FrostLine (29 page)

“If you weren't killing Dicky, where were you? What's in the box?”

They traded another long look and some resigned nods. Albert spoke. “Don't tell nobody, okay?”

“That depends on what's in the box.”

Dennis wrung his hands. “We didn't kill Dicky.”

“Show me!”

Albert lurched to his knees and opened the dynamite box. I was praying it didn't hold bloody ax handles; my cousins were just dumb enough to hide them instead of burning them.

I was not expecting Veuve Clicquot champagne.

“Don't tell Mr. King, he'll fire us,” groaned Albert.

Dennis explained, “That's why we lied about seeing Mr. Butler and the calf. We were afraid they'd find out we took the bottles home. So when you asked about Mr. Butler, we figured we were covered.”

“What did you steal it for? You jerks. You got good jobs. You got a neat truck. He's paying you regular. Wha'd you steal his champagne for?”

“He wouldn't let us run the gate during the party,” Albert explained sullenly.

“And the stuff was just sitting there in the back of a van,” Dennis furthered the explanation with righteous logic. “Sat there for an hour. We figured, they got so much they ain't going to miss it.”

“How much you got left?”

“All of it. We ain't touched it.”

“Well, why don't you take it back? Say you found it in the woods. Like maybe somebody stashed it to steal later, then couldn't come back with all the new security after the explosion.”

“We went to the Liquor Locker. Steve says the stuff costs like sixty bucks a bottle?”

“That's what Steve would charge.”

“We was wondering like maybe we could—”

“Take it back.”

“Okay, Ben. If you say so.”

They were very contrite. But when they actually apologized, I got suspicious. “Wait a moment, guys.”

“Hey, we're late for work, Ben.”

“This'll just take a minute.”

“What'll just take a minute? We gotta go. What are you doing? Careful!”

I opened the box again and lifted out a bottle of champagne. And another. And a third. And there in the bottom was an unpleasant-looking stash of dynamite sticks.

“Well, what do we have here?”

“Dynamite.”

“Hidden dynamite,” I corrected. “Have you been turning this?”

“Yeah.”

Thank God for small favors.

“Let's walk it way outside and then you'll tell me where it came from.”

I carried it myself after offloading the Veuve Clicquot. They shambled after me like arthritic hounds tracking their dinner plates. I made several trips onto the wet grass and noticed something peculiar. There was a variety of dynamite types. Some was ditching dynamite, 50% strength. Some was marked Special Gelatine 60%. Other sticks were labeled Extra, at 40%. I didn't know much about dynamite, but clearly the sticks, which varied from five to eight inches in length, had not all been purchased in the same batch.

“Okay, guys. Where did it come from?”

“I don't know. We had it around,” said Albert, and Dennis volunteered, “I think Grandpa left it.”

“Your grandfather's been dead twenty years. I'm going to call Trooper Moody if you don't tell me where it came from. Did you rob another highway job?”

“No.”

“Where'd it come from?”

“Found it up at King's.”

“
King's
?” How had such a motley collection of dynamite ended up at Fox Trot?

Dennis claimed they'd found it in a construction shed. “Figured, what the hell, you can always use some dynamite. Right?”

Henry King's imported house builders had not been the country-casual sort to leave explosives behind.

“I'm calling Trooper Moody.”

“No!”

“Why?”

“You're lying.”

“Tell him,” said Albert.

“Shut up.”

“Tell me.”

“Okay, okay,” and opened up with what sounded like an even bigger whopper. “Mr. King sent us up to Butler's to steal his dynamite and we—”

“What?”

“Mr. King said Old Man Butler was going to blow up Fox Trot if we didn't take his dynamite away so we snuck up there and stole it. Like he told us to.”

“Oh really? Wha'd you do with it?”

“Stashed it where Mr. King showed us in the shed we told you about.”

“And kept some for yourselves?”

“No! Not his main stash. Just these little extras.”

“They was loose in a little box,” Albert chimed in, “and we was all out. Nobody'll miss 'em.”

“Boys, if I could just recapitulate…you robbed Mr. Butler's dynamite for Mr. King. Except for this dynamite which you kept from Mr. King? Okay? Couple of questions. How'd you happen to get past DaNang?”

“The dog wasn't there.”

“And Mr. Butler?”

“He was gone too.”

“Convenient, seeing as how he rarely left his property.”

“Mr. King told us the coast was clear, they was in Newbury.”

At the General Store, telephoning his detonator. “How about Dicky?”

“Didn't see him.”

Sleeping it off in the woodlot. What the hell—

“Could I ask you guys a question? Did you ever wonder about a connection between the dynamite you stole from Mr. Butler and the bombing of Mr. King's dam?”

“Sure, Ben,” said Dennis. “We're not stupid. What happened was, me and Albert was too late. Butler set his charge before we stole his dynamite. Weren't our fault,” he added, little pig eyes brimful of honesty, and I knew he believed that Henry King had taken precautions, too late.

I drove back to Newbury, very confused.

If my cousins had just joined Trooper Moody and J.J. Topkis in the pantheon of the somewhat innocent, I still couldn't believe that a twenty-million-dollar-a-year diplomat to the stars would kill a man to steal his farm.

Josh Wiggens, maybe, thinking he was doing Henry a favor?

Or could Josh have set King up for a fall, hoping to catch Julia on the rebound?

Bert Wills sticking it to Henry, to avenge old insults and land Mrs. King and all she'd reap in divorce?

Great motivation, except Bert didn't seem brave enough.

Chapter 28

When I am very confused, or feeling very low, I throw myself into a physical project, like turning over the ground for a new garden—which in New England is about as physical as you can get short of organizing a granite quarry—or building something outdoors, which requires more muscle than cabinet-making skills. I was completely bewildered about who killed Dicky Butler, and further confused because I was not comfortable with the handsome check I received from the Butler defense fund for my services, considering how lame they had been, and the source of the money. I was also deeply pessimistic about any future with Julia, who had made it damn clear where her heart lay.

So, confused and low, I made a deal with Scooter MacKay to let me build a corral off the backside of his barn. School had started. For several days, after Alison left in the morning, I spent the day alone, digging holes in the ground, pounding posts, driving sixteen-penny nails, and thinking hard. When I was done I invited Vicky over, ostensibly to show her what I had built, but really for a cup of coffee with a friendly ear I didn't deserve. She listened to me ramble while we waited for Alison to come home. I admitted that I was still nowhere closer to helping Mr. Butler, and couldn't imagine Henry King killing somebody with his own hands, even though I suspected that Josh Wiggens or Bert Wills might have done it for or against him.

Vicky said, “What do you really mean to say to me?”

I tried to distill what Marian had accused me of—of losing perspective by sleeping with witnesses—down to something clear. “I feel I've screwed up. That poor man would be home now if I had kept a clearer head.”

“Penance? Is that why you—” she pointed out the window in the direction of Scooter's barn.

“It's a start.”

“Or another dodge.”

“I'm trying to change.”

“To what?”

When I finally finished mumbling and er-ing and ah-ing, she said, coolly, “My own experience with broken hearts tells me that ‘transformation' that sticks won't happen until after you heal your heart. When you can live with yourself again, by yourself,
then
you can start transforming.”

“All I'm trying to say is I'm trying.”

“I wish you luck.” She reached across the table as if to lay her hand on mine, but quickly changed her mind, and ran it through her curls instead.

DaNang started thumping his tail.

“Here comes Alison.”

“Ben, listen,” Vicky said, quickly, “you're not a terrible person, you're just…”

I waited, wondering what?

“…not someone you can count on.”

Alison clumped up the back steps before I could admit that that sounded like a prerequisite for terrible.

“Hey, you. How was school?”

“Okay.” She looked surprised to see Vicky, and asked what I usually asked when I saw Vicky outside of Town Hall. “Who's running Newbury?”

“I just stopped by for coffee.”

I asked, “Would you like to meet a new friend?”

Alison looked wary. “What do you mean?”

“Someone to play with. Want to see?”

“Where?” she breathed, trying to look past me into the kitchen, hope kindling in her eyes.

“He's next door,” I said. “Over at Scooter's.”

She looked dubiously at the formidable hedge that separated our yards. “Naomi didn't have a litter.”

“Let's have a look.” I led her and Vicky through the hedge where it grows thin in the shade of our side-by-side barns, mine red, Scooter's bigger and white. Her eyes got big at the sight of a new split rail fence.

Vicky passed her a carrot. She stared at it, afraid to look up and be disappointed. When she did, she gave as satisfying a gasp as I'd ever heard from another human being.

“His name is Redman,” I told her. “He's a little big for you, but you'll grow into him.”

“Oh, wow!”

“Need help getting aboard?”

“I can do it.” She passed the carrot over the fence. Redman demolished it with teeth like piano keys, and nuzzled her palm for more. She stroked his nose and let him smell her. When she climbed the corral fence, the stallion stood like the patient middle-aged thoroughbred he was, although he skittered a little as she scrambled into the saddle, causing Vicky to tense up beside me.

With the quick physical ease with which she was blessed, Alison leaned over and adjusted her stirrups.

“Connie! Look at my horse!”

Connie was negotiating cautiously across the lawn on Scooter's arm. She waved her silver-headed walking stick. “What a handsome horse!”

To me, in hushed but stern tones, she said, “Benjamin, have you any idea how much these animals eat?”

“Worth it.”

Scooter remarked that when you added up the stall I'd built secretly in his barn while Alison was at school, and the corral, and the hay I'd humped up into the loft, no one in Newbury had ever gone to so much trouble not to get a cat.

“Worth it.”

Redman's ears got suddenly sharp and swiveled toward Main Street. Around Scooter's house came Ira Roth, from whose tax-shelter horse farm I'd acquired Redman in exchange for my share of the Butler Defense fund plus a promise of too many hours of free future investigation. He was carrying a liquor box under one arm and wearing a Stetson hat, which he removed with a flourish for Connie.

“Hello, Miss Abbott.”

Connie's “Good afternoon, Ira,” would have caused an Eskimo to button up her sealskins.

“Hello, Vicky. Hello, Scooter. Hello, Redman, how are you getting on here? Little girl, you got yourself a crackerjack. He was a heck of a race horse.”

“Ira,” said Connie. “He looks high strung. Is she all right on him?”

“Perfectly safe as long as Redman's got his pet.”

“Pet?” I asked. “What do you mean, his pet?”

“Race stallions generally have a monkey or rabbit that lives with them to keep 'em on an even keel.”

“Are you telling me this horse comes with a monkey?”

“No,” Ira laughed. “You're such a kidder, Ben. No monkey. Just Tom.”

“Tom?”

“Here. My groom forgot this when you picked him up.” He pressed the liquor box into my hands and backed away.

“What's in the box, Ben?” asked Alison, her hands suddenly full of excited horse.

“He smells him,” called Ira. “You can let Tom out now. Don't worry. He won't run away.”

“I'm not worried.” I put the box down. Scooter opened the flaps. A grim eye peered up. Redman gave a delirious snort. The occupant of the box climbed out, stalked to the corral, and let the horse stroke his back with his huge nose.

“Wow!” yelled Alison.

“Looks like a cat,” said Scooter.

He was “Tom” as in “conspicuously unaltered tom,” with a long lanky body and a hunter's head that surveyed his surroundings as mercilessly as a praying mantis.

“At least he'll live in the barn.”

Ira Roth, still backing, called, “Most of the time.”

“If he's the horse's pet, it stands to reason he's going live with the horse.”

“Except, they're like a couple of old bachelors. Good friends, until they get bent out of shape over some darned thing and Tom stalks off to the house for a couple of weeks.”

“Whose house?”

“Not mine,” said Scooter. “We got our hands full with Naomi.”

“Mom's allergic,” Alison called down from Redman.

“Mine's too far,” said Vicky. “Besides, I'm sure Tom would prefer the company of someone who sits around the house all day waiting for the phone to ring.”

I turned to Aunt Connie. Her house was right across the street. With any luck, while crossing one night, Tom might hop a truck to Massachusetts and Redman would make friends with a squirrel.

“I'm so sorry,” said Connie. “But, as you couldn't resist reminding me the other night, I already have a cat.”

And damned if the very next day I didn't come home to find the animal chowing down at DaNang's dish in the kitchen. Alison was hunched over the table and didn't look up when I asked, as restrainedly as I could, “Don't tell me those two had an argument already.” Then I noticed Tom's back was wet, as if somebody had sprinkled his fur with a watering can.

“How'd he get wet? It's not raining.”

Alison finally looked up. Her face was red. Tears were streaming down her cheeks.

“What's the matter, sweetie? Redman okay?”

“Mr. Butler took DaNang.”

“He's out?”

“DaNang just jumped in the truck. Like he never said goodbye or even looked back. Mr. Butler whistled and it was like he was never here.”

“We'll visit him.”

I dialed Tim. “Hey, congratulations.”

“For what?”

“For springing Mr. Butler.”

“I didn't spring Mr. Butler.”

“He was just here. He got the dog.”

“You're kidding. Ira must have—I'll call you back.”

Typical Ira, I thought, grandstand Mr. Butler's bail approval and neglect to inform Tim, who had done all the work.

Alison said, “I want a belly ring.”

“No, you can't have a belly ring. You're not even old enough to have a belly.”

I had to figure some way to lean on Henry King.

“I really, really want a belly ring.”

“It would get tangled in Redman's mane.”

The phone rang. Tim, sounding a lot more hysterical than I liked my lawyers.

“
Butler escaped
!”

“No way.”

“Blew the door right off his cell!”

“With what?”

“They think his vet buddy slipped him C-4. I don't believe it. I'm now representing an escaped prisoner old enough to be my father. He blinded the guards with a flash bomb, hotwired a truck, and took off.”

“I don't believe it either. Where'd his buddy get plastic explosive?”

“You don't need much—they could have smuggled it in a cupcake.”

“Who was this buddy?”

“That old homeless guy who kept visiting? The guards said he always calmed him down—I can't understand how that crazy old farmer got past the roadblocks. The troopers sealed off Plainfield. He still got away.”

Tim didn't understand that his client had been a warrior.

“He took the guards' guns.”

“Jail guards don't carry guns.”

“Blew open their weapons locker.”

I ran for the door.

The troopers hunted armed quarry by stricter rules—hardly news to the kindly soul who had slipped Mr. Butler his C-4.

“Alison! Where's your mom?”

“Cleaning.”

“Go over to Connie's. Tell her I told you to stay with her.”

“Why?”

“Mr. Butler escaped from prison. Cops'll be here any minute.”

“He did?”

“Go. Now.”

“Okay. Okay.”

“Wait. Did you talk to him?”

“No. He just whistled. If I hadn't opened the door DaNang would have jumped right through the screen—Ben, will the cops hurt DaNang?”

“What was he driving?”

“His truck.”

“His
own
truck?”

“Old Blue. The Ford 1500.”

“You sure? You actually saw the truck?”

“Yeah, it was all loaded up with wood.”

“Wood? Firewood?”

“Boards. It was really full. DaNang had to ride inside.”

Last I'd seen it had been parked empty in the barn.

“Okay. Tell Connie Mr. Butler escaped from prison and I don't want you in this house if the cops come looking for him here.”

“Where are you going?”

“To find him first.”