Summerkill (28 page)

“I imagine he’s hitting lots of people for alibis. And some folks have been dissing Hudson Heights ever since the project
started. You’re thinking escalation?”

“I’m thinking when a rumor is juicy enough, it’s going to grow and thrive. Clete’s a natural rumor target to start with.”

“Hell, he’s worked at that for years now. And I’ll tell you one thing: he didn’t help himself or Hudson Heights an awful lot
with that outburst at the Red Barn the other night. Being the one he was picking on, maybe I’m prejudiced, but it sounded
to me like the man was losing it.”

Thurman shook his head. “That was embarrassing to watch. Perhaps we should have tried to restrain him, but he pushed away
from the bar so fast. Accusing you like that was certainly unwise—not to mention, I’m sure, unfounded. He’d been drinking
a great deal. What can I say?”

“Beats me, Thurman. Did you guys happen to notice that old blanket tacked on to the house when you drove in?”

“It would’ve been hard not to.” Matt grinned. “Knowing you, I wasn’t about to ask.”

“If you had, I’d have told you it was covering the graffiti somebody painted on the wall earlier today. It reads go away,
bitch! Now after that business at the Red Barn this does make me think Clete and Hudson Heights, and encourages me to ask
all sorts of questions. If people would rather I didn’t engage in that sort of activity, they might spread the word I want
to be left alone.”

Matt stood up. “Hey, if my word reaches the right ears, whatever head they happen to be attached to,” he added, straight-faced,
“you got it. Thurman? Val probably has things she needs to do.”

Almost formally, Thurman took my hand. “Thank you for having us in.”

End of threat, if that’s what it had been. Once they were out front, getting into Matt’s Jeep, I felt silly for even having
wondered. Just a fishing expedition, had it been? A sales pitch? Or had we negotiated something? And what about that bandage
on Matt’s hand? Surely he wouldn’t come around flaunting it, knowing what I must have seen. Unless he was testing me.

Back inside, I went to check my answering machine. The tape was all used up again—still mostly media people, asking, begging,
demanding I call them back. Jake left a message that he’d found a better source for the fieldstone we needed for Platteville;
no comment on my latest personal adventure. Pete called from Colorado, demanding to know what the hell was going on now. There
was nothing from Mommie Dearest. Hopefully, they’d left her name out of the papers this time.

It occurred to me I ought to know what was being said in print, so I went out to the mailbox to fetch the
Patroon Digest
, the county’s twice-a-week paper to which I subscribe—it dispenses more than enough local news for me. Sue and Denny had
the daily
Star-Journal
delivered. Neither car was presently in their driveway. When I saw signs somebody was home, I’d give them a call.

I also discovered the reason for something I’d found mildly curious: why there were no reporters hanging around. They knew
the location from last time, and my Bronco was sitting there to proclaim the likelihood I was back in residence. Hanging around
was being discouraged, however. While I’d been busy indoors, someone had tacked the largest POSTED, KEEP OUT! signs I’d ever
seen on my two driveway marker posts, and cruising slowly down the road was a sheriff’s department car. I waved at the occupant,
whom I did not recognize, and withdrew partway into my yard to wait. Not quite fifteen minutes had expired when he came by
again.

The
Patroon Digest
didn’t have much—I guess the story had broken too late for them. It was almost time for the evening news, so I raided the
refrigerator to put together something special for Roxy’s supper, as promised: leftovers supreme. I wasn’t hungry.

True to Matt and Thurman’s alert, television had found its angle on Mariah’s death. Channel 8, anyhow, and the tail ends I
was able to catch of the other two channels’ coverages indicated a similar approach. First we saw Baxter, from early this
morning, giving his “mysterious circumstances” statement. Then, sometime during the afternoon, Phil Thomson had held a press
conference in front of the Riverton courthouse. The gist was now that more details were known, this second death appeared
to have been a tragic accident. He saw no indication at this point that it was linked to the murder of Ryan Jessup; in fact,
he deemed that highly unlikely.

This sent them in pursuit of Baxter again, and they’d caught up with him as he entered the department building— maybe straight
from my place? Yes, he said, looking and sounding too laid back to be real, he was familiar with the district attorney’s statement.
He felt, however, that too many unanswered questions remained for him to second it just yet. In both its aspects? he was asked.
“That would be a fairly likely implication” was his slightly smiling answer.

Then the Channel 8 reporter asked about me. Was I a suspect this time? I loved the firmness of his “Definitely not.” With
that and the patrolling cop car, maybe the rest of the day would be more peaceful than I’d projected.

At least it should be peaceful enough for me to go ahead with my paint job, while the light was still good. I checked out
my stock. There was lots of interior beige, and probably enough of the sky blue the boys had picked for their walls. I also
had a bunch of spray cans, left over from assorted small projects. So what the hell. With the time, the energy, and the materials,
why settle for an upright monocolor rectangle? I, too, could make a statement.

I was creatively at work on it when Roxy took off in the direction of the creek path. She reappeared momentarily with Denny
following. “Hi,” I yelled, waving a spray can. “I tried to call you back a couple of times but there didn’t seem to be anybody
around over there.”

“Hate them damn answering machines.”

“I’m starting to. What’s up?”

“You had a visitor. I’m coming home for lunch, and there’s this asshole—a skinny guy with too much mustache?—you see him on
Channel 5 once in a while. He was standing in your driveway, getting a pair of heavy-duty wirecutters out of his trunk. I
chased him into the woods.” He broke into a smile. “And then I hung around a while. It’s buggy in there today.”

“You are a good neighbor. What was he up to, anyhow? Did he think he could get in through the run and Roxy’s doggie door?”

“He’d have lost his nerve on that one real fast, the racket she’d make. You got an inside bolt on that door anyhow, don’t
you?”

“Oh, yeah. Maybe he’s the one who left the porterhouse bone in her run.”

“Didn’t see any bone. I told Sue to keep an eye out over here, call the sheriff’s department if anybody else came poking around.
But then Jacob fell off the top of that rock fort they made down by the creek and cracked his head. We were all down at Riverton
Memorial for a couple hours.”

“My God! Is he okay?”

“Headache and five stitches—caught it right on that bleeder area up top of the forehead. Could be a slight concussion, they
think. They told us to wake him up a couple times tonight, check that he’s making sense. That’d be a first, come to think
of it.”

I grinned. Their two girls took a matter-of-fact approach to life; Jacob did not. He and Galen weren’t the most reassuring
of playmate combinations. “That must’ve been scary.”

“I’ve seen bleeders before, but it shook Sue up pretty good. Somebody else came around, too, looks like.”

I’d obliterated the ITCH. The B and the ! were still mostly intact, as was the vertical part of the message. If he wondered
why I wasn’t just taking a roller to the project he chose not to ask. “I’ve been thinking about hiring somebody to hang around
and watch things for a week or two, whenever I’m not here.”

“Looks like it wouldn’t be a bad idea. Sorry to hear about Mrs. Hansen. Good friend of yours, wasn’t she? Didn’t know her
to speak of myself, but I appreciated her being so good to Chad.”

“His mom’s taking off must’ve been one of the very few times Mariah and your dad ever agreed on anything.”

“You got that right. But you know, I think Dad liked her in his way. Her spunk.” Two smiles in one conversation were a lot
for Denny. “Down underneath somewhere he might even like you, too.”

“Way down underneath, that must be. Anyhow, do you know anybody I could hire? The main qualifications would be to look large
and menacing. I wouldn’t want them to do anything to anybody.”

He mulled it over. “You could try the Yardley brothers. Billy and Ken? Don’t think they’re working much these days, with the
cement plant closed. They ought to get a kick out of looking mean. How about if they fire an air rifle up toward the treetops
once in a while? They’d get a kick out of that, too.”

“I guess,” I said, wondering what I was subscribing to. All I knew about the Yardley brothers was that they were oversized
and very country.

“I’ll give ’em a call for you. We’re talking days, basically?”

I nodded. And if they worked out, maybe round the clock while we were off at the Cape next week. We could see about that.

“We’ll keep an eye out, too.”

“Thanks. But Denny, you know your dad might have something to do with this.”

My neighbor gave a massive shrug. “If he does, he shouldn’t. I got to get back for supper. You take care.”

I
t was approaching eight, and I was putting the final touches on my message without words when Baxter’s RV pulled into the
driveway. A strong declaration, I took it, that he was off duty. I squirted out a little more of the red and dabbed it strategically
around.

He got out and stood behind me, studying. “If you got rid of the balls at the bottom, smoothed over the top, made it concave
instead of convex, and put something that looked like a wick with a flame above it, you might be able to convince somebody
that’s a candle.”

“I’m not into deception.”

“You’re really going to leave that there?”

This sort of question usually triggers an affirmative, but I fought it. “Only overnight. Or I may come out later and tack
the blanket back up. Okay?” I nodded toward the RV. “The day got too long for you?”

“Much too long. I thought I’d go camping.”

“Pick your spot and silence all communications devices, like I have my telephone: that should get you away from it all. Where
are you fixing to camp?”

“Right here. There’s plenty of space, good tree cover, water access, and the site fee should be right.”

“Baxter—”

“Look, you’re alone in an isolated house, without a firearm—”

“If I need a weapon, I used to be pretty handy with kitchen scissors.”

He frowned his intent to ignore that. “You’ve got a watchdog, here,” not needing to look, he reached down and patted her,
“who’s into universal love, you’ve got enemies out there who’ve demonstrated their willingness to do bad things to people
they don’t like—”

“We don’t know it was one of the killers who painted that message on the house. Would it be worth the risk of somebody catching
them in the act?”

“Well, then you’ve got even more enemies. You’re basically defenseless, you look like you haven’t slept in a week, and you’re
too damn stubborn to retreat to safer ground.” His belligerent look came on full strength. “So I’m camping here. If you don’t
like it, call the sheriff’s office.”

I made a point of sighing. “That doesn’t sound like a cool professional decision to me, but I don’t make your professional
decisions. You want to set up shop here tonight, fine. Of course I’m going to feel safer. Plug in your neon sign that flashes
SHERIFF in the back window—I promise to sleep like a baby.”

He slapped the side of his head. “I knew I forgot something. I’ll pull up right about there, okay?”

Thereby making sure my artwork could only be seen from up close. “The people I’ve met along my way are a mobile lot. If you
want to set up shop over next to the kitchen, I can hook you up for lights and water.”

The modern conveniences won out, though it looked close. “I’ll pull on over.”

“Have you had supper?”

“I’m trying to remember if I had lunch.”

“I’ll fix us something.”

Acquiring two young mouths to stuff with nutrition every single night had jacked up the frequency of my cooking, though it
hadn’t done much for skills improvement. In spite of, or maybe because of, all the years she’s done waitressing, Vicky isn’t
into meal preparation as art either. So I got away with simple and quick: hamburger, hot dogs, spaghetti, chicken; steak once
in a while. Add a salad—grow-your-own in season—and some decent bread from the Olde Town Bakery and that’s our meal. There
are always apples to munch on, other help-yourself fruits and raw veggies. Vicky couldn’t believe it the first time she saw
Galen snacking on a plateful of broccoli florets and carrot sticks. The boys are both calorie burners; they may not look it
but they eat more than I do.

I rarely issue invitations. If anybody else is around at suppertime I make whatever I was going to, just more of it. That
night I looked in the freezer and decided on spaghetti. I do up humongous batches of sauce every couple of months and freeze
them in containers. Putting the two pots on the stove, I went out and picked a bunch of swiss chard leaves, two tomatoes,
and a green pepper, and pulled a shallot. After depositing those on the counter I went back out to get some wood for the stove.
It was beginning to feel chilly in the house, too. “I can do that,” Baxter offered, coming up behind me.

“You’re on. There’s a basket of kindling inside.”

“I saw.”

I watched as he stacked himself an armload—several big pieces, then a bunch of intermediate-size ones—and held the door. He
gave a last, mild head-shaking look at my wall transformation before entering. “It’s not that bad once you get used to it.”

“I have a gift for spray painting,” I conceded. “Actually, it’s what got me into garden design.”

Opening the woodstove door, he stared briefly at the scraps of paper inside before crumpling newspapers to put on top of them
and lighting the pile. “You started off painting people’s yards?”