StoneDust (24 page)

“Then you must have been the couple upstairs in the guest room.”

Anybody can lie. Some do it well. Some botch it, shuffling feet or staring far more intently than a truthsayer would. But no one—not even the greatest actor in the world, not even Gregory Peck—could blush on cue.

Susan turned red as a rose, covered her mouth with her hands, and looked beseechingly at Ted. Ted attempted to look stern, or outraged, but he couldn't conceal a smirk of manly pride.

“What about it?”

“All I wanted to know. I'm outta here.”

“Did they listen at the door?” Susan wailed.

“No. Nobody knows it was you.”

“Except you. I just want you to know, I didn't want to go to that damn party in the first place. Boil in a Jacuzzi while Bill Carter drools at my bathing suit. Then Michelle opens her drugstore. Who needs it?”

“We needed it,” said Ted. “We needed to be there.”

“Excuse me,” Susan jumped up and ran from the porch.

“Where you going?”

She didn't answer, but in a moment we heard water running in the kitchen and then the clatter of china.

“You want to go—”

Ted said, “No. Let her be.”

“I'm sorry.”

“She's very…” He shopped for words and came up with “…private.”

We sat not speaking while Susan banged dishes. Finally I said, “I presumed it wasn't news that you and Susan sleep together.”

He smiled. “Oh, we do.” He shook his head. “I swear, after everything else went to hell, we got better. We used to be too busy working all day, and the books and the phone at night. We became like business partners. Now we've got a little time on our hands, we're back to high school.”

“Congratulations.”

“Yeah, it's like I'm having an affair with my own wife.”

“You must be the first married couple in a hundred years to grope each other at a party.”

Ted laughed. “What happened was, the rest of them started doing lines. That's not our scene. Susan wanted to go home. I didn't want to leave 'cause I know that if Duane gets that Mount Pleasant project going, he's going to need a major construction partner.”

“In addition to the barn job?”

“Oh, sure. That's just one house. Chance for me to play contractor on the weekends.”

“But what about Bill Carter? Wouldn't he be up for the partnership?”

“Well, that's why I didn't want to leave the party. Bill was cozied up with Duane. Let me tell you, he was drooling more for Duane's borrowing power than he was for Susan's bathing suit.”

“Sounds to me like he's got his priorities skewed.”

Ted smiled. “Somebody once told me sex and money are the same thing. Point is, Bill's tapped out at the banks and Duane's not. If
I
walked in for a loan, they'd hit the alarm, but they'll give Duane a blank check.”

Ted formed a fist and gently pounded the arm of his chair. “Duane's got that
base
with Newbury Pre-cast. The banks look at him and say, This guy's real.”

“Mainly they say, We'll take a piece of Newbury Pre-cast for collateral.”

“You think they're still that tight? Even for Duane?” Ted looked disappointed. I figured he hadn't been paying much attention lately, as if sick of news that would keep him out of the business.

“The banks are back to making money the old-fashioned way: borrow from the Fed at three percent; lend it at seven, for real collateral like a finished house, a thriving business. Next time we get clobbered by a downturn, they won't lose. Duane will—Who's he with, Peebles?” Peebles Bank, a 1982 creation founded, rumor had it, by four drunken sailors, had avoided a Federal takeover by the hairs of its chinny-chin-chin.

“No. I hear he got Newbury Savings.”

“If that's true, I guarantee you Newbury Savings has Duane's balls in the back of their vault under a huge sack of quarters.”

Ted shrugged. “That's his problem. My problem is to convince Duane that I'd make a better partner than Bill.”

“Maybe there's room for both.”

“There's only so many ways you can cut the Mount Pleasant pie.”

“Unless you guys slip through a three-acre variance.”

Ted looked grim.

I asked, “What did Reg bring to the pie?”

“Reg brought Reg.”

“I don't follow.”

“Duane would never cut a deal without Reg.”

“Why was that?”

“I don't know. But he never did.”

Thinking back, I couldn't recall a Duane project that Reg hadn't been part of. “Did Reg bring money?”

“Not that I know of. But with Reg, Duane knew he had no worries about septic and drainage.”

That made sense. A hillside project meant culverts for the roads and driveways; curtain drains above every house, all tied into storm drains; and septic fields that wouldn't bubble up in the neighbors' barbecue.

“So you and Susan took a walk?”

“We got as far as the kitchen. I found us some beer in the fridge. We'd had it with those damned Tombstones. Susan was wearing a terrycloth robe and it kind of fell open and I said, ‘Wonder where those stairs go?' So we went upstairs.”

I laughed. “You lucky bastard.”

Susan walked in, calmer. “Who's a lucky bastard?”

“Your husband.”

“Were you listening at the door?”

“No. I left the cookout at seven.”

“Wish we had. Damnit, I ended up playing morgue attendant because they didn't call me soon enough.”

“Could you have saved Reg?” I asked.

“If I'd gotten to him while he was still conscious, I would have walked him around and tried to keep him awake 'til the ambulance got there.”

“No,” Ted said firmly. “That's not true. You read the report—we got a copy from a friend, Ben. Once that stuff hit Reg, he was gone.”

“I could have tried. Jesus. I thought when I started working at the daycare I was done with bodies. Ben, I really hope this is the last conversation we have on the subject.”

“Same here,” said Ted.

I didn't have the heart to tell them that unless I got a lot smarter by tomorrow, their next conversation on the subject would be in the glacial presence of Sergeant Marian. So I thanked them for the beer and hurried home to a fitful sleep, and dreams of Spider sticking coathangers in my eye.

Chapter 30

I woke up worrying: Was I a sucker for a lovely couple? Had Susan Barrett blushed with embarrassment? Or flushed with anger?

Maybe Vicky had a clue. I showered off the muggy night and walked to the General Store for breakfast. On the way, I lost my appetite. Every lightpole wore a poster:

DEBATE DEBATE DEBATE

THE SCHOOL BUDGET OR YOUR BUDGET

BELIEVABLE STEVE

VS

SLICKY VICKY

TOWN HALL

8 O'CLOCK TONIGHT

Slicky Vicky? It appeared that Georgia Bowland had sobered up sufficiently to recall a Bush trick or two. That Bush had lost was no consolation. He hadn't lost by much.

I bought a large container of coffee, tea for Vicky, and some fresh-baked shortbread that benefited the ambulance fund drive. Vicky was already at her desk. If Believable Steve's posters were intended to rattle her, his people had miscalculated badly. Pope Alexander, when informed that Emperor Frederick wished to come in out of the snow, could not have looked more implacable.

“I have a strange question for you,” I said, presenting tea and shortbread.

“No, I have a question for
you
: You've been no goddamned help at all in this campaign. But right now I need your brain.”

“Now?”

“
Now
.”

“It's yours.” I perched in a deep window that overlooked Main Street and glanced at the clock. “Shoot.”

“I'm finally getting a sense of what's happening with Steve. You've been around Newbury politics your whole life. Answer me yes or no: This whole challenge and campaign is entirely about the school budget. Right?”

“Yes. Yes. And yes. It's about money. Which is to say taxes, which is to say the school budget.”

“And Steve is smart enough to concentrate on it. I've made a bad mistake running on my record.”

“Your excellent record.”

“History,” she retorted. “Whatever good I've done is over, done and forgotten. If I'm going to beat that scum—did you see those posters?”

“I noticed something or other on a lightpole.”

“Very funny. I'm going to beat him on his own subject. ‘Slicky Vicky?' Gloves are off, Ben. I'm going to tear his heart out.”

“By eight o'clock tonight? Let me lay a quick thought on you: Who's against the budget?”

“The weekenders. The Scudder Mountain crowd. A lot of people in Frenchtown. And a lot of retirees—not all, thank God for grandchildren.”

“Who's for it?”

“The people with kids.”

“There's still more of them.”

“But even the people with kids are worried about taxes. What's your suggestion?”

I told Vicky about my prep school conversation with Steve and his beer customers. “Somehow, we've got to paint a picture of what it would be like if the schools shut down for a few months.”

“That's not an option.”

“But it's a nasty picture.”

“I'll think about it. Now what's your ‘strange question'?”

I leaned back in the window and watched Main Street. “It's
very
strange. I want you to give me the first thought that comes to your mind.”

“The first thought that comes to my mind is that a politician who loses her party's nomination is totally incapable of earning a living.”

“I haven't asked my question, yet.”

“Ask. Quickly.”

“Go back to the Fisks' guest bathroom. You're asleep on the rug—”

“Passed out.”

“Passed out on the rug. Something wakes you. Noise. Someone's right outside in the guest room. You hurry to the door.”

“I crawl to the door.”

“You crawl to the door and lock it. You hear two people. They're talking about Duane's Tombstones. But they're not there for the conversation and soon they get it on. Right?”

“Right.” Vicky looked at her watch.

“Here's the strange question. Do you hear a man and a woman? Or two men? Or two women?”

“Two
men
?”

“
Or
two women?”

“
What
are you talking about?”

“I'm asking you what you heard. Not what you
assumed
you should have heard, but what you actually heard.”

“A man and a woman. Like I told you before.”

“Are you sure? Are you sure you weren't just assuming that two people who snuck off to screw had to be a man and a woman?”

“Positive.”

“You heard a man's voice. And a woman's voice.”

“Yes.”

“Reg and Michelle?”

“No.”

“Ted and Susan?”

“Maybe.”

“You're not sure.”

“I'm sure it wasn't Reg and Michelle.”

“Thank you.” I started to swing my feet to the floor. “Oh, Christ.”

“What is it?”

“Nothing,” I lied.

A beige unmarked Crown Victoria glided past Town Hall and pulled into Trooper Moody's driveway. Marian Boyce climbed out, wearing road cop mirrored sunglasses, and looked up and down Main Street like Darth Vader scouting targets for the Death Star.

***

I bought more shortbread and coffee and hurried that offering down Church Hill Road to the offices of Hopkins Septic.

Janey was at her desk—resolute in blue jeans and a red Hopkins Septic T-shirt—issuing orders to young Pete Stock, who was wearing a brand new Hopkins Septic cap. I congratulated him on his new job and his release from the Plainfield County jail.

“Freddy Butler says I should sue the state cops for false arrest.”

“You might want to get a second opinion from Tim Hall.”

“Tim doesn't think it's such a good idea. What do you think, Ben?”

“Did they slap you around?”

“No.”

“Lock you up with hardasses?”

“No. They gave me my own cell. You should have seen some of those guys.”

“I can imagine. Did they apologize when they let you go?”

“Not really. But I got my truck back.”

“Well, I'll tell you, Pete. State cops make better friends than enemies. Besides, Mrs. Hopkins'll keep you hopping; you won't have time for a lawsuit.”

Janey handed him a clipboard and pointed out the window at a truck. Pete left. She said, “Thank you. That's all I'd need, angry troopers pulling my trucks over.”

“Brought you morning coffee.”

“What's up?”

“Could I possibly have a peek at some more phone bills?”

“What for?”

“Could I tell you later?”

“No. Tell me now.”

“When's the last time Reg and Duane went elk hunting?”

“Last November.”

“Could I see the bill for last October and November?”

“No.”

“Janey? Please?”

Her square jaw set hard. “They're none of your business. I hired you. I paid you. The job's done.”

“I'm afraid I have to insist.”

“Insist?” She stood up, recapped the coffee she had just opened, and shoved it at me. “Get out. What right do you have to ‘insist'? Get out!”

“The right of the ripped off.”

“The what?”

“You ripped me off, Janey. You watched me stumble around Newbury wasting my time and your money while you pretended you didn't know the most important fact of all.”

She grabbed the telephone. “I'm calling Trooper Moody if you don't leave.”

“Too late, Janey. Remember when you first hired me? What did I tell you?”

She weighed the receiver in her hand, then gently cradled it. “I don't remember,” she said dully. “Something about you'd find out what I didn't tell you.”

“Actually, I think I said I'd find it first thing. That turned out to be a gross exaggeration of my talents. It's taken me a lot longer. Now I'm asking you to please give me that phone bill so I can confirm it.”

“I don't know what you're talking about.”

I pulled my copy of Reg's last month's phone bill from my shirt pocket and uncurled it on the desk. “What are these Long Island calls? 516 code is Long Island.”

Janey glanced at them. “Reg and Duane canceled their fishing trip. I guess Reg had to change reservations or something.”

“I thought they fished from Montauk. This says Fire Island.”

Janey shrugged. “It's on the ocean. Right?”

“That's what I thought, at first. The exchange is 597. That's eastern Fire Island. Know anybody out there?”

“It's the fishing boat.”

“And in November they went elk hunting. Show me November.”

Janey bit her lips. But neither of us was surprised that she opened her records without any more argument, tugging a tax box from a closet and riffling through rubberbanded envelopes. I scanned the long-distance sheets.

“Got a phone book?”

Moving like a sleepwalker, she brought out a phone book. I turned to the area-code map. Montana code was 406. I thought I knew 305, and sure enough, it was south Florida. She watched, stony-eyed, while I dialed 305-555-1212 and inquired about the exchange.

“Funny. Before they went elk hunting, Reg made calls to Florida. But none to Montana. How'd he make reservations?”

“Eight-hundred numbers don't show up on the bill.”

My single experience elk hunting had involved riding a surly horse through a four-day blizzard in the company of a taciturn mountain man who swore when it was over that he'd seen plenty elk last time. So I doubted Big Country hunting guides maintained 800 numbers. Perhaps the outfitters who supplied tents and horses? 1-800-STIRRUP? I didn't think so.

“Janey. Everyone who saw Reg that last night said he was either crying or on the verge of tears. Why do you suppose that was?”

“The divorce was tearing him up.”

“You separated six months ago.”

“Delayed reaction.”

“I'm sorry, Janey. I'm very sorry. I found out what you weren't telling me.”

“What?”

“Reg was heartbroken. But he wasn't heartbroken over you. Was he?”

She shook her head.

“Who was it?”

Her mouth curled like a leaf again, the way it had when I asked if Reg was dating. “You're so smart, you tell me who.”

“But you know. Don't you?”

She sat frozen, neither confirming nor denying.

I said, “He was heartbroken as he could be only at the end of a long, long love affair. Years and years.”

“You don't understand.”

“I understand now why Greg Riggs told you to drop it. How long did you stay with Reg after you knew?”

“…It seemed forever…But it was only a couple of years. Once I gave up on him, I got involved with Greg. It was like I had to. I had to prove that I was still…” She shook her head, too shamed to say it out loud. “Reg kept promising to break it off. I kept hoping. He was still a good father. But finally—I guess after he joined AA—I had to admit it was hopeless. He loved somebody else.” She made a fist and pounded it softly on her desk. “I think I only really got that the other day: forget the details; what hurt most was that he loved someone more than me…I feel so stupid.”

“Love first, smart later.”

She didn't smile, but she did say, “Yeah, right.”

I got up to leave.

“Does Greg drive a Mercedes?”

“Jeep Cherokee—Where are you going?”

“You know where I'm going. Why don't you go home and grab ahold of Greg? You've paid your dues.”

I'd certainly paid mine. The price of trusting clients. Jesus, was I an idiot. On the other hand, what joy to eliminate Sergeant Marian's favorite suspect.

And speaking of that devilette, whom did I meet in the Hopkins parking lot, making a leggy exit from her car? I saluted. “Hello, Sergeant.”

“I told you not to rat to your client.”

“I didn't. But I have a tip for you.”

“Mail it in.”

“You won't like it.”

“Try me.”

“The re-autopsy? The second post mortem?”

“What about it?” she asked impatiently, and I knew the medical examiner had already told her the bad news.

“No foul play. No needle marks. Nothing new. Inhaled pure H. Hotload, like the M.E. said the first time.”

Marian took off her sunglasses. Her eyes were gray as icebergs in the Roaring 'Forties. “If I find who leaked, I'll put you both inside.”

“I'll take that as confirmation, thank you. So what brings you to Newbury?”

“Because this thing stinks, anyway.” She shouldered me aside and shoved through Janey's door.

I ran to the Smoke Shop, the nearest pay phone, begged change from Eddie Singleton, and dialed Hopkins Septic. When Janey answered, I said, “Stall that woman. She knows nothing. If she leans on you, call Greg.”

Janey said, “Don't flush till we pump you out.”

I spent another quarter on a call to Newbury Pre-cast.

“Duane? Ben. How are you?”

“Hot as hell. How you doing, buddy?”

“I'm hot too. We got to talk about some stuff. It occurs to me I'm the last guy in Newbury who hasn't chilled out in your Jacuzzi. How about beers and business?”

“Five o'clock?”

“Hey, you're the boss. Can't you get out of there early?”

“Three.”

“Told you you're the boss. See you at three. Will Michelle be there?”

“If it's business, we'll both be there.”

“It's business.”

“We'll be there.”