothes and a shelf at the top with shoe boxes.

Looks pretty full. I closed the armoire and approached a four-drawer dresser. Megan opened the top drawer. Undies, all neatly folded.

I said, I’m not much of a lingerie connoisseur, but isn’t this stuff expensive?

A lot more expensive than what I buy. Megan started to close the drawer.

Aren’t you going to check under the panties to see if there’s a pistol?

Just because you keep yours under your shorts?

Seriously, better check it out.

She rummaged around. Found an old snapshot of a teenage boy with an armful of books.

How much you want to bet that’s her first love?

Could be. Megan took a picture and put the old photo back.

We went through the remaining drawers. Just more clothes; nothing juicy like a stack of letters or an address book.

I used my foot to close the bottom drawer. Do you know what I haven’t found yet?

Diary? said Megan.

For one thing, yeah.

Maybe she doesn’t keep one. I don’t.

"I know.

Megan’s hand went to her hip. And how would you know that?

I looked.

I’m sure that’s not true. It better not be.

Did I just stir up a little Irish?

You did, and more could follow.

I tweaked her nose. Consider that a got-ya payback.

I’d rather it be payback than true.

Why? You hiding something you don’t want me to see?

We all hide something we don’t want others to see.

Oh, another Megan-ism for my list.

Megan said, Getting back to business, what else besides a diary is missing?

Luggage. Of any kind or size.

Maybe she just didn’t travel, said Megan.

Good question for Mom, I said.

Another thing that’s missing is some sort of calendar. Someplace to record upcoming appointments, said Megan.

Don’t you keep yours in your purse? I asked.

You are a detective.

You have my photo in there, too, I hope.

I do?

You don’t?

Megan laughed.

I said, Anything else we should ask Mrs. Z while we have the chance?

I’m surprised we didn’t find any jewelry, said Megan.

Maybe she didn’t wear any, I said.

That would be unusual.

Her mother doesn’t.

You noticed that, did you?

What boy scout wouldn’t?

Megan smiled. You were never a boy scout.

That is so true. I stepped back to where the collage hung. Correct me if I’m wrong, but there’s nothing dangling from Kathy’s ears or neck. Of course there could be a tongue ring or...?

Regardless, that’s another good question for Mrs. Zopak, said Megan.

You want to start a list, or should I?

I think I can remember asking about the luggage and jewelry, said Megan. Besides, that’s a better question for her girlfriends who are more apt to see her decked out.

I don’t see a computer, I said.

She could have had a laptop with her in the car.

I said, If you were going to fake an abduction, how would you handle it?