Emerson Ward Mysteries

Death Is No Bargain is the fifth novel in the Emerson Ward mystery series out in hardcover from Five Star Publishing (March, 2006, $25.95 ISBN: 1-59414-368-4).

The low oak coffee table gleamed under a fresh coat of varnish. It had taken three days of a couple of odd hours stolen here and there to strip, sand, reseal, sand, and finish, but now after the third coat of varnish, the table was evidence of a worthwhile expenditure of energy. The dark grain looked a mile deep beneath the gloss. Two more coats with light sandings between each, and the table would be mirror-smooth.
I sat back admiring my own handiwork with a just-opened, icy-cold Carta Blanca in hand. It wasn't an indoor project; the fumes were more intoxicating than the beer. But I'd been afraid that the tacky varnish would pick up dust if I'd tried to refinish the table outside on the patio. A fan whirred softly, barely stirring the muggy air and rustling the splattered newspapers on the living room floor, but it was enough to make me resolve not to move until my shirt detached itself from my skin. The central air conditioning was on the fritz, and despite repeated calls, a service man wouldn't come for yet another day. The stereo was tuned to a soft FM station, and with what seemed like astonishing regularity, the announcer ticked off increasing increments of rising mercury, promising that it would hit 100 before the afternoon was over.
I'd been out earlier in the day and now had no desire to step out of the relative coolness of the Chicago brownstone I call home into the blast furnace the city had become under a hot July sun. It was a peaceful afternoon -- anybody with any brains was either immersed in cool water somewhere, napping in an air-conditioned room, or taking advantage of what little breeze there was and sitting in the shade with a cold drink in hand. The peace was only occasionally disturbed by the distant scream of a siren echoing down glass-walled canyons, heading for the beach -- a patrol car to break up a fight, or the emergency wagon to claim another victim of sunstroke.
Somebody pushed the doorbell labeled "Emerson W. Ward," jangling me out of what could have become a terminal case of lethargy. Moving in the heat was not appealing -- like taking a shower in tepid salt water -- but I managed to drag myself out of the chair and away from the fan. The damn varnish was going to take forever to dry in that humidity. On the doorstep, waiting to step out of the past and into my present, was Larry Forrester. It was not the most pleasant of surprises.
"Hey, Ward, long time no see." The smile was hesitant and forced, an attempt at geniality he wasn't sure he felt. He stuck out a fleshy paw that I ignored, and it dangled there awkwardly for a moment until he yanked it away in embarrassment and wiped it on his trousers.
"No hard feelings, huh? That was all a while ago, Ward." The concern in his voice was touching.
"No hard feelings, Larry."
He fidgeted, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, unable to meet my gaze. "Uh, mind if I come in?"
I shrugged my shoulders and swung the door open. He didn't look well. Sweat poured off his pasty face into his loosened collar and had stained the armpits of the gray, light wool suit coat. The waistline had grown some, and the black curly hair had receded and grown grayer around the edges. There was a black circle of grime around his neck under the double chin, and it looked like he hadn't seen sunlight for years. Small, beady eyes peered out from the puffy face, watery and bloodshot. He looked a lot older than the last time I'd seen him.
"Like a drink? Beer, or iced tea?"
"Yeah, thanks. Tall bourbon-water, lots of ice."
I retrieved a glass with ice and water from the kitchen, then topped it off with bourbon from the living room bar. "Listen, Larry," I said, handing it to him, "if you don't mind waiting a minute, I'm going to grab a quick shower before I succumb to my own smell."
"No, go ahead. Take your time."
I wanted time to let my annoyance pass, and secretly hoped that he'd quietly go away while I was in the shower. Lawrence T. Forrester was an unlikeable man personally, but smart enough to take over the reigns of a family-owned food company in the northern suburbs and turn it into a hundred million dollar business. His father, Lawrence A., had sold products to local delicatessans. When he died, Larry and his brother borrowed the money to build a refrigerated processing plant, expanded the business, sold out to a big conglomerate, bought the company back through an LBO, then sold out again years later for even more money to a major food processor. He shot from the hip, riding roughshod over most people. I hadn't let him do it to me, so he was still wary, apparently.
Larry was the sort I normally go out of my way to avoid, but I'd had no choice after finding Ellen. She'd stood out like a sheep among wolves that Saturday on the beach a year earlier...