Summerkill (11 page)

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“Jonny doesn’t sound too good in my version. Or, if you’ve forgotten, in the court transcript. I kept my copy as a souvenir.”

Her response was to slam down her receiver. I chuckled, having already pulled mine back in anticipation. We’d both used to
work our tails off to get the last word, however meaningless it generally was. Nice to know I hadn’t lost my touch.

No, it wasn’t, not really. I’d never fully succeeded in purging that little background hope that someday she’d make contact,
try to set things to a better rest. Maybe even have a cautious go at mother-daughter. And I could show her … I threw the phone
against the wall, denting the Sheetrock. Show her what that she’d ever care to see?

That first parental encounter in a quarter-century— dismayingly similar to the clashes we’d had as far back as I can remember—left
me spoiling for more of a fight. So when Roxy started barking at the porch and I looked and saw a man bent over trying a screen
for looseness, I stormed out. “Who the hell are you and what do you think you’re doing?”

When he straightened up, I recognized him from the picture they run with his Sunday column. I’ve never thought he looked like
a nice man; it turns out the picture is flattering. “Name’s Jack Garrett, I’m with the
Albany Record,
and I was trying to find out if anybody was home. Presumably you, if you’re Valerie Wyckoff.”

It was as well the screen door stood firmly between us and I had no immediate choice but to make do with my mouth. “What a
coincidence. I was just reading your story.”

That made him smile, sort of. He looked to be in lousy shape—skinny except for the belly, a little stringy brown hair showing
along the sides, the reddened nose of a drinker. “Great. Then can we talk?”

“Like hell it was great, and no, we can’t talk. Look, I’ve been cleared of suspicion in this murder—which I’d think you’d
know by now if you’re such a hot-shot reporter. I’m totally pissed that you dragged out that long-ago business with my mother
and her husband. Not to mention you got it substantially wrong. You want to quote me on that, go ahead. Meantime, get your
tail off my property before I call the police back here.”

“Hey, lady, this is what I do for a living. I tried to phone you last night—five times. Both before and after I found my way
around here through the woods. And then your damn dog kept barking and you wouldn’t come near the door.” His voice took on
a harder edge. “The business about you stabbing your stepfather was valid news when I ran it. It’s fine with me you’re cleared—the
whole thing looked too damn obvious to be real. So don’t you want to set the record straight, tell your side?”

“No.”

“It could do a lot for your public image.”

“I don’t give a shit about my public image.”

He shrugged. “I’m doing at least one follow-up, regardless. You may as well have some input.”

“Not about twenty-five years ago. That’s past tense to me.”

He tried a smile. “Hey, I’m flexible. I’ll settle for some backgrounding on Ryan Jessup and Etlingers’ Garden Center.”

“I’d be gossiping. Not my thing.”

“Well, then, how about bringing me up to date on this Valerie Wyckoff we last left being deeded over to the state? Sounds
like you’ve had a rosier time of it than your folks expected. Could you warm to that subject?”

And get in a plug for Birchwood plus some business credentials? “Maybe. There’s something you’ll need to tell me first. How
did you come up with your information about me and the Keegans?”

“Get serious. If I went around revealing my sources, I’d be long past having any.”

“Well, you know, family court proceedings are supposed to be confidential, too. You were quoting almost verbatim from Jon
Keegan’s deposition, there. How did you get it?”

“I’ve never laid eyes on Jon Keegan’s deposition. Journalists don’t have access to that kind of records. They’re sealed, for
crissake.”

“Did he tell you about it, then?”

“The closest I’ve come to contact with Jon Keegan was when I finally got through to his home phone today. This woman who answered,
presumably your lovely mother, hung up with a vengeance. My ear still hurts.”

“Then where did your information come from?”

“Maybe you ought to look among your friends. Maybe some of them aren’t as good at keeping secrets as you thought.”

“You didn’t write my version of that particular secret. Did it come it from one of the Etlingers?”

“Why are you so intent on identifying my source?”

“I’d like to know whose minefield I’ve been walking through.”

He considered that. “You don’t tell where you got the name?”

“Scout’s honor.”

“Or go stab anybody?”

“You’re a laugh a minute.”

He blew out a little puff of air. “The ID and we can talk?”

“Along the lines I agreed to.”

Shrugging, he put his hand on the door frame, near the latch. “I hit the Garden Center late yesterday afternoon. I honestly
don’t remember which of them first brought up the thing with your stepfather. They were all familiar with it in a general
way, but I wasn’t getting any juicy details. Until Mrs. Etlinger—”

“The older one?”

“Nah, the good-looking brunette. I’d already left, thought I’d extracted all I could. She caught up with me in the parking
lot.”

T
he solid thunk of another down-the-middle wood split resounded in the evening air. I felt curiously deserted. My niece Gina
had called around three, offering to drive down after work and pick up the kids. It would let them get an earlier start in
the morning and spring Alex and Galen from a second night stuck indoors. I told her it was a great idea, and to have her boyfriend
use the Donnelly detour—an unnecessary precaution, it turned out. The hangers-around no longer hung, and the traffic volume
on Wilbur Creek Road was almost back to normal. My fifteen minutes of fame must’ve expired before I got around to enjoying
them.

Giving herself a night off, Vicky came along on the excursion, bringing the makings of a cookout. We celebrated the television
news stories about my exoneration. None of them were readers, or had yet heard about that dysfunctional family piece in the
Record
, and I wasn’t about to ruin the mood of the occasion by bringing it up. It was a nice couple of hours.

And then they all left and suddenly I wasn’t busy enough.

Well, there was no shortage of wood to be split and stacked for seasoning. The downstairs I heat mainly with the woodstove,
and while the ready-to-use stacks out front held enough for this winter and well into the next it wouldn’t hurt to get still
further ahead. This was the fall I intended to finally catch up and process everything usable that was lying around on the
ground.

There wasn’t time to get used to my solitude before it went away again. I don’t know how long he’d been there— Roxy had already
taken him off her bark-at list. Me, too, pretty much. He stood a little down from the porch, watching me. My dog stood at
his side, wagging her tail. He was still wearing his uniform pants, but the shirt had been replaced by a T bearing the message
PLAYS WELL WITH OTHERS. “Hi,” he said when I looked over.

“Hi,” I responded, positioning another log on the horse.

When the two pieces fell to the ground he moved in. “You’re stacking these over by the woods?”

“Right.”

He took the newest splits and toted them away. I brought up another log. He waited for those splits. This went on for as long
as I could tolerate, which wasn’t very. I leaned the splitter against the horse, pulled off my chopping gloves, picked up
my beer can, and asked, “What do you want?”

“Oh, just to see how things are going. And if you’ve simmered down from this morning, maybe pick your brain a little. Or did
that story in the
Record
set you off again?”

“You don’t need to save me a copy for my scrapbook.”

“So your stepfather’s one of the political Keegans.”

“That family—he’s a businessman, not a politician. Also, we don’t think of ourselves as being related, even by steps.”

“And it’s time for a subject change if I hope to continue this conversation.”

“You’re a perceptive man.”

“They teach you in cop school. Any more of that beer around?”

I gestured toward the cooler. “You’re allowed to drink on duty?”

“Whose permission do I ask? If it makes you happier, we’ll say I’m off duty.”

He and Roxy went over to the cooler. More empties surrounded it than I’d have displayed, given warning, but what the hell.

The two of them came back. “I’ve never met a dog called Roxy.”

“It’s short for Roxanne.”

“What the hell kind of name is Roxanne for a watchdog?”

“The one I selected, and she’s a companion, not a watch-dog. What the hell kind of name is Baxter for a sheriff?”

“My parents didn’t know they were naming a future sheriff. I didn’t foresee that in my future either until it was too late.”

“It failed to occur to you anywhere along the campaign trail that you might win?”

“What was I going to do at that point? I took the nomination to be a good Republican. Dad’s active in the party or I’d never
have gotten into the department fresh out of a two-year college. My predecessor was a surething vote getter, so nobody was
keen on running against him. The county chairman said it would look bad if we didn’t at least field a candidate and asked
if I’d mind. It seemed safe.”

“And then your predecessor literally screwed up and had to withdraw, so you won by default.”

“Or you could look on it as the biggest plurality in county history. And you may as well call me Baxter even if you don’t
think it fits.”

I shrugged. “Then I’m Val.”

“Val. Could we sit down somewhere? It’s been a long couple of days.”

“Tell me about it. Is the porch okay? The mosquitoes are starting to come out.”

“Want me to bring the cooler?”

“Good idea.”

There was the glider and the two big cushioned wicker chairs. We both opted for the latter, Roxy democratically settling down
on the floor between us. “The boys aren’t around?”

“You missed them by half an hour. Their sister and her boyfriend are taking them up to Speculator for a week. His parents
have a camp on the lake.”

“You put that together in a hurry.”

“All we did was move up the departure time by twelve hours. After Speculator they’ll stay in Albany with their mom for several
days, and then we’ll all pile into my Bronco and go to the Cape for Labor Day weekend.”

He looked like he wanted some amplification, there, but settled for “Do the boys seem okay?”

“Pretty much. Alex thought some of the kids were looking at him funny today, but that’s as far as it went. He wasn’t too enthused
about going to Speculator until after we watched you on the television news. I guess if the sheriff says something, it must
be so.”

“I wouldn’t mind if more people adopted that attitude.”

“Thanks for doing that for me, by the way. I might not have seemed grateful at the time.”

He smiled his agreement. “You’d just come from Rodney Etlinger. Are things straightened out yet?”

“They were straight enough before I steamed into your office. I’m gone.”

“I almost gave him a call. Do you want me to?”

“No.”

“You’re sure this isn’t going to squeeze you financially?”

“Trust me, I’ll turn a profit.”

“Then from what I keep hearing, you’re well away from that place. One thing I’d like to ask you about is their finances. When
Ryan Jessup tried to assign you this stuff you refused to do, he pegged it to a need to generate more revenue. Eleanor and
Rodney admit to having a cash-flow problem. They claim it’s temporary and not that serious. Why should there be a problem
at all? Last year they landed that huge contract. Is Clete holding up payment or something?”

“I don’t know, specifically. On projects like that there’s usually a payment schedule—a given percentage of the total as each
specified part of the work is completed. My guess would be they didn’t negotiate themselves very workable terms. The Etlingers
went into Hudson Heights more as a reputation builder than a moneymaker. They bid low to get the contract, and the cost overruns
must be horrendous. Next year, when they get going on the Hudson Heights residentials, they should turn a decent profit.”

“Why should the cost overruns be horrendous?”

“A bunch of factors. You’re bound to run into scheduling delays on a complex project, and they didn’t line up enough small
fill-in jobs. They lost their best crew chief when Skip Boyles left this spring, and the labor crews have not been functioning
efficiently. A major plant supplier suffered a wipeout in a freak storm, which meant we had to scramble to find suitable replacements,
at higher prices. And Willem’s afterthoughts on his projects usually happen too late to go as pass-alongs. For all that, it’s
one hell of a design.”

“If you say so. I’m one of those crotchety natives who liked things better when Crane Hill still had its top. Back when I
was in high school we went out there a lot in the summer. Dove off this shelf about two-thirds up into the quarry pond.”

The image made me queasy. “You were out of your minds!”

He grinned his denial. “It was fun. We’d all pile into a couple of cars with food, something to drink, girls if we got lucky.
Nobody ever got hurt. Our biggest challenge was getting around Toby Babcock. He kept trying to chase us off.”

“The man probably didn’t want you to break your necks on his property.”

“Toby? Nah—he just didn’t like anybody making use of his land for free. He must’ve collected a nice piece of change in hunting
season.” He frowned. “I doubt there’s a huntable creature on the premises anymore, the way the whole landscape got rearranged.”

“Mother Nature’s not always into golf courses. It’s beautiful, though, that one: the vistas of the river, the different perspectives
you get on the quarry pond.”