The Bohemian Connection (22 page)

Before I had taken a step, he was next to the congressman, introducing himself, and explaining that he’d been here investigating the complaint. It was clear from Tisson’s expression that the last thing he wanted was evidence that the bureaucracy had moved on Michelle’s complaint without his prodding. Stepping between Sugarbaker and the cameras, he instructed him to lead the men to the hole.

It was between the houses, partway up the incline, no more than ten feet from Michelle’s garage and the mosquito larvae.

The crowd filled Ward and Jenny’s stairs, spilled over onto their yard, stamping for footholds on the steep ground. They covered Craig’s yard, using the seedlings for handholds. And they filled the street, pushing so close to the sewer construction hole that the sheriff’s deputies had to move them back. Men lined up by the diggers, ready to relieve them.

But Sugarbaker had been wrong about the soil. It wasn’t hard. And he had been wrong about the box. It wasn’t yards deep. The crowd was still arriving when the diggers struck the top of the redwood cesspool box.

The sheriff stepped forward. “Okay, hold it there.” He took a shovel and began to pry the top loose.

I leaned over the railing and looked down. The box was less than four yards away.

The sheriff lifted the lid.

The smell was awful.

It took only six shovels full of excrement to uncover what was inside. The sheriff ordered the diggers to step back and called for a garden hose. He aimed the water into the box. The diggers vacillated between moving forward for a glimpse inside the box and jumping back to avoid the ricocheting spray. I leaned over the railing.

The sheriff turned off the hose nozzle. The water stopped.

Inside the cesspool were the remains of a body—very decomposed.

I swallowed hard.

Grimacing, the sheriff leaned close to the skull. When he stood up he shook his head and said to one of the deputies, “There’s a gap between the front teeth.”

T
HE ONLOOKERS SEEMED TO
gasp as one. The sheriff stood motionless, looking down at the decomposed body of Ross Remson.

Thirty seconds passed, then it was as if the still picture came to life. The cameramen pressed in. Congressman Tisson began speaking. Reporters crowded around. And the news of what was in the cesspool passed in a visible wave through the crowd.

I moved back to the far side of Michelle’s deck, staring blankly at the crowd. David Sugarbaker came up beside me.

“I can’t get anything from those guys,” he moaned, pointing to Tisson and his entourage. “What does all this mean?”

“It means that Michelle Davidson was murdered to stop her from complaining about her mosquito larvae—to keep the cesspool from being dug up.”

“Then her death had nothing to do with this Bohemian Connection you were telling me about? That Bohemian Connection job wasn’t passed on that weekend?”

“No. The Bohemian Connection job did pass on, but not as Ross intended. But that’s not why he was killed.”

“Well, why was he killed? And who is the Bohemian Connection now?”

I thought a moment, letting my eyes survey the crowd. I couldn’t find the familiar faces now, not Jenny, or Ward, or Craig or Alison, or even Vida. The crowd had pressed forward, leaving Mr. Bobbs standing a few feet off from its outer edge.

Turning back to Sugarbaker, I said, “The question that has bothered me all along is why was Michelle’s body put in a place where it was bound to be found no later than Monday morning. All along I’ve looked at it as if the killer had to put it down there Thursday night to get rid of it then. Like the Follow-up I told you about. But I’d forgotten that there’s another end to Follow-up—that’s when the folder comes back. And that was the reason Michelle’s body was dropped into the sewer hole. It wasn’t only because the killer couldn’t dispose of it Thursday night. It was so the killer
could
deal with it at a convenient time before Monday morning. Like Mr. Bobbs said about Follow-up—the idea is to deal with it at a time when you can give it your best attention. That’s what the killer planned. The killer didn’t expect me to find it Friday. It was reasonable to assume that it would still be there Sunday night.”

“But who?”

“There was one person who needed to put off disposing of the body till then. And there was only one person who could have taken over the job without Ross’s approval.”

“Listen, could you—”

I looked over the crowd again. The killer was gone. But I knew where the killer would go.

Suddenly the crowd was quiet. A reporter’s voice rang out. “Congressman Tisson, how does this connect with this woman’s complaint?”

“Well, that’s hardly an issue now,” the congressman said.

“Hardly an issue!” Sugarbaker fumed. He looked toward me and back to Tisson.

“Go on,” I said, giving him a push.

He leapt forward.

Momentarily I was tempted to follow, to tell the sheriff what I had figured out. But he was right in the middle of the crowd. It would take a good ten minutes just to elbow my way to him and then who knew how long to get his attention and to convince him who the killer was. Suppose he wouldn’t believe me—again. I wasn’t about to give him that opportunity.

I started up the hillside, making my way across the path behind Ward’s house, through the crowd and up the incline from there, the way Sugarbaker had gotten back to his car Friday afternoon. My boots slipped. I grabbed at branches, pulling myself up, scraping for handholds in the earth until I could reach another branch and clamber on up. When I got to Cemetery Road, I turned left, hurrying on, thinking of the killer and of Michelle Davidson’s incredible bad luck.

I hadn’t had to guess how the killer knew I would be at Maria Keneally’s house last night—following me from my own driveway was easy. But I had wondered why, why then? Now I realized that it was to keep me from seeing Congressman Tisson. I had stood in front of Michelle’s house yesterday afternoon telling Vida that I intended to pass on Michelle’s complaint to Tisson. I had argued with her that it was vital. Michelle had been killed to prevent her from asking him to push her complaint about the cesspool, and thus, to keep Ross’s body from being discovered. Poor Michelle had stumbled innocently upon the one cause that would prove fatal to her.

Cemetery Road was empty now. Everyone was either downtown or in Ward’s yard. I hurried on past the dead-end roads, along the turn to the cemetery, then through the old cement pillars.

The average person wouldn’t have thought that a simple talk with a congressman would lead to his insisting on opening the cesspool. I had caught Congressman Tisson at an advantageous moment. The killer had no reason to assume Michelle would have made use of that same opportunity. The only way the killer would have suspected how much a congressman could do would be if he had heard David Sugarbaker talking about the Environmental Health Department and how the employees jump when a congressman calls.

The cemetery was deserted, too. In the evening shade the tombstones blended with the dusk. But now, in contrast to the splotches of bright sun, they seemed more sepulchral. I hurried past them, glancing at the Maria Keneally marker.

The house of the living Maria Keneally looked empty. But I knew the killer would be there. The house was the logical hideout—the only place isolated enough for use by the Bohemian Connection and still within walking, or running, distance from town. I wished it were night now, when the darkness would protect me, when a light in the house would tell me if anyone were there. As I neared it, I realized that I was the only one who had made the connections that pointed to the killer. The killer would know that too. My investigating had hardly been a secret. And the other thing that I recognized, and hoped the killer wouldn’t, was that no one knew either of us was here.

The back door was closed, the screen pulled shut. I circled around the side, staying close to the bushes, with each step placing my foot slowly, carefully, noiselessly down, avoiding the leaves and branches on the ground. The bedroom windows were closed, the broken bathroom window just as it had been yesterday. But the killer wouldn’t have had to use that way in. If there was one thing the Bohemian Connection would have, it would be a good set of skeleton keys. And I wouldn’t have to use the bathroom window either.

Keeping low under the windows, I made my way around to the garage. The door inside, from the garage to the living room, didn’t lock. Maria Keneally had complained about that. She’d complained but she hadn’t been about to spend the money to have it fixed. After all, she’d told me, the garage door locked. That would keep anyone out. And for most prospective intruders it would. But Maria Keneally’s meter was in her garage. I was her meter reader. And I knew where the key to the garage was.

I unlocked the door, and opening it inch by inch to avoid its squeak, I let myself into the garage. I walked carefully across the garage, skirting boxes and ladders, an old broken television; years of accumulated excess. It looked like Maria Keneally kept everything she owned in the garage—everything except her antique pistol. Why couldn’t that be here too?

But it was in the living room, right inside the garage door, in the end table drawer, right where Maria Keneally could grab it and face off any local ne’er-do-well who tried to break into her house.

At the door to the house I stopped, listened. There was no sound from inside. Was the killer in the bedroom, at the other side of the house? Could I slip into the living room, grab the pistol from the end table drawer…?

I turned the handle, pressing it down to keep it from squeaking. I pushed the door open half an inch at a time. Only the near slice of the room was visible—a worn armchair and a lamp. I pushed the door further. The front door came into view and beside it a coatrack with Maria Keneally’s winter coat hanging from it.

The door flew open. A hand grabbed for my hair and yanked me off balance to the floor.

“Gotcha!” Jenny shouted. She picked up a pistol from the end table behind her. It was old, heavy—Maria Keneally’s pistol.

I inched back on the floor.

“Don’t try to get away now,” Jenny said, laughing. “I’m very good with a gun. Shooting was the one thing Ross did teach me.”

The shades were up, but curtains covered the windows. Even with the bright sunshine outside, the room was dark. On the far side of the front door was the dining area. Jenny had already made herself at home there. She had pushed the table to the wall. A backpack with a roll of sketch paper sticking out sat atop it. And an end table lamp sat on the table. This would be where she planned to do her sketching.

“This is all you could bring here without your car, isn’t it?” I said.

“Ward’s car!”

“Ward’s car,” I repeated. “It wasn’t a useful car for you.” I thought of the big windows of the Pacer. They were part of the reason Jenny had dumped Michelle’s body in the sewer construction hole. The Pacer was hardly a car you could leave a body in. And the sewer hole had blocked the McElveys’ driveway. Jenny couldn’t even have put the body in the car and then the car in the garage. And with Ward’s guests, the Underwoods, already in the house expecting to be fed and entertained all weekend, Jenny couldn’t drive off long enough to safely get rid of Michelle’s body that night without arousing suspicion. So the body went into the sewer hole; on Follow-up, to be taken out Sunday night after the Underwoods had left.

“You really planned ahead, Jenny. You checked this out for the Bohemian Connection work, didn’t you? That’s how you found the pistol, isn’t it?”

She smiled.

“Ross wasn’t planning to give you the Connection job, was he?”

She smiled again, this time glancing down at the gun. “No. Ross wasn’t about to give me anything. Ross didn’t give; he only took—not even took, he grabbed. He was my father’s
son.
He never had to stay in the house with my mother when she was too crazy to be left alone. He raced around on his motorcycle; he went to dances. I was the one who had to watch her when she went manic. I had to make sure she didn’t get out where people might see her. I had to guard the phone. I had to drop everything. I couldn’t paint; I couldn’t read; I couldn’t even go to the bathroom. It would have looked bad if people had seen how crazy she was; it would have damaged the business. People don’t want to buy a house from a crazy woman’s husband. That’s what Daddy told me.

“I never had friends; I couldn’t. I couldn’t stay after school to do anything. I could never invite anyone over. No one would have wanted to come in there anyway. No one would have liked to see her pacing around inside. I had to watch her. But she did escape once. And you know what happened?” Jenny stared at me with a smile, an angry smile, an expression out of sync with itself.

“She drowned, didn’t she?”

“Yes, yes. I let her out and she drowned.” She stared first at the gun and then at me, still with that disparate expression.

I could imagine the mix of relief and guilt she had felt then, but I didn’t want to ask about that. I didn’t want to do anything that would drive her deeper into her emotional turmoil. Once she was submerged in that, any chance of my reasoning with her would be gone. In this secluded house, she could shoot me without anyone hearing. She could stick my body in the garage next to the broken television.

Still, I had to know about the murders. Watching her reaction, I said, “Tell me how you killed Ross.”

“I liked killing Ross.” Her smile was paper-thin. Her fingers tightened on the pistol. “Daddy loved Ross, only Ross. Ross was his
son.
He always forgave Ross. He left Ross the house, did you know that?
My
house. And the business, the business that Ward made work. Do you know what Ross planned to do?”

“When?”

“After my father died, of course. Ross watched him die. He watched him dig the hole. Then he watched him fall. He watched as the ambulance took him away. Then do you know what he said?”

“No.”

“He said, ‘Well, the old man’s dead. This shack is mine. The bourgeois business is mine. I’m going to unload them both before he’s in the ground and never see this town again.’ That’s what he planned to do, sell my house, sell the only business that would give Ward steady work. We would have had no place to live, nothing to live on. I worked for that house. I watched that crazy woman all those years while he rode around on his motorcycle. He was going to sell my house; he was going to sell the business, to make me go to work all day, five days a week.” Her fingers were white against the gun. “I would never have been able to paint.”