"You look to me to be at your ideal weight, Lexie. Where are you hiding these unwanted pounds?"
"You're just being kind, Stone. I can tell you're a real charmer and have no reservations about lying through your teeth. Please, don't let me stop you."
He looked at me with a feigned expression of having wounded feelings, then pointed to his mouth, and said, "See this gap? It'd make it easy to lie through my teeth, if I wanted to. But I mean everything I say, my dear."
"You're a smooth one, aren't you, Stone? Remind me to be wary of you."
"No need for that—say, how 'bout we share an order of chicken and dumplings? Then we needn't feel as guilty about all the fat and cholesterol we're devouring."
While we waited on the chicken and dumplings, we talked about Schenectady. We discussed how friendly the people seemed to be, and how nice and clean the city appeared. A couple of local men, both dressed in insulated coveralls, chatted with us for a few minutes. One of them asked where we hailed from and why we were visiting the area. I told them that we were investigating the 2001 Pitt murder case for a potential novel I was thinking about penning. I wanted to stay consistent with my story.
"Good luck," one of the men said as he fished change out of his pocket before heading for the cash register. Then he turned, paused and said, "Hard to imagine that anyone could bludgeon his pregnant wife to death with a rock, isn't it?"
Stone raised his eyebrows and held my gaze. I realized then that this was the first time I'd heard how Eliza had been murdered. I'd assumed that she was shot, stabbed, or choked to death. Not that any one of them was less vicious than the other options. It was obvious that many of the locals believed Clay was the culprit. I shuddered and wondered how Wendy could be attracted to someone cruel enough to do such a thing. If he did such a thing, I stopped to remind myself.
I also wondered how Clay was accepting her pregnancy. Was he already plotting Wendy and the baby's demise? Why would he want to be shackled to this child any more than the one Eliza was carrying, if and when he killed her?
* * *
After supper, Stone and I went into the hardware store next to the diner. He bought a comfortable canvas lawn chair for Harriet's back porch. Like me, Stone wanted to have a place to read and relax on the porch in the evenings. And, I suspected, to be near me at the same time. I'd shown him the five-hundred-pound pumpkin in the backyard, the hanging chair that I was so enthralled with, and also Harriet's metal bucket. He said he couldn't see himself being comfortable on a bucket that was apt to collapse into a pile of rusty scrap metal beneath him, and he didn't dare sit in my beloved chair.
"That would be about as hazardous as petting a baby moose with the mother moose standing twenty feet away," Stone said.
I laughed and agreed, and then thought about the moose head that had appeared in Clay and Wendy's den.
"Speaking of moose, Stone, do you know where a person in this region could go to shoot one?"
"You have a sudden desire to go out and pop a moose?" he asked.
"No, you nincompoop," I said, and smacked his shoulder playfully. "I'm wondering where a hunter—not me—might shoot one around here."
"Legally?"
"Not necessarily."
"Well, I just happened to have read an article about that recently. It said there are a guesstimated one hundred moose in the Adirondack Mountain Range right now, and the population is growing. There's no active program here of tagging moose in order to learn more about them or to keep track of their numbers. But it's a protected species in New York, so there's no season on them. They're working hard to bring the moose back to the Adirondacks in more impressive numbers. Poaching one in New York carries a maximum sentence of two thousand dollars and/or a year in jail. Why do you ask?"
"Oh, I was just curious. Clay brought a mounted bull moose head back to Kansas from here, and I was wondering where he might have bagged it."
"He could have shot it legally in Vermont where there are about four thousand moose. More moose are killed in traffic accidents in Vermont each year than those that make their home in this state. Do you know if he ever went hunting in Vermont?"
"No, but I suppose it's possible. Anyway, thanks for the info. It's going to be nice having you here to assist me. For the moral support alone, not to mention off-the-wall information such as the wildlife population of Vermont. You moose be very smart, Stone."
"Yes, I moose be."
* * *
There was frost on Harriet's pumpkin when we awoke Saturday morning. It was a reminder that winter was just around the corner. I was in my newly designated favorite chair on the back porch, Lady Luck coffee cup in my hand, when Stone walked out with his own steaming cup. He was spitting coffee grounds out as he walked toward the new canvas chair he'd purchased. "Remind me to buy some toothpicks, will you, Lexie?"
I laughed at his remark. "Give it a week. It'll grow on you. Trust me."
"Are you telling me that this coffee has already been brewing for a week?" he asked. "Hmmm. I'd expected as much. Not that I'm complaining, mind you. I needed a jump-start this morning. I can't remember the last time I slept so soundly."
"Those featherbed mattresses are heavenly, aren't they? This place seems to me to be the perfect example of why we should all go back to more traditional, old-fashioned customs. These days, everything tends to be too technical, too cold and impersonal. Life was simpler, and more satisfying, back in the good old days."
Stone agreed. His room at the inn featured a four-poster bed like mine, except his had no canopy, and the bedspread was more masculine, with large colorful wood ducks appliqued across a solid white background. Like mine, his room had wall-to-wall throw rugs and an antique dresser with candles on either side of a large oval mirror. The colors in his bathroom were a bit subtler than those in mine, but not by much.
"Just walking into your bathroom ought to be enough to wake you up," I said. "I was afraid to walk into mine after eating Harriet's poached eggs. Thought it could be just enough to upset the apple cart, if you know what I mean."
"Yes, I do know what you mean. At first glance, the color schemes here are nearly overwhelming. She's one in a million, though—our Harriet," Stone said. "By the way, did you happen to see what she keeps in the bookcase in the family room?"
"No, what?"
"Well, books of course—"
"Books?" I cut in. "No kidding? Gee, that's odd. I wouldn't think even Harriet would keep books in a bookcase."
"Not just regular books, though. Mostly phone books. Stacks of them. Every Schenectady phone book from 1957 through the 2003 edition that just came out this year."
"Okay, now that is a bit odd. But for Harriet, maybe it's not really all that shocking."
"Good point. Since I was up early this morning, I looked through a number of them, just for the heck of it," Stone said. "The hiker who discovered Eliza's body, Rod Crowfoot, is listed in the 2001 phone book, but none of them before or after that. It shows his address as 1022 Huron Street, Apartment C. That's just a few blocks from here. I thought we ought to run by there this morning. I would imagine that after Rod discovered the body, he was talking about it to about everyone he ran into. That'd be the natural thing to do, after all. He may have relayed some useful information to the super, the maintenance man, or gardener at the apartment complex."
"Couldn't hurt to stop by there and ask around, could it? Want to stop and get an English muffin for breakfast on the way?"
"No, I want to stop and get a bacon and cheese omelet, hash browns, biscuits and gravy, and a cinnamon roll, but I guess an English muffin will have to suffice."
I patted his slightly protruding belly, surprised at the affection I already felt for him. He was such an easy, comfortable guy to have around. I thanked God one more time that Stone had volunteered to accompany me in Schenectady.
"Maybe a cinnamon roll instead of an English muffin will be okay, just this once," I said. "But no biscuits and gravy. Too much cholesterol. So, Harriet's
really kept all of the phone books since 1957?"
* * *
"Don't really know much about that Crowfoot guy. Doubt anyone around here knows much. Least nothing that will be of any use for your novel," Fred, the toothless guy behind the desk, told us. I was still using my "novel" approach, although I doubted Fred was a voracious reader. I listened as he leaned back in his chair and told us what he remembered about the former tenant.
"Kid didn't socialize much. Kept to himself most the time. Was only in his apartment once that I recall. Had a toilet that wouldn't flush worth a damn—excuse me—hoot, I mean." Fred looked at me in silent apology and kept talking.
"Think he's Native American. Couldn't tell you what tribe he belongs to. I'd guess his mother was white, his daddy Indian. Looked mostly white to me." Because of the missing teeth, Fred talked with a slight lisp that made him sound like a cartoon character.
"Do you know where he worked?" Stone asked.
"Was working at a local seafood restaurant. Washing dishes, last I heard. Tended to go from job to job. Never seemed to work at any one place for more than a month or two. Was bussing tables, or something, for a while at the Starlight Lounge. Joint's right down the street. Don't know what, but something happened and he got canned."
I noticed that Fred didn't waste a lot of time on personal pronouns. Between the lisp and the choppy speech pattern, I had to concentrate to keep up with what he was saying.
"After he discovered Eliza Pitt's body, did he talk about it any?" Stone asked.
"Not that I recall. Not even to the media. Followed him around like he was the Pied Piper," Fred said. "Never talked much to anybody about anything. Like I said, he kept to himself. Moved right after that, anyway. Back to Washington. Did hear tell that he spent a lot of his childhood in foster homes. Got moved from place to place. Finally stayed in the last one for several years. Can't remember who told me that. Don't think it was Rod. He never spoke about much of anything. But I do know he'd been real fond of those foster parents. Spoke of them quite often. Referred to that foster father as Uncle Bill. But Uncle Bill apparently died right before Rod moved here. Kid seemed like a lost soul to me."
"Did Rod go hiking in the mountains a lot?" Stone asked.
"Don't really know. Might have. Wasn't around a whole lot on weekends. Didn't particularly seem like the hiker type to me. Too lazy to pick his own nose, if you want to know the truth. That's why he couldn't hold a job for long. Do know that he must've spent a lot of his spare time hunting for unusual hatpins. Always wore one of those fishing-type hats. Must've had at least fifty hatpins attached to it. After he moved out, I found two of them on the floor of his apartment. One was a Seattle Supersonics pin from 1979. Won the NBA Finals that year. Other one was an apple that had 'I love New York' across it."
"Just something to show where he's been, I suppose, like a charm bracelet," I said, more to myself than anyone else. "Do you know why he moved to Seattle, Fred?"
"Born and raised there. Didn't like it here, I guess. Moved back to where he come from. Like everyone else seems to do eventually."
* * *
We stopped at the Starlight Lounge for lunch. It was a bar and grill, so we ordered hamburgers and beer. Like myself, Stone occasionally liked a cold one with lunch, so we thought we'd try a pale ale they had on tap that came from a local microbrewery.
"Say, son, do you remember anything about an Indian guy named Rod Crowfoot that used to work here for a short spell back in 2001?" Stone asked the waiter.
"No, sorry sir. I just started here last month. But Bernie, the cook, might remember him. He's been working here for years. I'll ask him and let you know," the young man offered.
"Thanks, I'd sure appreciate it."
About halfway through our sandwiches, the waiter came back and told us what the cook had said. "Bernie doesn't remember much about the Crowfoot guy, other than he found some dead body up in the mountains, and he always wore a goofy hat with a bunch of pins on it. If he remembers right, Bernie thinks Crowfoot got fired after a customer complained that he followed her home one night. He'd been hitting on her here earlier while she was having a couple drinks. Creeped her out, I guess. Bernie said she was a typical redhead, hot-tempered, drama queen-type that overreacted to everything."
"Hey, thanks for the information. That helps a lot," Stone said. "Tell Bernie thanks for me too." After the waiter agreed and walked away, Stone looked at me and said, "Hmm, that's interesting."
"Yeah, it is," I agreed. "But a guy hitting on a girl at a bar is not exactly big news, Stone. It certainly doesn't make Rod anything but a typical young guy. Like the waiter said, she may have just been overreacting to Crowfoot's overly flirtatious manner, kind of like the customers at the Food Pantry objecting to Kale's forwardness. Some guys, unfortunately, just don't know how to take 'no' for an answer."
"Yeah, I imagine you're right."
Chapter 13
Neither Stone nor I was very hungry Saturday evening so we ordered Cobb salads for supper. We decided it was time to pay a visit to Jake Jacoby's house, and if we were going to do that, the best time to catch him at home would be a Sunday, which was tomorrow. We really only wanted to snoop around. We couldn't let Jake know who we were or why we were visiting him. He'd only have to pick up the phone to alert Clay. That made the task more challenging, but certainly not impossible.
I accessed an online phone directory and found a Jake Jacoby listed on Eighth Avenue in Boston. Stone had purchased a map of the city at a service station earlier in the day. We'd booked two rooms at a motel in Boston and packed overnight bags to take along. We were ready to go out-of-state on a sleuthing mission.
We turned in soon after supper and set our alarms to get up early and head for Massachusetts. I sure was getting up early a lot these days, not even to have Ed McMahon standing on the porch with a huge check for me.
We took Stone's car, a red 2003 Z06 Corvette. Four hundred and five horses, zero to sixty in less than four seconds, he told me with pride. I was riding with a Mario Andretti clone. Stone went on to say that this special edition Vette came only with a hardtop. I was more interested in whether it came with antilock brakes, dual airbags, and side impact panels. Despite the alarming rate at which the Corvette was chewing up miles, I managed to doze off halfway to Boston. I was mortified when my own snoring woke me up. I straightened up in my bucket seat and glanced over at Stone. I was relieved to see that he hadn't appeared to notice. He was tapping his fingers lightly on the steering wheel and seemed focused on his driving. I noticed he had very nicely manicured fingernails and wished mine looked as well cared for.
Soon after we'd passed the Boston city limits sign, we stopped at a silk screening shop and had matching shirts printed. Next we stopped to purchase a few items at a lawn and garden store. It was early afternoon before we reached Jake's neighborhood.
We pulled into the gas station across from Jake's, and Stone got out of the Corvette. He walked away and then back to the car a minute or two later and handed me a slip of paper.
"You ready for this?" he asked, as I climbed awkwardly over the console into the driver's seat. This proved to be a difficult task in the hard-topped Corvette.
"As ready as I'll ever be," I said, after I'd finally positioned myself behind the steering wheel. I left Stone standing there at the station as I drove his car across the street into Jake's driveway. I parked the Vette next to an older model white Mustang convertible.
I walked up to Jake's door and rang the bell. Then I waited what seemed like a full ten minutes before a good-looking young man opened the door. He was wearing nothing but a pair of sweatpants that were cut off at the knees. I couldn't help but admire his impressive biceps and pectoral muscles. His hair was damp, as if he's just stepped out of the shower. It was a spiked style, brown with blond tips. He had tattoos on both forearms, some sort of dragon tattooed above his left breast, an earring in his right ear, one in his nose, one in his lip, and one through each eyebrow. Didn't those ha
ve to have hurt? To me it looked ridiculous on an otherwise handsome guy. It was like wearing your IQ on your face. Why not just take a magic marker and write across your forehead, "I ain't got a lick of sense, and here's holes I had punched in my head to prove it." Maybe it was just another reminder that I'd entered the middle ages.
"Is this 756 Eighth Street?" I asked, trying not to stare at the golden loop earring through his belly button.
"Yes," he answered with a confused look.
"Are you the owner here? Jacoby?" I asked, consulting my notebook, which had a list of fictitious names and addresses written in it. Some of the names had check marks beside them.
"Yes, I'm Jake Jacoby. But I didn't call for an exterminator," he said, pointing at my T-shirt which read Celtic Exterminating on the pocket. I showed no reaction to his comment as I made a check mark next to his name in my notebook.
"No, I know you didn't. A lot of folks in this neighborhood did, however. We've been contracted by the Boston Health Department to spray all the homes in a ten-block area. There's been a recent influx of brown recluse spider bites around here. Two bite victims reported yesterday alone—just up the way." I pointed in the general direction of west, indicating somewhere between next door and the Pacific Ocean. "We sprayed both their houses first thing this morning."
"Oh, I don't know that it's really necessary to—"
"It's required, sir."
"—spray my house."
"Whenever there is a public health epidemic like this one, the health department steps in and takes mandatory steps to eliminate the hazard. As dictated by paragraph two, section five of the department's procedure manual." I was really proud of how competent I sounded.
"There will be no expense levied on any of the residents. In other words, the treatments are free," I explained in simpler terms. After all, I was talking to a guy with a collection of self-induced holes in his head.
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