Page 35 of The Furies

“I’m going to see her shortly,” I said. “I first wanted to check that I wasn’t about to squander an hour. I’ve had my fill of being cold-shouldered by the Sisters Strange.”

“Would you like me to join you?”

I told him to stay right where he was. I might have been working for Will, but that didn’t mean I wanted him by my side at all times, or made party to every exchange. In fact, depending on how forthcoming Dolors Strange was with me, it might be better for Will if I was sparing with what I shared, unless he was keen on listening to the intricacies of her past relationship with Raum Buker. Even I wasn’t too sure I wanted to hear those, and I, unlike Will, wasn’t planning on sleeping with her.

It was also the case that every time I thought I might be getting a handle on the Sisters Strange, it came apart in my hands. I’d watched Raum attempt to kiss Ambar Strange and be rebuffed, but there was to their manner more than a hint of enduring intimacy, and it was to Raum she had turned when she was worried about the damage to her door. While Dolors Strange now claimed to have excised him from her life in favor of Will Quinn, she had visited him at East Jersey State Prison, and spent time with him after his recent return to Portland. Dolors might already have explained to Will Quinn why that was, or she might have elected not to mention it for fear of casting a shadow over their reconciliation. Out of deference to their future prospects, it would be wiser to ask her without Will being present.

“I have a question for you,” said Will, “since we’re sharing.”

“Shoot.”

“How come you always refer to Buker by his first name? If I didn’t know better, I’d almost have said you were intimates.”

I hadn’t even been aware of doing it, but Will was right.

“I’ve never liked him,” I said, “but I’ve always felt sorry for him.”

“Seriously? You must have better outlets for your sympathy.”

“Easier ones, I’ll admit.”

“He’s no good to anyone. He’s bad through and through.”

But that wasn’t correct. I’d been confronted by profound human wickedness, and worse. Raum Buker undeniably possessed a streak of viciousness and spite, but not enough to damn him, not in my eyes, although it might be that I was growing more forgiving in middle age. I’d always believed that Raum was intelligent enough to recognize the failure of a human being he’d become, and could yet redeem himself. Perhaps, too, I saw some shade of myself in him: a man who had lost his parents too young, who had found himself adrift, who had succumbed to rage. If I were to condemn him entirely, might I not also have to condemn myself?

But I didn’t like what I’d seen and heard at the Braycott Arms. That was a different Raum Buker. In fact, it might no longer have been him at all.

CHAPTER XLI

One hour later, I returned to Strange Brews. The same New Age music was playing, and the same deranged fantasy art was making the walls look embarrassed, but Dolors Strange was absent, and an older woman I didn’t recognize was tending the register. When I asked after the owner, she told me that Dolors had phoned in sick, and wasn’t expected for the rest of the day. I ordered a coffee to be polite, and brought it back to my car. The coffee tasted flowery, although I shouldn’t really have been surprised. I poured it on the ground and made a note to bill Will Quinn for it.

* * *

DOLORS STRANGE LIVED IN a single-story house off Broadway in South Portland. The city figured high on lists of the most desirable places to settle in Maine, but the compilers probably hadn’t been thinking of her particular stretch of Broadway when they made their notes. It wasn’t lousy, just dull and unkempt, but it covered more than 2,000 square feet, according to the property records, although this included the garage. At $230,000, the valuation was at the lower end of the scale, so Dolors owned a lot of house for her buck. It could have done with some TLC, because the woodwork was rotting in places. Will Quinn would certainly be able to oblige. Dolors might have been dating him for the discount.

In the days before the Gramm-Leach-Bliley Act, the Driver’s Privacy Protection Act, and reforms to the Fair Credit Reporting Act, it was relatively easy for private investigators to obtain credit reports. Now it required signed waivers from the subject and tedious discussions of the definition of “permissible purposes.” Backdoor lines of inquiry remained available, but they were expensive and carried with them the risk of the suspension of one’s license and the threat of jail time. When it came to antagonizing the law, I’d already spent my nine lives, and a couple of others on credit. Wherever possible, I preferred to tread the path of righteousness. If I was going to be hanged, I wanted it to be for something memorable.

I called Will Quinn for a second time while I sat outside Dolors Strange’s property.

“This is a delicate question,” I said, “but how is Dolors doing financially?”

“I don’t know all the details, but not great. She quietly remortgaged her home after that mess in ’08 in order to keep Strange Brews in business. She’s about breaking even, or so she says.”

“You don’t believe her?”

“In my experience, a business owner will tell you things are worse than they are, or better than they are, but never how they are. I think Dolors is putting a brave face on a bad situation, and with the remortgage she’s carrying a lot of debt. I did offer to help her out.”

“And?”

“My ear still hurts from the rebuff.”

“What about Ambar?”

“Dolors owes her money, too. After they reconciled, Ambar also remortgaged her home, and put part of the cash into Strange Brews. She invested most of what was left.”

“In what?”

“According to Dolors, in Raum Buker.”

---