Blowback: An Acey Tapp Mystery

By S. E. Schenkel

Vacillating between the hate he'd nurtured all his life and the burgeoning wish to be the man his father never was, Acey decides to look at the evidence in the case against his father, Karl Tapp.  What he finds is proof of full-blown incompetence, a suicidal old man and a killer who wants to put a son alongside his father in lockup.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Wings ePress, Inc.
• Release date: Aug 13, 2023
• ISBN: 9781597054386

Book preview

One

It was an awesome evening—the kind that could make you believe winter had been given the boot for good. Except it was April, and snow in April was a Michigan tradition that I dreaded.

I collected the mail and headed up the driveway.

An envelope slipped from the bundle, caught a breeze and took a detour under Webb’s car. I dumped the rest of the mail on the trunk and got down on my knees. The thing had landed on the far side of the front wheel. Legal-sized white envelope with an official looking return address. But what really got my attention was my name. My full name: Acey Albert Tapp. Few people even knew my middle name, let alone used it.

Leaning against the car, I studied the sender’s information: Veeder and Volks, a law firm out of Clovis, Vermont.

I ripped open the envelope, pulled out the typed letter and started reading. Seconds ticked off. Countdown to a growing disbelief. A ballooning sense of panic.

The squeak of the side door cut into my shock.

Megan approached. Is something wrong, Acey?

I handed her the letter, moved to the front bumper and stared at a pair of robins romping about in the neighbor’s oak. After a long moment, I turned toward Megan. You’re a pretty slow reader.

I’m working on something to say. She approached, took the envelope from my hand and slipped the letter back in. It’s not like you didn’t know this day would come.

Her hand warmed my arm.

Not like I wanted it to, either.

The robins flew off in tandem, the bigger one giving chase.

What are you going to do? asked Megan.

Give back in kind.

What’s that supposed to mean? Her hold tightened.

An eye for an eye. Absence for absence.

There was a long silence. Fingers meshed with mine, took a firm hold. You can’t, she whispered.

Like hell. I kicked at the concrete. Wanted to go butt my head against the house. The home I’d inherited from Ma, the place she and Karl had purchased for their life together. Karl. My father. The man I wanted, most of all, to forget. Only how do you erase a marriage or the seed planted by the sorry-sick-son-of-a-bitch... when I was the offspring?

My eyes started to go soft, welling up with rain in the forecast. I steeled myself, did a string of blinks. Eyelids like little squeegees clearing away unwanted tears.

I glanced at the envelope and the hand holding it. Those slender fingers I loved to feel on my skin. Tease me with their little touches.

Another side-door squeak. The boss this time. He stepped down to the stoop and blocked the door from closing. Any reason why the mail can’t make it into the house before you start ripping it open?

Despite the letter, despite its message, I smiled. There was nothing like Webb’s loveable grumpy voice to bring me out of a sulk.

I said, While we’re on the subject of reasons ‘why’, maybe you can explain the purpose of allowing flies into the house. Woops, and there goes a bee. Hope he makes it to your bed and not mine.

Webb let the door close and moved toward Megan and me. He stood there, hand on a hip, crooked as a quarter moon, those all-knowing eyes trying to make sense of the scene.

I plucked the envelope from Megan and handed it to him.

What’s this? said Webb.

Read it and find out.

He removed the letter, read it, stayed silent for a long moment and then asked, When are you leaving?

Never.

Without saying another word, Webb handed the envelope back, took the rest of the mail off the car’s trunk and went into the house.

Sounds came from the kitchen window. Annie starting supper.

I put the letter in my pocket. I’m going for a drive.

Megan studied me. Okay...

I might not be here for supper.

She nodded.

I headed for the Mustang parked at the curb.

Megan was still standing there watching, when I pulled away.

IT WAS LATE WHEN I got back. Except for the outside light above the side door, the house was dark. I let myself in and crept up the stairs. A sliver of light came from the room I shared with Megan.

I went in.

She was sitting up in bed, a book on her lap. I could feel her eyes on me as I moved to the adjoining bathroom. Probably checking to see if I was walking a straight line.

When I emerged a few minutes later, the bedside lamp was off and moonlight was peeking through the window.

I got in and pulled up the covers.

She sidled over and snuggled against me—silent and warm.

Do you want to sniff my breath? I asked.

No, thank you.

Did Annie make her mean Wednesday meatloaf?

You mean you didn’t case the fridge?

I think the term is ‘raid’ the fridge.

That, too, she said.

A sound reached us from the hall. Nothing worrisome. Just Webb firing off a head-to-toe sneeze as he made one of his multiple trips to appease his bladder.

Just hoped the spasmodic blast wasn’t a sign of a cold. The old man did colds about as well as I did troublesome news.

My thoughts settled on the letter. Again. Guess I swore, because Megan lifted her head enough to meet my eyes. She stayed there, attentive, silent, head cocked.

I sighed, gave the silence another few seconds and then said, I suppose we should talk.

If you want to. She tugged gently at some of the hair that covered my chest like brush on bleak land.

You start, I said.

I don’t think so...

What do you want me to say? I asked.

Tell me how you feel about your father.

Look up hate in the thesaurus.

That bad?

Worse.

More silence.

Time to regroup.

Want me to tell you why I hate him? I asked.

I think I know that, Acey.

So... What’s left to say?

I do have one more question, said Megan.

Ask it.

Only if you promise not to be mad. Or pinch me.

Don’t know about the pinching part. I gave her thigh a slight squeeze.

Megan moved off me, slowly, deliberately. And then she said, What would your mom want you to do?

Two

Dirt tracks slithered up the hilly landscape all along the main route toward Clovis. Woodsy paradise for hermits and hunters. And a man named Karl. It was early evening when we reached the town. The place was old-world and surrounded by mountains that seemed to hold it in a hug.

We drove slowly along Main Street, looking for a place to bed down. Shadows were already on the prowl, taking over, dictating an early night.

Megan pointed  to the left. There’s Fortier Avenue.

I said nothing.

Isn’t that the address for the office of Veeder and Volks?

If you say so.

You did bring the letter, didn’t you?

I gave her a sideways glance.

Of course you did. She patted my knee.

A red light brought us to a stop in front of an old hotel called the Blue Finch Inn, a two-story structure that hovered next to a small eatery called the Pub and Grill. Both buildings could have been plucked from merry old England, given their brooding stone facades crisscrossed with dark lumber, and roofs that would melt into any night.

They must have these lights timed so you can get out and stretch your legs, I said.

That place looks like a good choice. Megan pointed toward the hotel.

It’s pretty old.

You better not be equating old with decrepit, because you and I are not exactly young.

I turned my attention to the pub next door. It certainly seemed busy and inviting.

The light changed. I made a right at the corner and another down a wide alley that accessed parking. A white van stood next to the old inn. Some sort of delivery, I thought, until I read the green lettering on the side panel. LU Cleaning Services. Let Us printed over the black silhouette of a male and female, one with a mop and the other with a bucket.

I parked, got the luggage out of the trunk and followed Megan across the alley to a rear entrance. A large sign on a short, fat pedestal advertised the Blue Finch Lounge in the lower level. Hours: noon to midnight. Public welcome.

You just might have made a good choice, I said, following a short hallway into a paneled lobby.

You check us in, said Megan. I need to find the lady’s room. She headed for the sitting area off to the left.

I hauled the bags past a wide staircase and dropped them in front of an unmanned desk. I looked around for a tiny camera to wave at, got distracted by old life-size photos hanging on a side wall and to the right of an oak door marked private.

I turned back to the desk. Rapped on the counter. Hellooooo. Is this self-serve check-in?

The clerk emerged from a narrow doorway behind the desk. Young, skinny and green. Big smile, though.

Didn’t interrupt you, did I? I asked.

He blushed. Baby cheeks all red and yet to meet a razor.

I caught his glance toward a small round bell at the far end of the counter. The sort with a belly button that dinged. Appreciated the fact that baby-cheeks neither mentioned the bell or shoved it in my direction.

A pen and form appeared. And then a key after all that was dealt with.

Your room’s to the right of the stairs, he said.

No elevator?

Sorry, sir.

Bell hop?

More blushing.

I’d be glad to help you with your things, he said.

I’ll try and manage, but if you hear me shouting...

I nodded in the direction of the oak door. Is that the way to the casino?

I wish. He smiled.

Swimming pool? Gym for the guests?

I don’t think so.

There’s got to be something on the other side of that door.

That’s the owners’ quarters.

I picked up the bags and started toward the stairs. Stopped, turned back. Is the hospital close by? I asked.

His eyes got big. Are you feeling sick, sir?

No, just like to be prepared. I used to be a boy scout, and it sort of stuck with me.

Well, I’m glad you’re not sick.

Me, too. I waited.

Oh... the hospital. That’s a few miles outside of town. Do you want me to draw you a map?

Maybe later. By the way, what’s your name?

Willard, sir.

Well, Willard, I’m Acey.

I know, sir. His hand found the form I’d filled out.

I reached the stairs just as an older couple was descending. We did the polite thing, said the right words.

Wondering what was keeping Megan, I surveyed the worn, carpeted steps leading down to the lounge. Thought about a quick detour to check it out. Decided instead to go in search of Megan.

I moved through the lobby past the vintage settees and chairs and slipped between two carved pillars into the Snack Nook. A small counter posted the hours of nine to three and a limited menu of drinks, a continental breakfast and a small selection of deli sandwiches.

Megan emerged from a tiny alcove tucked in a corner.

You okay? I asked.

I am now. She smiled.

So I take it, things worked out.

Why, Acey, what an excellent choice of words.

I checked us in, I said.

How wonderful. Megan took the key from me.

We retrieved the luggage and started up the stairs.

I said, By the way, you’re Mrs. Tapp.

Is that right?

For all practical purposes, you have been for a while.

Practical purposes? she repeated. I don’t think I’ve heard it referred to in those terms.

Define it, I said.

Cohabitation and its privileges.

List privileges, I said.

We reached the mid-landing. Facing us was a large stained glass window showing colorful woodlands and a family of blue winged creatures with yellow bills.

I’m waiting for the list, I said.

Megan headed up the remaining few stairs.

Since I’m not getting my list, I take it you want to show, not tell.

We started down a long hallway. Stopped only when we’d reached the last room on the left.

She opened the door and I followed her in. It was a sizable room with paneled walls and, thank God, not a four poster bed. Those things weren’t made for the size of me. There was also a desk, luggage rack and two upholstered chairs near a small round table.

Very nice, said Megan.

I set the bags down and walked over to the window. The view was of the Pub and Grill’s roof and lots of sky.

Want to go see what they’re serving at the restaurant next door? I asked.

I suppose you’re referring to the tavern, and that sounds fine, except I want to unpack first. She unzipped one of the bags.

I leaned against the window frame.

Why don’t you go get us a table, said Megan.

I can wait, I said.

Not patiently, though.

You have a point.

I made my way down the stairs and outside. There was a good amount of foot traffic; folks getting out of work and heading home. I entered the pub and suddenly had the uncomfortable thought that Karl might have used this spot as his watering hole. I found myself feeling for the letter jammed into my pant’s pocket.

With no waitress around and no signs controlling traffic, I chose a seat against a wall. Ordered two beers, two place settings. Megan came through the door just as I had made my choice from the menu.

I got up and pulled the chair out.

Megan smiled as she sat. You haven’t done that in a while.

I’m setting the stage for things to come. I offered a wink to help her get my meaning. In return, Megan gave my arm an affectionate squeeze.

What? Foreplay already? Now who’s in a rush?

Oh sit down, Acey.

I did as I was told.

THE FOLLOWING MORNING, after a quick breakfast of bagels and coffee at the Snack Nook, we left the hotel and started walking.

D-day.

You have the letter, don’t you? asked Megan.

I slapped my pocket.

Fortier Avenue was only a couple of blocks from our hotel. And the building we wanted was just around the corner. We went in, took the elevator to the third floor and entered the office of Veeder and Volks.

Except for a single desk, the room was as bare as Mother Hubbard’s cupboard.

Sounds came from an adjoining room. Seconds later, the door opened and a man in a wheelchair appeared, head down, working the big skinny wheels with his shriveled up paws, and not even aware of our presence.

I cleared my throat.

He stopped, lifted his head. He was in his eighties, if not older. Had girly gray curls in need of a barber and enough wrinkles to warrant growing a beard as cover.

For a few seconds, he just stared. And then a smile broke like sun from a cloud.

Acey Tapp...

I didn’t reply.

The wheelchair did an about face.

Come on in, he said.

As empty as the outer office was, this room made up for it in clutter. Lots of side tables piled with folders and boxes made a ring around the room. And a desk was something that would have made a neat-freak cry.

Are you Veeder? I asked.

No. George Veeder was my uncle on my mother’s side. I’m just the last in a long line of lawyers who hallowed these rooms. Please, have a seat.

Did your mom give you a name? I asked.

The man laughed, and there was affection in his eyes.

So, I take it you’re Mr. Volks, I said. Since you’re not Mr. Veeder.

Fiddling with a vial of pills, he turned serious. No, my name is Patrick Faw.

I pulled the envelope from my pocket. So, who sent me this?

I did.

You don’t believe in signing things with your own name?

Well, yes. It just seemed more official and less confusing to use a name on the letter head. I didn’t want you thinking this was a joke or a hoax.

Megan took a seat.

I didn’t.

I could phone for some coffee, said Patrick.

Your letter said my father is dying, I said.

Yes, that’s what I wrote. Please... He pointed to the chair next to Megan.

Is he in the hospital? I asked, remaining where I was.

No.

At home?

Faw shook his head.

Nursing home?

No.

There was a long silence. Is he already dead? I asked.

No, not at all.

No. Not at all, I repeated. What the hell is going on?

Your father’s in jail.

Jail. Then he’s not dying?

Not in the sense you mean.

What the hell kind of game are you playing at?

I don’t play games much anymore. Faw glanced at his legs.

I headed for the door.

Acey, come on... Megan stood.

See you back at the hotel. I walked out.

I HAD JUST ABOUT FINISHED packing when the door to the room opened and Megan walked in carrying a large yellow folder.

I went over to the window. Whatever you’ve got to say, I don’t want to hear it.

Fine, then I’ll talk to myself.

Just like my jerk of a father to con me into coming here, I said.

He doesn’t know you’re here.

I faced Megan. Then why the hell did Faw write that letter?

He thinks your father was framed and was hoping you might be willing to hire someone to prove it. Or at least show up to give your father some support.

"You said hire someone?"

That’s right. Mr. Faw had no idea you’re in that line of work. He wasn’t even sure you were still alive or still living in Willow Falls. Your father doesn’t even know your mother passed.

Well, isn’t that too damn bad. I went over to the bed tossed in the rest of the things and zipped up the case.

Acey?

Let’s go.

I love you, but I’m not leaving.

So now you want to be the daughter Karl never had. Well, I hope you have better luck than the son he sired.

There was a long silence.

I sat on the side of the bed. Megan came around and settled beside me.

I’m sorry, Megan. It’s just that I’m so damn angry.

I know.

I can’t forgive him. Ma worked her tail off to keep the house, keep food on the table. Two jobs, sometimes three. Brought work home. Do you know how much daddy dearest paid in child support? Want to know how often he called? Sent a card? Inquired on how I was? Or how his wife was doing all by her lonesome?

I stood, paced. And damn it, Ma still loved the creep. I think that’s what ate at her the most, loving him and getting crap in return. That will put a stranglehold on anyone’s heart. Squeeze the health right out of it.

Megan blocked my path, took me in her arms. I squelched the urge to push her away. That would have made me too much like a chip off the old block. We stayed that way for the longest time. Until the tirade inside me fizzled out. The engine emptying of fuel.

You don’t have to forgive him, Megan said. You just have to not be like him. To not run off like he did. She let go. Picked up the yellow folder and handed it to me.

Patrick is the one who’s dying, she said.

I didn’t reply. Just stared at the smudged, yellow binder, plump with papers.

He said he was just trying to pass the torch. Get someone else to care about an innocent man rotting away in a cell. He didn’t mean any harm.

The man lied to get me here. Maybe he’s lying now, I said.

I believe him, said Megan.

You believe everybody.

He cried when you left.

Faw?

Yes.

He should cry, messing with people’s lives like he did.

Megan unzipped the suitcase ever so slightly.

I set the folder down and zipped the case back up.

She grabbed for the pull-tab, and smiled as I blocked her move.

I tried not to smile back. It wasn’t hard.

Acey...

I waited.

Why not be the son he doesn’t deserve? she asked.

Damn, I hated it when she hit the nail on the head. Drove the point home like a pro. I surrendered the tab and watched as she started unpacking. And then I took the folder to the window and opened it.

Three

The turnoff mentioned in the file was ten miles north of town. We found it, no thanks to any street sign or posted address. Just a weathered notice tagging the property as private. Keep out.

I made the turn and followed the dirt tracks as they wound their way up and down the hills and dales like twin brown snakes. We’d gone maybe a mile when I saw an old man holding a bat and standing at the side of a black pickup. A few hundred yards in back of the man was the houseboat mentioned in the file as the residence of Karl Tapp. It was moored lengthwise and all but blocked the view of the marsh.

I stopped at a respectful distance. Megan and I got out.

You folks want something? The old man set the top of the bat on the toe of his shoe.

My name’s Tapp, I said.

His hand moved to his right ear and fiddled with something.

Say what?

I said my name’s Tapp.

A pair of spectacles appeared—skinny wire-rimmed contraptions that looked bent. I’ll be damned. You’re Karl’s son, aren’t you?

If you want to be technical.

He grinned.

I didn’t.

I’m Megan Bork.

Pleased to meet you, Ma’am.

Are you Skip Abernathy? I asked.

That’d be me. He tried to smooth his scruffy beard. Not that it was a possibility since it was as uneven as the weeds surrounding the marsh.

I turned in the direction of the houseboat.

Skip turned as well. She’s a beaut, ain’t she? Your dad and I saved up for a lot of years and worked a lot of hours to make her happen. The foundation is an old barge we picked up at an east coast auction. Bought a trailer home and then married the two. Even got ourselves a basement out of the deal. The hookup came off real nice. At least Karl and I think so.

The old man lowered his bushy head, sighed. Said, It was supposed to be for our retirement. Not the same, now. Pleasure seems to shrivel up when you’re all alone.

Is it possible for us to have a tour? asked Megan.

Sure. Be glad to show you around. Skip settled his attention on me for an uncomfortably long moment. He seemed almost on the verge of tears, and then he stooped and shoved the bat under the truck, out of sight.

We headed along a gravel path. From a distance and in shadow, the marsh had looked like a big pond, but the closer we got, the further it stretched.

We reached a thick path of cattails that formed a sort of hedge in front of the boat. Skip parted a section of the long stems with their sausage-shaped pods and stepped onto a dock that stretched like a narrow road through the lanky plants and out into the water.

Watch your step, said Skip. Easy to get distracted and fall off the side. Did it once myself. Got kidded by Karl for weeks afterwards.

The three of us moved single file, with the houseboat a little ways ahead and on our right.

I bet you folks didn’t know that you can roast the cattail pods if you break them off young enough. Indians used to grind the stalk and make it into a sort of mush. Heck, even the early settlers ate the leaves.

What do the pods taste like? I asked.

"Didn’t say I did. Said you could."

We reached the rear of the barge. The thing was big enough for a trailer home to sit dead center and still leave a circling teak deck of six to eight feet.

Your dad doing any better? asked Skip.

I wouldn’t know,