Phantoms

eight times, she wouldn’t be the only damned corpse in the room.”
    “Right,” Frank said, though he disliked having to agree with Stu Wargle about anything. “Besides, there’s no blood. Eight hits would mean a lot of blood.”
    Wargle went to the foot of the bed and stared at the dead woman. She was propped up by a couple of plump pillows, and her legs were spread in a grotesque parody of desire. “The guy in the kitchen must’ve been in here, screwing this broad,” Wargle said. “When he was finished with her, he went into the kitchen to get them somethin’ to eat. While they was separated, someone came in and killed her.”
    “They killed the man in the kitchen first,” Frank said. “He couldn’t have been taken by surprise if he’d been attacked after she fired ten shots.”
    Wargle said, “Man, I sure wish I’d spent all day in the sack with a broad like that.”
    Frank gaped at him, “Wargle, you’re disgusting. Are you even turned on by a bloated corpse—just because it’s naked?”
    Wargle’s face reddened, and he looked away from the corpse. “What the hell’s the matter with you, Frank? What d’ya think I am —some kind of pervert? Huh? Hell, no . I seen that picture over on the nightstand.” He pointed to a silver-framed photograph beside the lamp. “See, she’s wearin’ a bikini. You can see she was a hell of a nice-lookin’ broad. Big jugs on her. Great legs, too. That’s what turned me on, pal.”
    Frank shook his head. “I’m just amazed that anything could turn you on in the midst of this , in the midst of so much death.”
    Wargle thought it was a compliment. He winked.
    If I get out of this business alive, Frank thought, I won’t ever let Bryce Hammond partner me with Wargle. I’ll quit first.
    Gordy Brogan said, “How could she have made eight hits and not have stopped something? How come there’s not one drop of blood?”
    Jake Johnson pushed a hand through his white hair again. “I don’t know, Gordy. But one thing I do know—I sure wish Bryce’d never picked me to come up here.”
     
    Next to the art gallery, the sign on the front of the quaint, two-story building read:
     
    BROOKHART’S
    BEER WINE LIQUOR TOBACCO
    MAGAZINES NEWSPAPERS BOOKS
     
    The lights were on, and the door was unlocked. Brookhart’s stayed open until nine even on Sunday evenings during the off season.
    Bryce went in first, followed by Jennifer and Lisa Paige. Tal entered last. When choosing a man to protect his back in a dangerous situation, Bryce always preferred Tal Whitman. He trusted no one else as much as he trusted Tal, not even Frank Autry.
    Brookhart’s was a cluttered place, but curiously warm and pleasing. There were tall glass-doored coolers filled with cans and bottles of beer, shelves and racks and bins laden with bottles of wine and liquor, and other racks brimming with paperbacks, magazines, and newspapers. Cigars and cigarettes were stacked in boxes and cartons, and tins of pipe tobacco were displayed in haphazard mounds on several countertops. A variety of goodies were tucked in wherever there was space: candy bars, Life-Savers, chewing gum, peanuts, popcorn, pretzels, potato chips, corn twisties, tortilla chips.
    Bryce led the way through the deserted store, looking for bodies in the aisles. But there were none.
    There was, however, an enormous puddle of water, about an inch deep, that covered half the floor. They stepped gingerly around it.
    “Where’d all this water come from?” Lisa wondered.
    “Must be a leak in the condensation pan under one of the beer coolers,” Tal Whitman said.
    They came around the end of a wine bin and got a good look at all of the coolers. There was no water anywhere near those softly humming appliances.
    “Maybe there’s a leak in the plumbing,” Jennifer Paige said.
    They continued their exploration, descending into the cellar, which was used for the storage of wine and booze in cardboard cases, then going up to the top floor, above the store, where there was an office. They found nothing out of the ordinary.
    In the store again, heading toward the front door, Bryce stopped and hunkered down for a closer look at the puddle on the floor. He moistened one fingertip in the stuff, it felt like water, and it was odorless.
    “What’s wrong?” Tal asked.
    Standing again, Bryce said, “It’s odd—all this water here.”
    Tal said, “Most likely, it’s what Dr. Paige said—only a leak in the plumbing.”
    Bryce nodded.