Read Mike Reuther - Return to Dead City for Free Online Page B

a curious look. “You’ve seen it Mr. Crager?”
    “Yeah. I got a look at it last night.”
    Miller’s eyes began to flutter. “So…That is to say…You were over at the hotel last night?” He and his wife exchanged glances.
    “Now I wouldn’t be much of a detective if I wasn’t. Wouldn’t you say there Miller.”
    Miller managed a pinched smile.
    “Who’s the statue supposed to be?” I asked.
    “I don’t suppose you were familiar with the late Jack Hastings?” he said.
    Anyone who lived for any length of time in Centre Town was familiar with that name. At one time, he owned half the town. At least, that’s what I’d heard growing up in this burg. The many business enterprises revolving around the Hastings name were no secret. Those damn radio jingles for Hastings Fuel Oil Service were the same ones I’d heard as a kid blaring over the air waves twenty-five years ago. And the Hastings name was in other little business ventures too ‒ like real estate. He’d been notorious as a slum landlord but his most noted land holding had been a whorehouse over on Walnut Street. In daylight hours, it appeared like any other respectable clothing store , but at night a whole stable of girls made a fortune off horny men and a gaggle of teenage boys looking to lose their cherries. Of that I knew first hand. Secrets from a misspent youth.
    “Why would they build a statue to that crook?” I said.
    Miller’s wife suddenly couldn’t seem to stop from smiling. I was beginning to warm a bit to Reba Miller. Her husband, though, was taking it all very seriously.
    “Jack Hastings was the person most responsible for bringing baseball back to Centre Town,” he said sharply.
    I decided I’d heard enough on that subject.
    “Okay. So you went to this swanky dinner Saturday night to pay tribute to one of Centre Town’s shining citizens. What time did you leave the dinner?”
    “I don’t know,” he said. “Ten o’clock, I suppose.”
    “Sounds like an early night,” I said.
    “They cut the evening’s activities short,” Miller said. “The murder you see…” His voice began to trail off.
    “Yeah. Right,” I said.
    “What other business are you in Miller?”
    He was running a finger up and down the seam of his trousers. “I own and operate The Henry House.”
    “The department store downtown?”
    He nodded.
    I knew the Henry House all right. A five-story relic on Pine Street that in the old days threw at shoppers everything in the way of household appliances, furniture, clothing, toys. The merchandise was everywhere, practically spilling into the aisles. At Christmas time, Henry House was like Macy’s. It was our Macy’s. That was the Henry House. Nowadays, it looked all but deserted. Even without asking Miller I knew damn well he was losing his ass to the Ocyl Mall.
    “My husband’s been involved recently in the sale of the building.” Reba Miller said.
    “Oh yeah,” I said.
    Miller suddenly stood up from his chair. “Will that be all Mr. Crager?”
    “Sure,” I said. “At least for now.”
    They glanced at each other and then his wife asked, “Have you spoken with Jeannette about any of this?”
    “Who’s Jeannette?” I said.
    Miller gave his wife a look that suggested she’d already spoken too much. That was hardly going to stop this woman though. She once again broke into that cruel smile. “She’s supposed to be his ex-wife. But I wouldn’t buy it.”
    “Reba.” Miller’s voice had grown testy. The information was clearly too juicy for his wife to resist, however.
    “Where should I start?” she said. “There was the time…
    “Reba please,” he said.
    “Oh I’m sorry. The prodigal brother and all.”
    “Stop it Reba,” he screamed stomping his foot. “Just stop it.”
    He fell into a heap back in his chair while his wife sat across the room, wearing the sort of smug, triumphant smile that can crush a guy’s heart. Poor Miller, I thought. He probably has to come begging for it