Snake Eater (14 page)

Terri, I thought.

Wishful thinking, I knew.

“It’s Cammie,” she said when I answered.

“Nice to hear your voice. Everything all right?”

She let out a long breath.

“Hey, are you okay?”

She uttered a sound in her throat. A moan or a sob.

“Cammie, what is it?”

“Oh, shit,” she mumbled. “Brady, can you help me?”

“Of course. What’s the matter?”

“I almost shot a cop.”

“What?”

“It was just a few minutes ago. I had just gone to bed. I heard noises outside. I went to the window. I saw somebody skulking around with a flashlight. I put on a robe and grabbed my gun and I went out onto the porch. He… he was right there. He shone his light in my face and I started to point my gun at him and he said he was the police.”

“Oakley?”

“Yeah. Him. I never saw his face. But I recognized his voice. He said he was just checking to make sure everything was all right. He said he was concerned for my safety. Because of Daniel, I guess is what he meant. He…” Her voice trailed off.

“Maybe he was just doing his job.”

“Bullshit.” Her voice was harsh. “It’s just what Daniel said. Brady, he saw that I had a gun. He’ll figure out it’s not licensed. I will not give up my gun.”

“Maybe you should. What if you had shot him?”

“Are they supposed to come prowling around at night like that?”

“No. Not without telling you first.”

“And shining the light like that on me. I know the bastard was… looking at me.”

“Did he say anything?”

“Just what I told you. I told him to just leave me alone, I was fine. He called me ma’am, polite as pie, tipped his hat, even. Sarcastic, see? Brady, isn’t there anything we can do? In court, or something? This has been going on too long. It’s not fair.”

“I don’t know, Cammie. He hasn’t really done anything illegal.”

“He’s been harassing me—us, me and Daniel—since day one. Isn’t that enough?”

“Cammie, I’d love to help you—”

“Yeah, but…”

“No. Listen. I’ll talk to his chief. See if we can straighten it out that way.”

“Will you?”

“Sure. Monday. Okay?”

“Thank you.”

“In the meantime, keep your doors locked.”

“Doors locked and gun handy,” she said.

“For Christ sake, be careful.”

“Exactly.”

I had been to the Wilson Falls police station once before, when I visited Daniel during his weekend in jail. It occupied one wing of the town hall, a no-nonsense square brick building across the village green from the Congregational church.

Chief Francis Padula kept me waiting for fifteen minutes. I sat by myself on a wooden bench and smoked two cigarettes under the watchful eye of the desk sergeant. He didn’t even offer me coffee. I knew there had to be a pot of cop coffee somewhere around there.

Finally the chief appeared from a corridor and said, “Mr. Coyne?”

I stubbed out my cigarette and stood up.

He came toward me. He was a compact man in his late thirties with a small mouth and closely cropped hair. He wore a starched white shirt with French cuffs and a blue-and-gray striped necktie snugged tight to his throat. He extended his hand to me without smiling. “Francis Padula,” he said.

I took his hand. “Thanks for seeing me.”

“Come this way.” He turned and I followed him into his office.

He sat behind his desk. I took the straight-backed wooden chair across from him. He folded his hands on the blotter and said, “You were Daniel McCloud’s attorney.”

I nodded.

“Damn shame,” he said.

“Yes.”

“I can’t talk about the case.”

“That’s not why I’m here.”

He leaned forward and arched his eyebrows. “So what is it?” His eyes were fixed on mine. They were dark brown, almost black. The exact same shade as Terri’s, I realized.

“It’s about Officer Oakley.”

He leaned back. “What about Officer Oakley, Mr. Coyne?”

“I’d rather not file a complaint.”

“I’d rather you didn’t. Maybe you better explain.”

So I did. I related Cammie Russell’s complaints to the chief—her perception that Oakley had been harassing her and Daniel for years, how he had arrested Daniel, ticketed the cars of all the guests at the funeral party, and frightened Cammie the previous Saturday night by prowling around the property. Padula studied the ceiling as I talked. I couldn’t read his expression. Bored patience or thoughtful concern. One or the other.

When I was done, he said, “I’m not sure I understand your problem.”

“You add it all up,” I said, “and it’s pretty obvious. I mean, ticketing all those cars, for example, while there’s a funeral going on.”

“All those cars were parked illegally. It’s what I instruct my officers to do. Ticket illegally parked vehicles.”

“Still. Under the circumstances, it was uncalled for.”

“That arrest last summer,” he said, “was classic. Perfect police work. I think you know that. You don’t think Officer Oakley acted on his own on that one, do you?”

I shrugged.

“Look, Mr. Coyne. Wilson Falls is a small town. I have a small force. When police work needs to be done, there are only a few policemen to do it. Sergeant Oakley is one of them. Any citizen who runs into a police officer here, they’re very likely to run into Richard Oakley. Something like that marijuana bust, several of my officers were involved. Oakley was one of them. That’s all. It was a good bust.”

“So why did the prosecution dismiss it?”

He leaned forward. His eyes bored into mine. He opened his mouth to say something, then closed it. “Ancient history,” he said.

“What about the other night? You just can’t do that. Skulking around, scaring a citizen like that. It’s harassment. I want it to stop.”

He shook his head. “Come off it, Mr. Coyne. It’s not harassment.”

“Maybe a judge should decide that.”

He smiled thinly. “And she would have to testify. I’m sure her character is impeccable.”

“Look—”

“You know how it works, Mr. Coyne.”

“Somebody should’ve told her that there’d be an officer coming around, at least.”

Padula nodded. “That’s my responsibility.”

“I just want Oakley to leave her alone. Rightly or wrongly, he upsets her. It seems simple enough.”

“It’s fairly routine to keep an eye on a woman who lives alone after a murder has occurred.”

“Sure,” I said. “It’s good responsible police work. Fine. But it doesn’t need to be Oakley. So maybe he hasn’t done anything wrong. Maybe it’s all in her head. But he spooks her. It doesn’t seem necessary. Cammie Russell just wants him to steer clear of her.”

“I’ll consider what you’ve told me.” He stared at me for a moment. “There’s some things you don’t know, Mr. Coyne.”

“There are lots of things I don’t know.”

He shrugged.

“Something you should tell me?” I said.

He hesitated, then said, “No. It doesn’t matter. I’ll speak to Sergeant Oakley.” He stood up.

I was dismissed. I reached across his desk to shake hands with him. “Thanks,” I said.

He came around the desk as I turned for the door. “Mr. Coyne.”

“Yes?”

“Richard Oakley’s a good cop.”

“Sure.”

“He did not murder Daniel McCloud.”

“Goodness,” I said. “I should hope not.”

Fifteen minutes later I pulled into the gravel turnaround in front of Daniel’s shop. A cardboard sign hung in the window. CLOSED. I shaded my eyes and peered in. It still looked exactly as it did on the morning I saw Daniel’s body in there. I couldn’t tell if the bloodstain had been cleaned up.

I walked up the path to the house. I wanted to tell Cammie that I had talked to Oakley’s chief I also needed a mug of coffee.

I rang the bell and waited for her to come to the door. It was one of those gray mid-November New England days when the air is cold and moist and a brittle breeze brings the promise of the season’s first snowfall. I shivered and hugged myself in my insubstantial sports jacket. After a minute I tiptoed up to peer through the high window on the door. I saw no lights inside, no sign of life.

I followed the path around the house and continued across the back lawn to Cammie’s studio.

There was no bell beside the door. I knocked and called, “Cammie. It’s Brady.”

I waited. From inside I could hear music, too blurred and faint to identify.

After a minute or two I knocked again. When there was no response, I tried the doorknob. I had told her to keep it locked. But it turned and the door swung open. I stepped inside. “Cammie?” I called.

The woodstove in the middle of the open living room/dining room/kitchen area radiated heat.

Sarah Vaughan was singing “Lover Man.”

I didn’t see Cammie.

An empty coffee mug sat on the table. A few dirty dishes were piled on the counter beside the sink. The music was coming from the studio upstairs.

“Hey,” I called, louder than before. “Cammie? You here?”

I stood there uncertainly, rubbing my hands together beside the woodstove, looking around.

After a few moments I went to the spiral stairway that led up to her studio. As I climbed them the music grew louder.

I stopped at the top step. Skylights and four walls of glass bathed the room in diffuse but bright natural light. I squinted into it for a moment.

Cammie stood at the far end with her back to me. Beyond her through the glass stretched the pewter ribbon of the Connecticut River, winding its way through the umbers and ochers of the late autumn countryside. She was working at an easel. I heard her humming to Sarah Vaughan’s music.

She wore cutoff jeans. Her long slender legs were spread wide, as if she were balancing herself on a ship’s deck. Her feet were bare. So was her back.

I hesitated at the top of the stairs. It occurred to me to turn quietly and go back down the stairs. Cammie was deep into her work.

She was also virtually naked.

But I did not retreat. I stayed, staring, rooted by the sight of her—the slim perfect line of her legs, the smooth vee of her back tapering into the narrow waistband of her shorts, the pale curve of a breast under her arm, the long black braid bisecting her brown back, the orange ribbon knotted around it.

So I stood there stupidly and watched her, and after a minute she turned slowly around. She held a paintbrush in her right hand, and she had another one clenched between her teeth.

She reached up with her free hand and took the brush from her mouth.

“Hi, Brady,” she said quietly.

I nodded. “Hi.”

Her breasts were small, perfectly formed. The button on her shorts was open and her fly was half unzipped.

Her eyes glittered and her face shone with her tears.

Sarah Vaughan still sang.

“Cammie, I’m sorry, I—”

She held up her hand. “Don’t,” she said. She dropped her brushes into a water jar.

She walked toward me. I didn’t move.

“Sarah always makes me cry,” she said. She came close, reached up her hand, touched my cheek, moved it around to the back of my neck. I felt her other hand slither inside my jacket, move over my shirt against my chest. Her eyes were level with mine. Her mouth was inches from mine. My arms hung at my sides.

Tears continued to overflow her eyes and roll down her cheeks. She took her hand from my neck and peeled off my jacket. Her fingers went to my tie, loosened it, dropped it onto the floor. Cammie—

“Shh,” she said. She tilted toward me and kissed me softly on the mouth. She unbuttoned my collar.

I reached up, touched her hands, then gripped her wrists. “No, Cammie,” I said gently.

“It’s okay.” She tried to smile.

“No. It’s not.” I let go of her wrists and put my arms around her. “It’s not okay,” I said into her hair. I held her tight.

She burrowed her face against my shoulder. “It’s Terri, isn’t it?” she mumbled.

“Yes. And Daniel.” I hugged her against me. “And us. It’s us, too.”

We had coffee on the sofa downstairs. Cammie had pulled on a paint-stained T-shirt. Outside, tiny snowflakes had begun to angle down from the leaden sky.

Cammie had replaced Sarah Vaughan with Muddy Waters. He was singing “Sugar Sweet.”

“Terri talked to me a lot,” said Cammie. “About you. After Daniel died. She likes you a lot.”

I nodded. “I know.”

“She’s pretty confused.”

“Aren’t we all?”

“Speak for yourself,” she said. I was.

“Give her time, Brady.”

“I think she’s made up her mind.”

“Minds,” said Cammie, “are for changing.”

I shrugged. “Terri’s very strong-minded.”

She nodded. “You’re right. Maybe it’s better this way anyway.”

“That’s what I’ve been thinking.”

“I don’t know which is worse. Knowing she’s there but gone or…”

I knew what she was thinking. Or knowing the person you love is dead.

“I talked to your local police chief,” I said.

“About Oakley?”

“Yes. I think you’ll be okay now.”

“Really?”

“This Chief Padula. I think I trust him.”

She nodded. “Thank you.” She stared out the window for a minute. “What about Daniel’s book?”

“I don’t know. It hasn’t turned up. I guess Al Coleman must’ve put it someplace. But he’s dead, so…”

“I’ve looked all around the house,” said Cammie. “Daniel must have kept a copy somewhere.”

“No luck, huh?”

She shook her head. “He never talked about it, never shared it. Whatever he was writing, it was a private thing. I never expected him to want to have it published. I figured he was just trying to sort out his feelings. Catharsis—his therapy. When he gave it to you, I was jealous. I mean, he was sharing whatever it was with the world, but not me. I tried teasing him. I even pretended to be angry. But he refused to say anything about it. And after he died, I felt guilty. Do you understand?”

“For giving him a hard time.”

She shrugged. “That, yeah. But more for trying to violate his privacy. I mean, if he wanted to keep it from me, he must have had his reasons, and that should have been good enough for me. I’d say, ‘Come on, old Snake Eater, gimme a look.’ And he’d get that gentle faraway look of his, and he’d say, ‘Nay, lass. It’s not for your sweet eyes.’” She turned to face me. The tears had begun to well up again. “Ah, shit.”