StoneDust (16 page)

I wanted them clumped together in the el of the two couches so I could see all their expressions at once. But there wasn't room for eight, so I had to settle for Bill, the biggest, standing behind the couches, and Michelle lowering herself crosslegged to the carpet in front.

“I'll make you a deal.”

“Name it,” said Bill. “Anything you want, except Sherry.”

“Michelle was kidding. I'm not.”

Rick Bowland broke the silence. “Where are you going with this?”

“Call this blackmail, if you like.”

That got looks, some wary, some hopeful, all intense, focused directly at me.

“But first, one more tough question: Who here knows John Martello?”

Chapter 18

I had an offer in mind—a proposal fair and just that fit the situation—but first I wanted to make damned sure no one had hired a pair of beat-down specialists to drive me off the case.

Eight expressions are tough to read all at once. The women looked blank, the guys puzzled. All but Bill Carter, who said, “Yeah, I know him.”

“You do?”

“Sure, he's a stonemason down in Westport. I haven't used him in years. Hell of a mechanic, but really expensive. Bids like he's making Tiffany watches and won't come down a cent.”

“I'm thinking of John Martello from Waterbury.”

“No, he's from Westport—'less he moved. His kind of work is mostly high-end stuff down on the shore. You know, Greenwich, Darien. But what does he—”

“My guy's about twenty, twenty-five years old.”

“No way. John's gotta be fifty by now. He had a grown son.”

“Where does
he
live?”

“Got killed by a backhoe. Jumped into a trench and the bucket crushed his skull.”

“What is this?” asked Duane.

I returned a sour look. My bright idea was dying on a coincidence.

“What's this got to do with a deal?” asked Rick.

“Yeah, what are you talking about, Ben?”

“John Martello—alias Little John—was one of the sons of bitches who broke into my house last week. He seemed an odd candidate for a Main Street burglar, and I just wanted to make sure he hadn't been nudged in my direction by somebody who wanted me to stop asking questions about Reg.”

“You're accusing one of us?” Duane asked.

“One of you sent the note to Janey. Why not one of you trying to shut my big mouth with John Martello's fist?”

“You're paranoid.”

“Paranoid? These guys almost killed me. Want to see my X-rays?”

“Don't blame us. Next time lock your door,” said Duane.

As they complained and I defended, I studied their faces. Not one appeared even mildly guilty. Duane and Michelle Fisk seemed outraged; the Barretts, the Bowlands, and the Carters were obviously most worried about my “deal” to save them from exposure.

The indignation died down, the accusations trailed off. Finally, I entered a silent space. “Here's the deal: You cut Janey in on the Mount Pleasant development. Set it up as a trust fund for the kids. What would have been Reg's piece, if he were alive to work with you, goes to the children.”

Ted Barrett said, “That's not enough money to change their lives, Ben.”

“It's not the money. It's so the kids'll know Dad's partners and friends respected him enough to look after them. No matter what they hear about Dad and dope—and they'll hear plenty, growing up around here—they'll always know that some important people in Newbury were proud to be his partner.”

Duane looked at Michelle, then Bill. With a shrug, he said, “Sounds good to me.”

“Me too,” said Bill. Ted nodded. So did Rick.

“Yeah,” said Michelle, “though we better put some sort of a cap on the money, in case it really takes off.”

An expression of raw hatred flashed across Duane's face.

“Michelle. Shut up.”

***

They left quickly, avoiding one another's eyes. Only Georgia murmured a ritual Thank you. All but Michelle Fisk seemed relieved; she looked sullen. As we said goodnight, I gave Duane a sympathetic slap on the shoulder. He could not have been looking forward to the rest of the evening. The other couples hurried home holding hands—though in Rick's case it was an effort to keep Georgia upright.

Phyllis had cleared the dining room and cleaned up the kitchen.

I rescued half a bottle of merlot she had corked in the refrigerator and carried it and a wineglass into the library, where I wandered, browsing titles. I settled for a while in front of a tall bookcase home to Emerson, Thoreau, Alcott and the Channings, and a priceless complete collection of
The Dial
.

Vaguely dissatisfied, I felt in no mood for romantic insight. Like the Transcendentalists, I'd been playing fast and loose with logic, and leaning too much on intuition.

Doctor Greenan had warned me that bangs on my head could stir up some bouts of depression; made to order beside the Transcendentalists sat the often comedic Melville. I started to pry
Moby-Dick
loose from its neighbors, when I heard a loud creak and felt the wall move.

***

I had had a couple of dizzy spells, and thought this was another, as Ralph Waldo and Henry David appeared to sway into the room. I backed up and steadied myself on a couch, then jumped and nearly fell over it. The bookcase was pivoting outward on rusty hinges.

Through the hole it made in the stacks stepped Aunt Connie, saying, “I thought it went quite well.”

She had changed into a quilted robe buttoned to the chin, a little sleeping cap, and airline slippers on her tiny feet.

“
Where did you come from
?”

“This house was a station on the Underground Railroad,” she said, swinging the bookshelf door shut before I could see into the hiding space. “I thought you knew. We were on the line to Canada.”

“For runaway slaves?”

“My grandfather was an Abolitionist, you know that.”

“How'd you get inside?”

“A stairway from my dressing-room closet.”

I felt a funny sense of rejection. “How come you never showed me when I was a kid? Kids love hiding places.”

“It's not a playroom.”

I shrugged. “So you heard what happened?”

“Yes. I heard. I'm curious: What would you have done if Duane had walked out? Would you have told Trooper Moody?”

I shook my head. “I'm not a snitch.”

Her lips pursed in annoyance. “Must you use jailhouse talk? Couldn't you say—oh, I don't know—tattletale?”

“Okay, I'm not a tattletale. Would you like a brandy?”

“No, thank you. I'll heat some milk.”

“I'll do it.” I brought back warm milk in a cup and saucer. (Connie wouldn't keep a mug in the house.) I sat with her on the couch while she drank it.

“But what about your
legal
responsibility?”

“Bluff. There is no legal responsibility to report a crime.”

“Are you quite sure?”

“Absolutely. I checked with Tim Hall. You have to answer truthfully if questioned, but there is no obligation to volunteer.”

“Well, there darned well should be…”

“All I know, Connie, is their basic claim is solid: Why should they take the heat for what Reg did wrong?”

“Would you have gone along if you were there?”

“I think I would have called the ambulance. But that's easy for me to say. I don't teach school. I don't work for a corporation.”

“It would have an effect on your business.”

“I can't judge them.”

“But you
have
judged them, by letting them off the hook.”

“You knew I planned to.”

“It was your decision. Yours to sleep with…You know, dear, I take back what I said about your second career. To do it well, you must lie and dissemble. Maybe you ought to stick to selling houses.”

“I didn't go looking for this.”

“Well, anyhow, it's over. Isn't it?” She cocked her head to observe my reaction. “Isn't it?”

“What do you mean, ‘isn't it'? Of course it's over.”

“Then why are you sitting there like a puzzled beagle?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“You look like a dog in a washtub, wondering how he got there.”

“I'm kind of tired. And a little headachy. And a little down.”

“Go get some sleep. I'm tired too.” She rose with her empty cup.

I took it. “I'll lock up. Talk to you in the morning. Thanks very much for the party.”

“Thank
you
. I had a lovely time. I really must try and get out with more people.”

“Connie?”

“What is it?”

“Did anything anyone said strike you the wrong way?”

Connie considered my question. “Not that I can recall—except, of course, that awful Fisk woman. Can you imagine! Frightening those children's mother? Good Lord.”

“Did you believe her reason?”

“I believe there are people who can justify
any
behavior. Absolutely appalling. You will
not
invite her back.” She paused and added, “She's definitely the powerhouse in
that
family.”

“They're a pretty good team. Newbury Pre-cast is earning a fortune.”

“One has to feel sympathy for Susan Barrett. What an awful position they put her in, being a nurse. I thought she handled herself very well.”

“I gather you enjoyed Susan.”

“Lovely girl. Ethereal. She might have floated out of Keats. There is something so compelling about a woman in love with her husband.”

“What did you think of Sherry Carter?” I had meant her behavior in the library, but Connie said, only, “She has a roving eye. Of which, I imagine, you're aware.”

Hastily, I asked her opinion of Georgia Bowland.

“Georgia will lose her looks to drink.” She yawned. “Her husband strikes me as the sort that hides in his work.”

In the front hall, at the bottom of the staircase, I kissed her soft cheek.

“I had such a good time,” she said. “You know what made me happy? The Newbury boys. Ted and Bill and Duane. Exactly the same boys they were when they were ten years old. It's remarkable how little they change. I've noticed the same with Scooter. I see him walk down to the paper in the morning. But if I blinked my eyes he could be pedaling his bicycle to school.”

I waited for her to tell me I hadn't changed either, that I was still whatever I was when I used to run across Main Street for our weekly afternoon tea. But Connie was done with the past.

“Good night, Ben. I hope you're not too keyed up to sleep.”

I washed her cup and locked the kitchen door. A flashlight was plugged into a charger by the door. I took it with me and, turning off lamps in the dining and living rooms, worked my way back to the library. I found a latch in the kickplate under the Transcendentalists and eased the hidden door open slowly, to quiet the hinges.

Inside a cubbyhole that smelled of dry rot, I saw a narrow, rough wooden staircase spiral into the dark. I pulled the door shut to get a sense of what it felt like to hide in it, and sat on the only place to sit, the second tread of the stairs. By the flashlight I saw a candle sconce and a smoke smudge on the wall. Beside it were the words, written in lampblack: “Joshua Morgan—Christmas 1857—Bound for the promised land.”

Others less literate had smeared crosses and Xes. I sat awhile, playing the light over them, and adding up the years. The presence of a secret room seemed odd. The house had been built in 1784, seventy-three years
before
lucky Joshua Morgan's escape.

The Revolution had been won, the British oppressor banished, and there hadn't been a peep out of the poor Indians for twenty years. So I doubted the space had been intended for hiding people. Stolen property—pirate loot—was more like it.

Did my ancestors include Newbury's leading fence?

Back when Main Street was muddy Newbury Pike, had pirates and highwaymen tied their horses behind the barn and knocked on my door with stolen lockets? Had Abbotts presided in my kitchen over those meetings between comfortable and poor which, like muggings, evictions, and dope scores, engendered no love even though both parties were bound as lovers to meet again?

As these were not questions I intended to take up with Connie, I poked the light into every nook, hunting evidence of ancestral malfeasance. I found instead a Magic Marker-ed peace sign from the Vietnam War, drawn in the trembling hand of a draft resister seeking sanctuary in Canada.

I went home to bed, marveling that Aunt Connie's Abolitionist grandfather would have been proud—secure in the knowledge that Great-aunt Connie couldn't show little Benjamin her Underground Railroad while there was a train in the station.

***

She was right. I was too keyed up to sleep. At one-thirty I took a chance and called Rita and got her machine at both numbers. At two-thirty I went downstairs and tried the milk trick. By four I had read the
Manchester Guardian Weekly
cover to cover, including the cricket scores. At four-fifteen I began to think that if this didn't end before the first bird sang I'd get up and brew some coffee. And indeed, as a summer dawn bathed Main Street in a blue-violet glow and the birds took up choral works, I found myself shivering over a mug in the back yard, wondering why I hadn't felt this off-balance since a woman who had worked for me on Wall Street—and whom I'd loved—had unburdened herself to a United States attorney all too eager to grant absolution in exchange for her confession of my sins.

It was Connie's fault, her “It's over. Isn't it?” remark. She had lived so long she was almost clairvoyant. She had picked up on some doubt bugging me. “It's over. Isn't it?” She was usually awake at dawn. I could go over and wring her neck. Then maybe I could get some sleep.

I ambushed her as she came up the street with her Sunday
Times
and asked her what she'd meant.

“Nothing.”

“Nothing?” I echoed.

“Nothing. Except, they did have time to prepare a united front after they accepted my invitation. Didn't they?”