Blues of Autumn by Richard Adamson

Author:Richard Adamson [Adamson, Richard]
Language: eng
Format: epub, azw3
Publisher: Black Rose Writing
Published: 2020-03-31T22:00:00+00:00

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Sixteen-and-a-half Florence turned out to be a two-story clapboard semi-detached house, one of six identical semis that backed onto a herniated bulge of river water called Tannery Bay. The area was so-named because, back at the turn of the century, leather was cured here. These modest homes, originally built to house the workers of the long-defunct tannery, were now rented to seasonal employees of the local resorts – college kids during the summer, ski pros during the winter, and a handful of the Albion Hotel’s strippers during fall hunting season.

The homes had no driveways, so I parked my car at the curb and walked up to Arden’s door. I tried ringing the bell, but either I’d gone deaf or it wasn’t connected. So I knocked.

A woman’s voice tumbled down from above, “Leave her the fuck alone.”

I looked up to see a thirty-something woman leaning out the upstairs window of the adjoining unit. “Afternoon,” I offered.

She didn’t answer. She was too busy chewing her gum. She pulled a dirty terrycloth bathrobe back up over a bare shoulder. No makeup. Her hair was still dripping wet. I couldn’t help wondering to myself, who chews gum in the shower?

The air temperature out here was barely above freezing, so I called up, “You’re going to catch your death of cold.”

“It won’t be all I’ve caught in this dump,” she said, scratching herself somewhere below the windowsill.

“Arden here?”

“Who wants to know?”

I found this an odd question considering I was wearing my uniform and driving a marked patrol car. But I played along. “Glen Echo Police.”

“No shit?” The woman squinted toward my patrol car. “Can’t see fuck-all without my lenses. Sierra call you?”

“Yeah, right. Sierra. She called me.” I remembered that name from last week. Sierra was a Ukrainian stripper whom Paul Briar and I had met at the Albion. Nice woman.

The neighbor lady stopped scratching herself long enough to point an accusing finger at some unseen entity. “You tell Sierra to mind her own fuckin’ business.”

I tried the doorknob. It was locked. I asked the itchy lady next door, “You got a key?”

“You got a warrant?”

I leaned against the door. “Oh, I see it’s open.” The century-old rotting wooden jamb didn’t need much of a kick.

I stepped inside the house. “Arden?” I called. Then I tried, “Tara? You in here?” Finally, “Arden Dawes? This is the police. Are you all right?”

A yard sale’s worth of household crap clogged the cluttered hallway – a rusty bicycle, a small hibachi barbecue, some folding lawn chairs, a pile of overcoats – some of them infant-sized – and several cases of empty beer bottles. As I edged my way past a baby carriage, I peeked inside it. The carriage cradled a clean blanket but no baby. I stepped over a pile of winter boots and poked my head into the living room.

The small space looked, and smelled, like Sunday morning at a college dorm.

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