Gourdfellas (11 page)

I was so absorbed in applying the leather dye and watching it run and spread along the gourd surface that I was startled when the telephone rang. I reached for the receiver, nearly spilling a large container of Buckskin all over myself. My voice might have had the slightest edge to it when I said hello.

“Lili?” the familiar male voice asked.

“Tom. You weren’t exactly who I expected when I picked up the phone. Sorry if I sounded weird. I nearly turned myself brown when . . . never mind, you didn’t call to hear my problems. What can I do for you?”

After I’d left messages in Vermont and at his offices in New York City last winter when I was looking for information about money Nora’s husband had invested, Tom Ford had made it clear that he didn’t want me to call him. I’d been more than happy to honor his request. Now he was the one who had crossed that line. What could be important enough for him to violate his own ban and telephone?

“That proposed casino sounds like a little bit of hell about to be dropped into paradise,” he said. “Who can I contact about it?”

I refrained from asking him why anyone would care what he thought about the matter. He’d owned this cottage for five years, had never socialized with a single soul in the community, and then had moved three thousand miles away.

“I guess the mayor or the head of the town council. Mayor’s name is Fred Patronski, and Joseph Trent is the council leader. I’m sure if you write to them at the Walden Corners Administrative Center it will get to them.” If he thought I was going to spend time looking up the address when he could find it just as easily on the Internet, he was missing some marbles. In fact, he could have found Patronski’s and Trent’s names that way, too. And yet he’d phoned me.

“Right, sure, I should have thought of that. Everything all right at the house?”

The answer to that question depended entirely on the person doing the asking. “Fine,” I said. “I’m having some roofing work done, and I put in a garden. Everything’s fine.”

“I miss the place.” I’d never heard him sound wistful before, but the note of longing in his voice was clear. “It’s beautiful here and they have great coffee and it’s a terrific spot to feel the spirit of Manifest Destiny and all that. But it doesn’t have the settled, lush feel of Columbia County. Listen, I read about Marjorie Mellon and the rifle.”

Was he about to solve at least part of the mystery? I held my breath and waited for him to go on.

“I had an idea about how it got there,” he said. “You know that louvered window? The one at the east end of the attic where the fan is? Someone can climb up the maple tree and just push on the fan and drop the rifle in. Pull the fan back into place and that’s that.”

And maybe leave behind fingerprints or clothing fibers. Before I could say more, Tom cleared his throat. “Anyway, I’m sure things will work out for you. But this casino idea—it would be criminal to destroy that part of the Hudson Valley with a casino. Jobs, taxes, reparations—nothing is worth the price of ruining the peace and beauty of the area.”

I sighed. Understanding what it was like to have to scramble for a job was not Tom Ford’s greatest asset. What did he, the manager of a failed mutual fund who had then picked himself up and rebuilt the business so that he could pay off the investors he’d burned, know about real struggle? I doubted whether he’d ever had dinner with someone who had to decide whether to buy groceries or pay for health insurance. His dinner companions were more likely to fret about whether to go to Valencia or Cozumel for a winter break.

When it came right down to it, the real question was whether he’d ever had dinner with someone.

“The people who support the casino think Walden Corners needs to expand its tax base and its employment opportunities,” I explained.

“They’re right. But there are other ways. They don’t have to support a blight. Well, thanks for the information, Lili.”

“Wait!” Before he hung up, I wanted to tap the well of ideas that was his brain. “How else? What would be a good alternative to the casino?”

“I’d need to think about that more before I say. But I’m sure there’s something. Look, I have to go. I’m late for a meeting. I
am
glad that things are working out for you at the cottage.”

Except for the little matter of Marjorie’s murder.

Without waiting for a good-bye from me he hung up, ensuring that my frustration would remain at a simmer for the rest of the hour. I pictured him, dark hair slicked back and tinted glasses shielding his feral green eyes from the sun glare bouncing off Puget Sound. Tom the Arrogant, who took what he needed and then moved on, was terribly efficient at getting a reaction from me. I should have known, should have been prepared. Should have told him to take his request and—

No need to allow those buttons to be pushed, I reminded myself. That gives him the power, and that’s not right. I closed my eyes, let out a whoosh of air, and then started to work on my gourd again. I glanced at the clock. Only five minutes left of Trisha’s session with my brother, and I really wanted to catch her before she left so I could tell her how much I appreciated what she was doing for Neil.

Besides, I liked her. I wiped my hands on my work jeans and got to the living room just in time to see her pack up her equipment. The sound of running water in the bathroom meant that Neil was washing up after his workout.

“I’m so glad you’re helping my brother. When he was trying to figure out what to do for rehab, he perked right up when I told him about you. You’re just the right combination of tough and tender to make him work his hardest. I’m really grateful.”

She bent to secure the buckles on her bag and then stood, face flushed and eyes twinkling. “He’s got the grit. That’ll serve him well.”

I couldn’t read whether she meant serve him well in recovering and playing the second half of the season or serve him well in building a new life without baseball.

“How do you like the change from the big city?” she asked.

Glad for the opening, I said, “Made it through four seasons, and I still love it here. How about you? You seem so at home. You don’t miss New York?”

Her smile made her look even younger, and the twinkle in her eye brightened. “Sometimes I think I married Jonathan just to be able to live in that great house. I love the stillness of winter and the way everything wakes up in the spring. I love the abundance of summer—did you ever can thirty-six quarts of tomatoes? Amazing! Fall—wow, I never seem to get my eyes open wide enough to take in all that spectacular beauty. You’ll have to come for lunch when Neil’s a little more mobile. Our own stream. A meadow surrounded by trees. The crocuses are almost gone, but we’ve got a fantastic tulip bed that should be at its peak next week. And you can’t even hear the traffic from Route 9G or Walden Road.”

Which was right where the casino would be built. No wonder she was so against the whole idea. She was protecting her backyard. Literally.

“The casino would change everything, wouldn’t it? It’s such a complicated issue, so many points on both sides.” Playing the innocent wasn’t my strongest suit, but I hoped Trisha Stern didn’t know me well enough to recognize a change in my tone.

She was still smiling when she said, “Two sides to every question. It does look like enough people are against it that it won’t go through. The people who want that casino are really only halfhearted about it. No match for how passionate the rest of us are about seeing it doesn’t happen. They aren’t well organized, they just spout theories about taxes and justice.”

Not well organized now that Marjorie was dead.

“See you next time,” I said. A glimmer of suspicion flitted into my mind and then floated away. No, Trisha Stern wouldn’t go to
any
length to protect her new life. No way.

She hefted her blue nylon bag onto her shoulder and waited until Neil made his way back to the sofa. When he was settled in, she patted his arm. “You’re really doing great. Don’t forget to do those healing visualizations.”

I watched her walk to her car. Where was Trisha Stern the day that Marjorie was killed? What about her husband and the other families who bordered the ten acre plot just outside of town?

But I didn’t have time to add to my mental list of questions. The spot Trisha’s car had occupied was hardly cool when Seth Selinsky’s silver pickup truck took its place. He carried a stack of magazines and a bakery box, and wore neat grey slacks, a black and white checked shirt, and a soft, satisfied smile.

“I know, you were in the neighborhood.” I stepped aside to let him come in, not even trying to hide my pleasure in seeing him.

As he passed, he lingered in front of me. “Mmm, you smell good. Better, even, than these butter cookies. No, I made this trip to bring you and your brother some cookies and see if there’s anything I can do to help.”

“You’re not only cute and a good cook but also a gentleman. Even a scholar, when it comes to mortgages. I’ll make some coffee and introduce you. Not in that order.”

Seth put the white box on the kitchen counter and followed me to the living room. Shiny and relaxed, Neil had taken up his usual spot on the sofa and was tapping away on his computer. Seth walked over to my brother, stuck out his hand, and said, “Hi, Seth Selinsky. Sorry about the leg. Tough break. Your first at bat, man. A two and three count.”

Neil shut the cover of his laptop and pointed to the chair on the other side of the coffee table. “You ever play?”

What happened to perfectly nice and articulate men that made them talk in half sentences? I stood back, watching my brother and the man I was dating circle each other conversationally. For all that my presence mattered, I could have been a doorknob. Amused, I went to the kitchen and got the coffee started, loaded a tray with cups, saucers, plates, cookies, napkins. If this happened all the time, I’d probably be annoyed. For now, their little game tickled me.

When I carried the tray into the living room, the conversation hadn’t gotten very far.

“Sure, I was on the disabled list for two weeks. But that was in college. It’s different for you.” Seth’s lean legs stuck out into the middle of my living room floor, a sight that made me smile despite myself.

I deposited the tray on the coffee table and kissed the top of Neil’s head. “See? Your fans find you wherever you are.”

Neil grinned at Seth and then raised his eyebrow at me. “
Your
fan, you mean. You think Seth really came to see me? We’ve been talking baseball. Among other things.”

I made the family gesture, index fingers making a backward circular motion to signify eye-rolling. “I’m much too mature to be goaded into asking what other things,” I said as I lowered myself to the chair across from Seth.

“Good,” he said. “Then we don’t have to give up our secrets. Listen, I stopped by with a business proposition.”

Neil did a Groucho Marx with his eyebrows and an imaginary cigar.

“Rick Luney says you’re quick, smart and always hit the mark for him. Well, for me, too, but he’s talking about the business writing you’ve done for him. I need a new brochure for MidHudson Mortgage. We’re trying to carve out a bigger piece of the second home market. If I can let people know we’re here, and just what we can do for them that their city mortgage broker can’t, then I think I can double my client list.”

I needed to find another gallery to carry my gourds, and I needed someone to help me get my garden started, and I needed to figure out a way to make sure my friends continued to talk to each other despite their political differences, but I definitely did not need another freelance writing job. I was working four days a week already, with jobs lined up through June. Besides, what would working for Seth do to our not-quite relationship? And what would saying no mean?

I was about to find out.

“I’m flattered. And I’m also loaded right now. So many writing clients I can hardly keep up. I wouldn’t be doing either of us any good if I took on your brochure before July. I’m sure you want to take advantage of the spring and summer influx of city folks. I can recommend a couple of other writers, though, people whose work I know and who I think would do a great job for you.”

Seth’s brown eyes clouded. His genial expression didn’t change, but it seemed like he was holding his breath. Whether he was having a temper tantrum or waiting for me to change my mind, I couldn’t tell. This was the first time I’d seen him show a petulant side. Finally he said, “That works, I guess. Are any of them as pretty and as smart as you are?”

“One fellow I know is probably prettier and more tuned to city things but I’m smarter. And then there’s my mentor, who describes herself as “Rubenesque.” She’s one of the brightest people I know.” Maybe I’d gotten too defensive too quickly. Seth’s smile still beamed in my direction. When I glanced over at Neil, he seemed to be enjoying the sparring match. “Besides, you probably don’t want a murder suspect to have a hand in your brochure.”

Neil’s eyes widened and Seth’s laugh filled the room.

“I’m sorry.” Seth’s grin was replaced by a thoughtful frown. “You think you’re a serious suspect in Marjorie’s murder? That’s crazy. She was the focal point for the pro-casino group. What Marjorie did that nobody else bothered to do was to organize. She knew the power she’d wield if she had the backing of prominent businesspeople and town opinion-makers. ‘Consortium.’ That’s her word. Mine is ‘gang.’ And if Castro and Murphy are smart, that’s where they’ll put their energies. Looking at people who would feel threatened if Marjorie succeeded.”

Neil was suddenly alert, his attention apparently ignited by the fire in Seth’s voice. “So you really think that whoever killed that woman was against the casino? People would get that hot about a place to have a little entertainment?”

“Some of these people.” I rubbed a finger along the soap-stone elephant my brother Charlie had brought me from Tanzania. “At least that’s how it sounded at that meeting when somebody got hot enough to throw a rock that hit Susan just above her eye.”