Bitch Creek (13 page)

He pulled in behind the Saab, shut off the ignition, and turned to Ralph. “You sit tight,” he said. “I shouldn't be too long.”

He climbed the front steps and rang the bell.

A minute later the door opened. “You're Mr. Calhoun?” she said.

She was cute in a short, chubby sort of way, with a helmet of tight blond curls, a round face, a stubby little nose, and a small, pouty mouth. Behind her glasses, her grayish eyes were red and swollen.

“Yes, ma'am,” said Calhoun.

She pushed open the screen door. “Well, come on in, then. I've got some coffee on.” She was wearing tight-fitting blue jeans, a green flannel shirt knotted over her belly, and her feet were bare. She led him into a living room of glass and chrome and pale oak furniture. It was dominated by an incongruous six-point whitetail's head, which gazed balefully down from the wall above the brick fireplace. “Have a seat,” she said. “How do you take it?”

“Huh?”

“Your coffee. Black, I bet.”

“Milk, no sugar, actually,” he said. “I got used to having milk in it because my dog prefers it that way.”

She gave him a quick puzzled smile, then left the room.

Calhoun sat on the sofa. Current issues of
Field & Stream, Shooting Sportsman,
and
American Angler
were scattered on the glass-topped coffee table, and in the corner bookcase he noticed titles by Jack O'Connor, Robert Ruark, Ray Bergman, Nick Lyons, Sparse Grey Hackle, Roderick Haig-Brown—

“Here you go.” Penny Moulton, in her bare feet, had padded up behind his deaf left side. She handed a mug to Calhoun. “Hope I got the milk right.”

“I'm not fussy,” said Calhoun.

She sat on the sofa beside him. “I've been crying ever since you called. Tell me what happened, please.”

He sipped his coffee, then put the mug down and recounted his discovery of Lyle's body in the millpond. “I guess Lyle drowned,” he said. “It appears that his float tube sprang a leak and he got stuck in the peaty bottom, couldn't get out.”

She shook her head. “That makes no sense, Mr. Calhoun. I've been fishing and hunting with Lyle. He wouldn't drown in some little millpond. If he got stuck in the mud, he'd just slip out of his waders and swim away.”

Up close, Penny Moulton looked older—thirty, minimum, a few years older than Lyle. She had the beginnings of crow's feet at the corners of her eyes, as if she'd spent a lot of time squinting into sunrises.

“I thought of that,” said Calhoun. “And he wasn't stuck in the mud when I found him. But I can't figure anything else.”

“He was with a client, wasn't he?”

“Yes.”

“Did you talk to him?”

“The client? Not yet.”

“Why not?”

“We can't find him.”

She frowned. “I don't get it. You mean Lyle was fishing with a client, and he drowned, and that client didn't stick around?”

“That's how it looks, miss.”

“And you don't find that peculiar?”

“I find it very peculiar,” he said. “Didn't you tell me Lyle called you before . . .”

“Before he died,” she finished. “Yes, he did. Twice, as a matter of fact. Once to tell me he had a guide trip over in this neck of the woods, would I like to make dinner for him when he was done. Which, of course, I said I would, because I could never say no to Lyle McMahan regardless of how long it might've been since I'd heard from him. Then he called again a couple hours later when I was at work, just saying he wouldn't be late, that we could plan to eat around eight and he figured he'd be over in time to have a beer or two beforehand. Lyle was considerate that way. Making sure the food would be ready when he was ready to eat it, you know?”

Calhoun smiled. “Where was he calling from, did he say?”

“First time he said he was home. Second time he and his client were dropping off one of the cars and there was a pay phone right there.” She hesitated, gave Calhoun a sad smile, then shook her head. “So Lyle, being all sweet the way he could be, decided to get me to thinking about him. Which, of course, I did.” She took off her glasses and rubbed her eyes. “I scarcely believe this, Mr. Calhoun. I've got to tell you. Lyle McMahan had a lot of girlfriends, I always knew that. I was just one of them, and I might've wished I was the only one, but I knew I wasn't. I could live with that. There aren't that many sweet, cute guys in this part of the world who are also smart and funny like Lyle. Know what I mean?”

Calhoun nodded. “Did Lyle mention anything about where he was headed, or anything about his client, when he talked to you?”

She cleaned her glasses on her shirt. Then she fitted them back on her face and poked them up onto the bridge of her nose with her forefinger. “He sounded pretty enthusiastic,” she said. “I mean, Lyle was an enthusiastic man. He could get all bubbly, start dancing around if he spotted an osprey or a mink or something, and I loved that about him. His client was interested in local history, he said, and you know how Lyle grooved on that stuff. Probably talked the poor man's ear off. They were setting out on what he liked to call an ex-plore. They were looking for some trout pond that Lyle had never been to, but it was almost as if the fishing wasn't even important.”

“How so?” said Calhoun.

She shrugged. “Just the way he mentioned this client's interest in history, I guess. Nothing really specific.”

Calhoun nodded and took a sip of his coffee. “How did you meet Lyle?”

“A mutual friend introduced us. A lady who knows I like to hunt and fish, said she knew a guy who'd appreciate a woman who could shoot a rifle and cast a fly.” She shook her head. “Funny thing is, we hardly ever went hunting or fishing. The truth is, Lyle loved screwing even more than shooting and fly casting.” She cocked her head and looked at him. “Oh, sorry. Did I shock you, Mr. Calhoun?”

He shrugged. “A little. Not about Lyle. But you saying it that way.”

She folded her hands in her lap. “Sorry.”

“So did you shoot that buck?” He pointed up at the mounted deer head over the fireplace.

“I sure did. Neck shot from about seventy yards. Dropped him in his tracks. Helluva shot, if I do say so. That was two seasons ago, up near Greenville, which is where I grew up. Lyle and I had that in common. Growing up in the woods around here, prowling around with rods and guns as soon as we could walk.” She blinked away the tears that had welled up in her eyes. “Damn. I did love him, Mr. Calhoun.”

“So did I.” Calhoun pushed himself up from the sofa. “Well, I just wanted to tell you about it in person. Thought maybe you'd know how I could get ahold of his family.”

She stood up. “Far as I know, he doesn't have any. What he told me, his folks both died, and he was an only child. He might have cousins or something, but I don't know about that.”

Calhoun nodded and turned for the door. She followed him, and when he opened it she put her hand on his arm. “You don't really think he just panicked, got stuck in the mud and drowned, do you?”

“Knowing Lyle, it doesn't make much sense,” he said. “But that's sure how it looks.”

“It doesn't make any sense at all,” she said.

She walked barefoot to the truck with him, and when she saw Ralph sitting there on the front seat, she said, “Oh, a Brittany. I love Brittanies. What's his name?”

“Ralph Waldo. I call him Ralph.”

“An independent critter, I bet.”

“A regular transcendentalist.”

She poked her hand in through the cracked-open window, and Ralph obligingly licked it.

Calhoun slid in behind the wheel and rolled his window down. Penny Moulton came around to his side. She reached in and touched his arm. “Thank you,” she said. “It was very kind of you to come talk to me.”

He nodded. “Sure.” He turned the key in the ignition and she stepped back from the truck. He threw it into reverse, then hesitated. “Ah, Penny?”

“Yes, Mr. Calhoun?”

“When Lyle called you? That second time? He was at a pay phone, you said.”

She nodded.

“Said it was right there where they were leaving one of their vehicles?”

“Un-huh.” She frowned. “Yes. That's right. Why?”

He shrugged. “Probably nothing. Look—you take care of yourself.” He lifted his hand, then backed out of her driveway.

As he pulled away, he glanced back. Penny Moulton was standing there in the driveway, hugging herself as if she were cold, although in fact it was coming to the end of a long, hot, muggy June day in Maine.

Back in the village of Standish, he pulled to the side at the crossroads. A left turn would take him to Portland, where he might drop into the shop and see Kate. He needed to see Kate badly. She was coming over tonight, she'd promised him that. But he wasn't sure he could wait. The left would also take him to Lyle's house in South Portland, where he would have to break the news to the housemates sooner or later.

Straight across the crossroads hooked him onto the road back to Dublin. He wouldn't mind spending an hour sitting on the slab of granite beside Bitch Creek with Ralph beside him peering at the trout, which should start rising as soon as the sun was off the water. Drink a cold Coke, watch the mayflies, calculate how he might catch those trout if he ever wanted to actually try it, and do some thinking.

It didn't make any sense, Penny Moulton had said. She was right. Lyle was too damned resourceful to drown in a little millpond, no matter how peaty the bottom was.

He shut his eyes and conjured up the picture of the parking lot behind the South Riley Elementary School. He didn't understand how it worked—hell, there were big chunks of his life he couldn't remember at all, and most of the rest of it was all blurry—but he'd found that he could re-create mind-pictures of events since the hospital as sharp and detailed as photographs, and he was able to hold them there in his mind's eye so he could study them. Now he saw each of the cars parked behind the school, remembered their colors and makes and models, the new ones and the older ones, with Lyle's big old Dodge Power Wagon off to the side, nosed up to the playground. He saw the swing sets and the seesaws and the jungle bars, the earth under them worn bare from years of elementary-school sneakers. He saw the back of the school, many of the windows hung with penmanship samples and big colorful fingerpaintings.

He scanned the vivid mental picture, moving his eyes slowly over the details. He saw no pay phone anywhere.

He took the right at the crossroads and headed for South Riley.

The parking lot was almost empty. Lyle's truck was still there. An old Toyota pickup and a newish Ford Bronco were the only other vehicles. School was out and all the teachers had left for the day.

He got out and held the door for Ralph, who sauntered over to the Bronco and lifted his leg against the right rear tire.

Calhoun turned around slowly, comparing the actual place with his mental snapshot of it.

No pay phone.

Ralph had wandered over to the swing set, another prime leglifting spot. Calhoun whistled, and Ralph swiveled his head around, shrugged in that I'm-only-obeying-because-I-feel-like-it way of his, and trotted over.

Calhoun turned back to his truck.

“You come for that vehicle, mister?”

He turned and saw Miss Russo, the janitor, standing there with her hands on her hips.

“No,” he said. “The sheriff will be coming for it. Actually, I was wondering if there's a pay phone nearby?”

“You gotta go back to town,” she said, jerking her head in a southerly direction. “Couple miles down the road on the left-hand side, you'll come to Harry Bogan's garage. They got one inside, though they're probably closed by now, come to think of it.”

“I meant here,” he said. “Maybe inside the school building.”

“If it's an emergency, I can let you use the phone in the office.”

“But no pay phone?”

“No, but it's no problem, mister, provided it's a local call. I can't let you make a toll call. You understand.”

He smiled. “That's all right. Thanks anyway. I guess no one's come around looking at the Power Wagon, huh?”

“Just you,” she said.

“Well, it'll be gone soon.” He whistled again to Ralph, who was snuffling along the edge of the woods beyond the parking lot. Ralph came trotting over, and Calhoun opened the truck door so he could hop in.

He turned to Miss Russo. “Thanks again, ma'am,” he said. Then he got in beside Ralph, started up the engine, and headed back to Dublin.

“Okay,” he said to Ralph as he drove. “Help me out here. If Lyle called Penny Moulton from a pay phone, and if the phone was right there where he was leaving that rented Taurus so he and Mr. Fred Green could take the Power Wagon over the back roads, then if I'm not completely crazy, which is certainly subject to debate, it means they did
not
leave the Taurus behind the school, since there's no pay phone there. Which confuses the hell out of me, Ralph, because I can't figure how Mr. Green managed to get Lyle's truck behind the school if his Taurus was somewhere else. You see my problem?”

Ralph just sat there with his nose pressed up to the windshield, offering no help at all.

A
FTER HE GOT HOME
, Calhoun fed Ralph and then they went out to sit on the deck. He listened to Bitch Creek burble over the pebbly streambottom and around the rocks. The breeze sighed in the pines. A barred owl hooted from somewhere in the distance as darkness descended.

He rocked and drank Coke and gazed up at the night sky and thought about Lyle and tried not to think about Kate.

She'd get there when she got there, and thinking about it wouldn't bring her there any faster.

When he checked the time, it was almost midnight.