StoneDust (25 page)

Chapter 31

The more money Newbury Pre-cast generated, the deeper the banks extended his lines of credit, Duane still drank Budweiser beer. Working man's Bud was the key to his success—a blunt warning to their employees not to be misled by the French Colonial, the Audi, and the deluxe truck. The Fisks remained down and dirty—on top over every detail.

A can of the brew and a bunched towel sat within easy reach on the Jacuzzi's granite surround. “Fridge under the bar,” he called from the bubbling water. “Beck's for wimps, Bud for men. If you want to shower, it's thataway.”

I rinsed off in a marble shower, put on my bathing suit, and re-entered the party room, which rumor had not done justice. It was big, with a handsome octagonal timbered dome. The sun streamed through skylights. Sliding glass and screens looked into the woods. The carpet was as deep as Marie Butler had reported, but for some reason, none of the gossips had reported that the Jacuzzi was not the standard molded plastic, but hand-built of granite. The masonry alone must have cost forty thousand, with another one-fifty for the room.

I grabbed a Beck's and stepped into the water. Duane watched, submerged like a hippo to his eyes and nose. “What happened to your arm?”

“Scratched it on a coathanger.”

“How come you never get fat? You son of a bitch, I never saw anybody eat like you, but you never get fat.”

“God's reward for good behavior.”

“He caught up with me. I'm turning into Two-ton Tony.”

“Where's Michelle?”

“Lunch at the club. The girls're prepping Steve for the great debate. Jesus, poor Vicky. I thought Steve was a joke, but the guy turns up a winner.”

“Just what the town needs, a discount Ribbentrop.”

“Who?”

“Champagne salesman the Nazis appointed Foreign Minister.”

“Steve's no Nazi.”

“That's a relief.”

“So what's up?”

“When's Michelle coming?”

“Any minute.”

I had plenty of material to stall with. I told Duane I'd been thinking about Mount Pleasant and my New York customers: times were changing; people were so busy, we might have a shot at second-home buyers if we offered some sort of maintenance contract in the deal.

“Lawn mowing and snow plowing.”

“Sure.”

“And maybe a handyman, someone they can leave the keys with who'll check pipes in the winter, turn on the outside water in the spring.”

“How about gardeners?” Duane suggested. “Fertilizer and all that crap.”

We bounced it around awhile, with rising enthusiasm, both realizing we'd hit on something we could sell.

“Now, what about the stone retaining walls? It's part of the package. Quality and quality care.”

“Christ, don't hit Michelle with that right off. Let me break it to her gentle.”

“Break what to me gentle?” Michelle called, gliding across the carpet on bare feet.

“Didn't hear you come in, hon.”

“Hey, Ben.”

“How'd Steve prep?”

“He's going to kick ass.” Michelle dropped her terry robe on the surround, revealing a one-piece black maillot that suited her round figure. “Break what to me gently?” she reiterated, stepping into the Jacuzzi, descending the underwater steps. Waist deep, she moved to the bench across from Duane and me and sunk to her chin. “Oh. Nice. God, it's awful out. Duane, you want to close the windows and turn on the AC?”

“Not if it means standing up.”

“We were talking about Mount Pleasant.”

Duane said, “Ben's got a great idea how to get his New Yorkers. Tell her, Ben.”

I repeated the essence of our conversation. Michelle liked it. She wondered aloud whether they should form a maintenance crew or contract it. I suggested contracting the Meadows Brothers for the grounds work. Duane thought Pete Stock would make a good handyman.

“No, Janey's hired him.”

“I guess she's back in gear.”

“Are you going to use her?”

“Sure,” Michelle answered, “if she gets things moving. We'd rather work with people we know.”

“I was just over there. She looked pretty good.”

“What were you doing there?”

“Going through her telephone bills.”

“What are you, a bookkeeper on the side? God, you could go through my bills, save me the trouble.”

“I'd like that.”

“Beg pardon?”

“I said, I wouldn't mind checking your phone bills—your long-distance bills—but I don't really have to. I got it all at Janey's.”

“Am I missing something?” asked Duane.

“Got what all?” asked Michelle.

I said, “Though, actually, I wouldn't mind checking yours for Waterbury calls. Maybe even Bridgeport.”

Duane stirred. The hippo awake—contemplating a tasty canoe. “What in hell are you talking about?”

“Waterbury and Bridgeport are only a side issue. Though a big side issue. Aren't they, Michelle? Kind of a heavy-duty version of that scary note you sent Janey.”

“I don't know what you're talking about,” she said. But although she looked angry and her eyes were snapping, she did not tell me to leave. I debated dropping Little John Martello on her but decided to keep him in reserve. If I was right, her supplier would dance in her brain without any help from me.

“Let me tell you a story about a friend of mine.”

“No,” said Duane. “What's this about phone bills?”

“Oh, just some calls to Long Island and Florida.”

The hippo hunkered down, very quietly.

I wasn't sure which Fisk, if either, I wanted on my side, so I didn't know who to be nice to. I moved to a neutral corner. “This story happened the night you gave that great cookout. My friend drove by, saw everybody scarfing down your great lamb, would have liked some, but he was feeling kind of low—for good reason—and besides, he had a date in New York. A special date. The first time you go out after you got your heart mangled—You wouldn't know. You're married and all, but let me tell you, when you're not, it happens. Take my word for it.

“So my friend drove to New York. I'm not sure, I think it might have been a blind date—you know, set up by some pal. Or maybe someone he'd gotten to know recently. Could have been through the personals—Anyhow, they were meeting at a terrific, romantic restaurant. The kind of scene you just don't see up here—a New York scene, where if things go right, you walk around the city afterwards thanking God there's such a town.

“Unfortunately, that's not what happened. He got stood up. Somebody lost their nerve. Or somebody set him up as a cruel joke—someone who had a reason to set him up for a fall that night, hurt him, unsettle him so bad he'd let an old friend talk him into ‘just one.'

“He spent an awful hour alone in a restaurant and finally fled home, home to Newbury. Swung by Dr. Mead's and gobbled down some ice cream. That didn't help. He still felt like dying—lonely and rejected—all that awful stuff that hurts double when you're already suffering. You guys are right to be married. Who needs it?”

Michelle returned a thin smile. “When Steve wins, you'll have a woman with time on her hands.”

“At any rate, he knew the party would still be going here—
everybody
in town knew. So he came over here to see his oldest and dearest friends.”

“Didn't we go through this at your aunt's?” Duane growled.

“No. We stepped around it. So Reg, my friend, arrives—crashes, some would say. And finds you guys in the Jacuzzi. You invited him to hop in the water. But he kind of mooned around instead and was generally a drag. Wouldn't take a drink. Maybe he'd do lines, but the coke was all wet, thanks to big Bill making waves. So finally, Michelle, you took pity, and took him out to the kitchen for a cup of coffee. And dessert.”

Michelle glanced at Duane. Duane's shoulders broke the surface in a shrug. I still didn't know which one to cultivate. I'd been hoping one would ask me what I meant by “dessert” but neither did me the favor.

“After a while, you spelled each other. Michelle left him in the kitchen, and Duane, you went to keep him company.”

“And the next thing I knew he was dead,” said Duane. “Like you said at your aunt's. We had a body on our hands. We had to get rid of it.”

“You sure did…”

“Jesus Christ. We've been through this fifteen times. We had a party. Innocent people—”

“The party. The party bothered me.”

“What about it?”

“Way, way in the back of my mind—since before Reg died—I wondered why you didn't cancel.”

“Why should we cancel?”

“The word got around that the hot couples in town were going to have a weekend swap. Most people would have canceled. Remember? Everybody was calling you up—they wanted to get laid too—but you just bulled ahead.”

“Screw them,” yelled Michelle. “I'll do what I want in my house. We weren't breaking any laws—except a little coke. No way I'd cancel for a bunch of gossips.”

“Besides, you needed a party.”

“
Needed
a party?”

“It worked. Reg came.”

“What's that supposed to mean?”

“Reg came. So did your innocent guests. Rick and Georgia. Bill and Sherry. Ted and Susan. All good friends in a pinch. All vulnerable.”

“What do you mean, ‘vulnerable''?”

“You didn't invite anyone like me.”

“You?”

“No one with nothing to lose. If I'd been there, I'd have said, Call the cops. Everybody knows I'm a screwup. But your guests still had reputations—plenty to lose.”

“What is the point of all this?” Duane yelled. “Reg killed himself.”

“No he didn't.”

“Oh, hell,” said Michelle. “Have it your way. Call it suicide. Or call it a goddamned accident if that makes you happy.”

“I'll call it murder.”

Chapter 32

“And it doesn't make me happy, 'cause I can't figure out which of you did it. Or if you both did it.”

“
Neither
of us did it. Jesus Christ, Ben. You're out of your friggin' mind.” This from Duane, looking baffled and indignant.

“Why would we kill Reg?” demanded Michelle, even more indignant. She glanced at her robe. I had already resolved to get there first if she moved toward it. Duane took a sip of beer and left his hand near his bunched towel. A big enough bunch to hide a grizzly-stopping Ruger?

No sweat. Unless, of course, they both moved.

“The phone calls,” I said.

“Huh?”

“We were talking earlier about phone calls to Long Island and Florida.”

“What calls?” Michelle demanded. “When?”

“Reg's calls. Every year, right before he and Duane went elk hunting and fishing. You know, calls to reserve rooms and stuff.”

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

“But Duane does.” I turned to him and said, “Don't you?”

Duane looked sullen. Then he sighed and the folds of his face dissolved like a gelatin mold too long in the sun. “Yeah. I know.” He looked at me, and for a second I thought I saw relief in his eyes.

“You want to tell her or should I?”

Duane closed his eyes. “She knows.”

“Knows what, goddamnit?” Michelle demanded.

“Every winter,” I said, “when Duane and Reg said they were shooting elk in Montana, they were really in Key West. Every summer, when they claimed to be terrorizing swordfish off Montauk, they were on Fire Island. The Pines or Cherry Grove—the bills aren't specific.”

“The Pines,” Duane whispered. “We rented the same house every year.”

“Don't tell him that!” Michelle screamed.

“He knows, for Christ sake.”

“Ben, you don't understand.”

“What don't I understand? That twice a year these guys stole a chance to be themselves?”

***

Michelle took a deep breath, covered her mouth, then formed fists which she pressed to her chin. “That doesn't mean he killed Reg.”

“How long were you—how long were you and Reg—together, Duane?”

“Since high school.”

“When'd you break up?”

“After Janey left him.”

“Why?”

“Reg was a leech,” said Michelle.

“He was not!” Duane shouted.

“So why'd you break up?”

“Duane finally came to his senses,” said Michelle.

“Since when do lovers have senses?”

“Good question,” muttered Duane.

I took Duane's angry mutter as the best opening they'd give me and plowed through it. “Sounds to me like Michelle talked you into breaking up, Duane.”

Duane ignored me, eyes shut tight, his mouth a weary line. I turned to Michelle. “Did you talk him into dumping Reg?”

Michelle glowered. “Duane saw we had too much to lose.”

“You mean if he divorced you to join Reg?”

“Duane saw it was time to grow up.”

“Is that why you put up with the arrangement all these years? To protect your bank account?”

“Screw you, Ben. Duane saw it was time to grow up.”

“I asked Janey why she stuck it out. She said she loved Reg.”

“The dummy only found out two years ago,” Michelle shot back.

“Did you stick it out for love?”

“Of course. And our family.”

“And your business.”

Michelle looked at her robe. “Everything we've worked for.”

I said, “Is that why you killed him? So you wouldn't have to break up the business, like Reg and Janey?”

“Michelle didn't kill him,” said Duane.

“You two had an arrangement that worked for years. Until Reg and Janey broke up. You saw the price they paid, losing the house, screwing up the business.”

“Michelle didn't kill him.”

“That means you did, Duane.”

“Why would I kill him? I loved him, Ben. Nobody killed him. He snorted up garbage. That killed him.”

“You did a heck of a job of fooling the cops. Not a mark on the body. Fooled Susan. They all thought what you wanted them to think: Reg snorted up an overdose.”

“He did.”

“That's right. He did. A real close friend—maybe a pal, maybe a lover—induced him to snort along with him or her. You lured him to the party. You set him up for a lonely night. I'd bet money you snookered him into a blind date to stand him up. Then, when he was really hurting, you offered him a hit to feel better. He
did
snort up garbage. Question is, where'd he get it?”

“Beats me.”

“Waterbury?”

I looked at Michelle, but Duane answered, “I don't know. I don't do that stuff. We'll have a toot of coke if Michelle picks some up at the club. Jesus, Ben, do you see me driving my truck down to Waterbury to score heroin? Give me a break.”

“I don't see Reg driving down there in his Blazer, either. Of course, plenty of middle-class people do, don't they? Come the weekend, you'll see lines of Benzes, BMWs, Audis. Waterbury kids must grow up thinking German cars are all the rich folk drive.”

“I didn't kill him and Michelle didn't kill him. The poor bastard did it to himself.”

“Did you see him snort it up?”

“No. He'd had a hit before I got there.”

“With Michelle.”

“No,” said Michelle. “Not when I was there.”

“People at the party said you came back, Michelle, and told Duane that Reg had mellowed out.”

“That's right, hon,” said Duane. “You did.”

His eyes popped open.

“Ben, what the hell are you saying?”

“I'm saying she killed Reg so you wouldn't wreck yourselves financially in a divorce.”

“How?” he asked, as if he hadn't heard a word since he admitted aloud they were lovers.

“She set him up for a fall with a phony date. Set up the party she knew he'd crash when he was really down. Set him up to snort heroin pure enough to kill a horse.”

Duane looked shocked to the marrow. The blood rushed from his face. His lips turned white. “Jesus Christ, Michelle. You didn't—Oh Christ.
Oh, no
.”

“Hon,” Michelle said gently. “Don't listen to Ben. Listen to me. I've backed you all these years. Why would I hurt Reg? He was part of our life—part of my life too, in some weird way. Why would I kill him?”

“Oh yeah? If he was part of our life, how come I had to break up with him when Janey left? You want to tell me that?”

“I was afraid you'd leave me, like he left Janey.”

“I promised you I wouldn't.”

“You promised for twelve years you'd leave
him
and you never did. How could I believe you?”

“Is Ben right?”

Michelle reached for her robe.

***

I yanked it into the water and held her off with one hand while I found the gun with the other. It was a little automatic, quite small, though big enough for John Martello.

Duane's jaw dropped open when he saw the gun.

Michelle screamed, clawing, splashing, throwing her weight at the gun.

“Get her off me,” I said.

Duane pushed her across the Jacuzzi. For a long moment they stared at each other like strangers in the same cell. Duane seemed overwhelmed by the enormity of what she'd done. Rage and grief wrestled on his face. Grief won. Fat tears filled his eyes. Michelle moved to comfort him; he shook her off.

“If I did it,” she said carefully, “I would have done it for us. Don't you know that, Hon? You want to end up like Janey, scrambling, broke?”

“You hated him.”

“He hated
me
. Because I was stronger than him. I had the upper hand and he knew it. He hated me for keeping you.”

“He did not. He liked you.”

“Okay, we were friends, sort of. We talked and hacked around. But he was just sucking up to me so he could be around you.”

“He trusted you. Before AA you always gave him stuff.”

“He cried on my fucking shoulder,” Michelle retorted.

Cold, bitter anger hardened Duane's features. “You hated him because I loved him.”

Color darkened Michelle's face, and suddenly all the betrayals and broken promises exploded like a bomb. “Hey, you think I needed you for
love
? I didn't need you, you son of a bitch. I made my own life. Ask Ben. Hey, know-it-all! Ben! Tell him!”

I supposed she meant her walks on the wild side of Waterbury.

“Tell him!” she screamed.

“Last I heard, Little John was in the morgue.”

“Fuck you. Fuck both of you. Get out of my house, Duane. You too, Ben. You can't prove anything.”

Happy to leave such details to Sergeant Marian, I took Michelle's gun and checked that Duane's towel didn't cover a Ruger. Then I dripped a long, wet trail through the party room, the foyer, the living room, and into the kitchen, where I telephoned the number on Marian's card. The trooper who answered said she was in the field. “Beep her. It's urgent.”

I left the Fisks' number and waited by the phone. Marian called back in two minutes.

“This better not be some invitation to pump me at dinner.”

“I'm faced with a dilemma,” I told her. “I have two choices.”

“Choose the one you don't want. Do the right thing for once.”

“It's an amateur's dilemma. I need a police officer to make an arrest. I think the professional word is ‘collar.' Anyhow, I've got a ‘collar' for somebody. Do I give it to Trooper Moody, whom I dislike? Or to you, who has been extraordinarily insulting of late?”

“To me. What collar?”

“Call me a sucker for a pretty face.”

“Are you
looking
for ways to piss me off?”

“Are you looking for Reg Hopkins's killer? 'Cause if you are, the collar is yours. Hop in your car, drive down Church Hill Road, and get onto River Road. About four miles out you'll see an expensive, ugly French Colonial. My car's in the drive. We'll be in the party room.”

“Who?”

“Me and the killer. And the killer's spouse.”

“I'll be right there. Don't leave them alone.”

I ran back to the party room.

Duane was standing waist-deep in the middle of the Jacuzzi, sipping Bud. His face was red and he was breathing hard.

“Call the cops.”

“I already did. Where's Michelle?”

“She killed him,” he said, his voice shaking with emotion.

He pointed down at the water as I stepped closer. Michelle was thrashing on the bottom of the Jacuzzi. Through the bubbles I could see her arms and legs darting like panicked fish. Duane held her down with a foot on her throat.

“
Let her up
!”

I jumped in to shove him off her. But he hunkered down low and used his weight and the water to shrug me off his slippery back. I crashed against the stone and pushed back through the water and hit him hard, twice. His heavy body seemed to swallow the punches.

I went for his face, yelling, “
Let her up
!”

He threw his hands up and backed off. “It's okay, Ben. It's over.”

I heaved Michelle off the bottom. I laid her on the granite surround, tilted her head to drain the water, and felt in her mouth to clear her throat. Her head lolled grotesquely. I put my mouth to hers and tried to breathe air into her lungs.

“Too late,” Duane said. “I put all my weight on her. Crushed her neck.” He stuck his foot out of the water. In her fight to live, she had scratched bloody claw marks.

“Oh, Jesus,
Duane
.” He was right. There was nothing left. I tried to close her staring eyes.

Duane threw a towel over her.

For a while neither of us spoke. Duane smoothed the folds of the towel, spreading it evenly over Michelle. Then, in a collected, settled voice, he said, “It's better this way, Ben. No one has to know.”

“Janey knows.”

“She'll never tell…
You
know…”

Marian's siren carried far in the thick heat.

“I lied, before,” he said. “It wasn't high school. It happened in eighth grade. ‘Still crazy after all these years?' Still
lying
after all these years. We went swimming one day—Scared the
hell
out of ourselves…Ben, we fought it every step of the way. We were so ashamed. Remember, I went into the Service? Didn't work. Then we married Michelle and Janey. Kids. They were a plus. But
nothing
worked. Kept breaking up, hooking up again.”

“Did you ever think of coming out?”

“Yeah. We talked about it. Everybody was doing it. But we…Reg and me, we just weren't built that way…What do you say, Ben? Give us a break?” He glanced at me, then down at the water. “Hell, you're staring at me like I'm sick or something. You don't even know what I'm talking about.”

“Oh, I think I do.”

He looked up, begging me to honor the long years of childhood.

“I won't tell.”

“Thank you. Thanks, old buddy.” He seized my hand and shook it hard.

I squeezed back, sadly aware that I'd done him and Reg a big favor, allowing all of Newbury to assume that Duane Fisk was just a regular guy who'd killed his wife.