by Brad Smith
‘It’s a mystery,’ she said.
‘Some things are more mysterious than others,’ Frances told her.
Carl hung around for the day, finding other things to do. He bought two-by-fours at a lumber yard and repaired the table the fat man had crushed. He decided that the windshield wipers on his truck needed replacing. After lunch he took a grease gun from his tool box and crawled under the River Valley truck to lube the front suspension. He accomplished all this under Perry’s sour surveillance and he was still there when they packed up for the day.
‘You’re about as subtle as a billboard,’ Frances told him. ‘Stop by the house on your way home. I’ll buy you guys a beer.’
She was including Perry in the invitation, but he pretended not to hear. He’d grown increasingly unhappy, having Carl around for the day. Market day was the one time when he had her, in a manner of speaking, to himself. Carl coming to the rescue was not sitting well.
‘That was a matter for the police, not for Carl,’ he told Frances as they drove out of the city. ‘That man was a thug.’
‘The police weren’t there,’ she told him. ‘Carl was.’
‘Carl’s a thug too.’
Frances smiled. ‘Ah, but he’s our thug.’
‘This isn’t funny, Frances.’
It was after five when they got back to the farm. Perry backed the truck up to the warehouse dock and they unloaded the empty hampers and baskets and the few items that hadn’t sold. Frances was suddenly tired, but in a purely physical way. A good tired.
‘Come up for a beer,’ she said to Perry.
It seemed he was thinking about it but just then they heard a vehicle approaching, and Carl pulled up to the farmhouse.
‘No thanks,’ Perry said.
‘Come on, for Chrissakes. It’s been a long day.’
‘No.’ He turned on his heel and walked away into the failing light. She watched him go, his shoulders squared, chin thrust out defiantly, like a man who was taking the high road.
Inside the house, Frances and Carl sat at the granite counter that separated the kitchen from the dining area and drank Moosehead lager. Frances saw that the knuckles on Carl’s right hand were raw from the punch he’d landed on the gorilla. Apparently the squash hadn’t provided much padding. Frances had never seen anyone knocked unconscious with a butternut squash before. She doubted anyone had.
‘Rufus was right,’ Carl said.
‘About what?’
‘He said Hofferman would get somebody to do his bidding.’
She gave him a long look. ‘So you and Rufus Canfield have been discussing my well-being down at Archer’s?’
‘What makes you think it was at Archer’s?’
‘The fact that I’m not an idiot?’
‘Well, he was right.’
‘That reminds me,’ Frances said, and she walked over to her jacket by the door. ‘I want to know who our boy Arnie was calling. I got the number from his phone.’
‘You’re a pretty devious woman,’ Carl said.
‘Fire with fire.’ Frances got the number and brought it along with her laptop to the counter. She went online.
‘All right,’ she said as she began to type. ‘Reverse telephone directory. So you’re betting he was trying to call Hank Hofferman?’
‘I didn’t know we were wagering,’ Carl said. ‘He could have been calling his mother.’
Frances looked at the screen. ‘You’re right. He could have been calling his mother.’ She closed the laptop. ‘If his mother’s name was Bud Stephens.’
EIGHTEEN
The Mayor crosshatched some kindling in the clay fire pit and lit the paper underneath. There was a bottle of forty-year-old Dalmore on the patio table off to the side, along with a couple of cut crystal glasses.
‘Go ahead and pour,’ The Mayor said as he watched the kindling ignite.
Bud got up from his chair and walked over to the whisky. ‘Well, well. Where did you get this?’
The Mayor shrugged. ‘Somebody gave me a case of it.’ He fanned the flames. ‘I couldn’t tell you who.’
Bud poured a couple of ounces in each of the glasses and pulled a chair close to the fire pit. It had been a fine fall day, sunny and clear, but now the temperature was dropping. The Mayor added a birch log to his fire, then picked up the Scotch and sat down. Bud breathed out into the night air to show his breath.
‘Look at that,’ he said. ‘Louise got her tomatoes covered?’
‘I don’t know,’ The Mayor said irritably. ‘I have no idea what she covers or doesn’t.’ He stared at the fire while he took a drink.
Bud glanced toward the house; through the windows he could see Louise and Deanna in the living room, where Deanna was displaying her photos from Portugal. When Deanna had pulled the tablet with the pictures from her purse, The Mayor had immediately suggested that he and Bud have a drink out on the patio. Louise had given him a look, but remained silent, as usual.
‘So what happened down there today?’ he asked.
‘Same old song,’ Bud said. ‘Half the day was spent on the landfill issue. You know our current mayor – he wouldn’t step into a wading pool without hiring five engineers to tell him how deep it was first.’
The Mayor rubbed the rim of his glass across his chin. ‘And how will it go?’
‘Cost-wise, Talbotville is the right choice. It’s only thirty miles away. But there are environmental concerns. And you know how that plays these days. Sudbury’s a better spot in that respect. It’s all rock up there.’
‘You going to sit there and drink my Scotch and tell me what I already know over and over?’
Bud was stung. He looked at the fire and had a drink. Swallowing, he spoke very slowly, and he didn’t look at The Mayor until he finished. ‘Hofferman has got money, and he has the land. And he’s connected. All the pork he produces goes to Beaver Lodge Farms, the Montpelier family. They’ve helped him circumnavigate environmental issues in the past. If they don’t get bogged down by that grassroots bunch out in Talbotville, it’s a go. That’s what I think, Joe.’
‘OK,’ The Mayor said. ‘We have a year until the election. If Hofferman can pull this together, then we can make it a tax issue. Send the trash north and everybody in the city is going to see a tax increase. Send it to Talbotville and it’s the status quo.’
‘So all you need to do is back Hofferman,’ Bud said.
‘I have no intention of backing that shit-kicker until I know he can make this happen. Do you hear me, Bud?’
‘Yes.’
The Mayor got up and added a couple more sticks of birch to the fire before walking to the table to pour more Scotch for himself. He didn’t offer the bottle to Bud. As he drank he moved to the fence at the rear of the property and looked off into the night.
Bud watched the older man’s back a moment and then thought, fuck it. If he was going to be abused, he might as well drink the good liquor while it was available. He stood and went for the bottle. After pouring he glanced over to where The Mayor was still standing by the fence, a quizzical look on his face. After a moment, he turned toward Bud.
‘Do you smell cigarette smoke?’ he asked.
Bud indicated the clay pit. ‘You’ve got a fire going, Joe.’
‘I said cigarette smoke.’ The Mayor turned toward the fence again. ‘Don’t you know the difference?’
Kate stubbed the cigarette out in the dirt beneath where she sat and then hobbled away from the fence where The Mayor was standing, scant yards away. There was a ravine behind the house and she scrambled down its length, using her crutch as a pivot. A hundred yards along she tripped over a root and tumbled head first to the ground, her arms flung forward to protect herself. She skidded across the grass and bent her wrist back as she stopped. Jumping up, she ducked behind a cluster of scrub pine trees. She looked back. A yard light had been turned on and she saw The Mayor and the man named Bud standing outside the fence now. The sound of them talking carried clearly down the ravine.
‘You’re imagining things,’ the man said.
‘No,’ The Mayor said flatly. ‘Somebody was here.’
Kate’s car was parked on the shoulder of McClung Road, a quarter mile away. She limped to it, got in and drove off. She took her cigarettes from her pocket and lit one and as she did she remembered that she’d left a butt in the dirt outside the fence. Actually, she’d left a half dozen butts there. He’d find them, if not tonight, then in the morning. Kate wondered if fingerprints could be lifted from a cigarette butt.
David was waiting for her in the living room. It was his hockey night and she’d been thinking he wouldn’t be there. She went into the kitchen to pour herself a drink and he followed. She offered the vodka bottle toward him and he shook his head.
‘Look at you,’ he said.
She glanced down at her dirty jeans, the grass stains on her hoodie. Her wrist hurt where she had jammed it into the ground. She went into the fridge for orange juice.
‘I don’t know what’s going on with you,’ he said.
After pouring the juice she took her cigarettes from her shirt and lit one, blowing smoke into the air above her head as she looked at him.
‘And smoking again,’ he said.
She took another drag.
‘I’m afraid to ask what you’ve been doing,’ he said.
‘Then don’t.’
‘Is that how you want to play it?’ he asked.
‘I’m not playing anything, David.’ She looked away from him as she took a drink.
‘OK,’ he said in resignation. He turned and walked out of the room. Seconds later, he was back. ‘Fuck it,’ he said. ‘I have to say it. I know you’re seeing somebody else.’
‘What?’
‘Please don’t lie to me, Kate,’ he said. ‘Don’t make it worse. I know you’ve been seeing that fucking guy from the Times. Dunmore.’
‘Jesus,’ she said. ‘I haven’t been seeing him.’
‘Don’t lie,’ David said. ‘I saw you with him the other day.’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘The day I cut my hand. I was at the medical center downtown. I saw you with him in a coffee shop on Main Street. I knew he was calling here but you always said he was doing a story. Well, the story never ran and I finally figured things out. You’re never home, Kate. And tonight, shit, I don’t want to know what went on tonight. You’re a goddamn mess.’
‘I’m not seeing Peter Dunmore,’ she said. ‘Not like that anyway.’
‘Not like what? You’re either seeing him or you’re not.’
Kate took a drink, her eyes down. ‘I’m not proud of it but I’ve been using him,’ she said. ‘He’s been giving me information on The Mayor.’
‘I’m going to believe that?’
‘Whether or not you believe it doesn’t matter,’ she told him. ‘It’s the truth. So you might as well know the rest. I’ve been following him.’
‘Who?’
‘Who do you think?’
It took him a moment. ‘Sanderson?’ He stared at her. ‘No.’
‘Yeah.’
David sat down. He put his hands flat on the table and stared at them as if they might tell him something. He looked up. ‘Are you out of your fucking mind?’
‘Possible.’
He indicated her clothes. ‘Where were you tonight?’
‘I was outside his house and I almost got caught.’
‘Jesus Christ,’ he said. He looked at Kate as if he didn’t know who she was. ‘Do you have any idea what you’re doing? This is stalking. You’re going to get yourself arrested.’
‘I know,’ she said. She took a drink. ‘I need to be more careful.’
‘You need to be more careful?’ he repeated. ‘That’s your reaction?’
‘Yeah. Because I need to be more careful.’ She tried to smile at him. ‘The good news is – I’m not screwing around on you.’
‘The bad news is – you’ve lost your fucking marbles,’ he said. ‘You need to stop this.’
Kate shook her head. ‘I don’t think so. Not right now.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because,’ she said, taking another drink, ‘somebody has to keep an eye on him.’
‘And why is that?’
‘You know why.’
‘I do?’
‘You’re the one who told me,’ Kate said. ‘Once a cat-killer, always a cat-killer.’
Bud Stephens had a precinct office on Balmoral Street, a five-minute walk from his condo. Council didn’t sit Monday mornings so Bud was in the office from ten o’clock on. Miriam was taking calls. When he arrived Bud read some e-mails and listened to a couple dozen phone messages before sitting back with the morning paper. Monday was a slow news day, from a local standpoint at least, and since Bud was little interested in anything other than his own bailiwick, he skimmed through the paper quickly. Tossing it aside, he felt a presence and looked up to see a stranger standing in the doorway. Miriam was behind the man, her eyebrows raised to say that it wasn’t her fault, he’d barged past her.
‘This gentleman wants to see you,’ she said.
The guy was a roughneck, tall and lean, maybe fifty or so, wearing jeans and a navy t-shirt. Scuffed work boots and three days’ growth, his whiskers going gray, his face tanned like he’d been working outside. He could have been one of the guys who unloaded cargo on the docks, back when there was still cargo to unload. He was looking for either a job or a handout. Bud had already decided he wouldn’t get either, not here. He got to his feet. ‘Does the gentleman have a name?’
‘Carl Burns,’ the man said.
The name struck a chord with Bud but he couldn’t say why. He met a lot of people during the course of a day. He would have offered his hand but he sensed that it wouldn’t be welcome. He asked the man to sit down. Miriam went back out to her desk where she opened her laptop and began to type.
‘What can I do for you?’ Bud asked. ‘I assume you’re a constituent?’
Carl Burns took the chair across the desk from Bud. ‘No,’ he said.
‘You’re not a constituent?’
‘I’m a friend of Frances Rourke.’
‘Frances Rourke,’ Bud repeated. ‘Why do I know that name?’
‘She has a farm outside of Talbotville,’ Carl said. ‘She’s fighting the landfill that you and Hank Hofferman are pushing. On Saturday you had some jokers from Toronto try to run her out of the farmers’ market here in the city.’
And just like that Bud knew who Carl Burns was. He’d heard all about the dust-up at the market, but until this minute no one had been able to identify the man who had done most of the dusting. Bud got up and walked to the bar fridge in the corner to retrieve a root beer. Carl watched him quietly, waiting.
Bud popped the tab on the can and came back to sit down again. ‘That’s quite a story,’ he said. ‘And those are some pretty serious charges. Let’s be clear on this – you’re suggesting I had something to do with it?’
‘I know you were behind it. One of the jokers called your number in the middle of it.’
Bud hesitated before taking a drink of the soda. His cell phone had been off at the time. After all, it had been early morning. There’d been no message though, and Arnie hadn’t mentioned it when he’d called later that day to fill Bud in. Of course, there’d been no reason to mention a missed phone call.
‘You’re mistaken about that,’ Bud said.
‘He called your number.’
‘Put it this way, I didn’t receive any call,’ Bud said. ‘I’m a city councilor, Mr Burns. I suppose if there’s a problem at the farmers’ market, then someone might start calling city councilors. Are you in town today to visit all of them?’
‘Just you,’ Carl said.
‘Just me,’ Bud said. He set the soda can aside and laced his fingers together across his chest. ‘Now why I would be involved in a disturbance at the farmers’ market? It’s not even in my ward. You care to explain that to me?’
> ‘You want me to explain something you already know?’ Carl asked.
‘If you don’t mind.’
Carl shrugged. ‘Hofferman threatened Frances, and she told him to pound salt. You and Hofferman are Frick and Frack on the landfill so Hofferman went whining to you and you set up the deal with the jokers from Parnelli Farms to try to intimidate Frances. I don’t know what you paid the jokers, but if I were you, I’d be asking for a refund.’
‘You have a wild imagination, my friend,’ Bud said. ‘My only interest in the landfill is that this city finds a suitable place for its trash. I couldn’t care less about Hank Hofferman, or Frances Rourke either, for that matter. I’m an elected official of this city. I don’t threaten people, and I don’t arrange to have people threatened. Understand?’
‘I understand that you’re a liar,’ Carl said. ‘I expected that you would be and I don’t care that you are. As long as you understand that you’re not going to bother Frances Rourke again.’ He stood up and leaned over the desk. ‘You do understand?’
‘Oh my,’ Bud said. ‘Are you a tough guy?’
‘No,’ Carl told him. ‘But I doubt I’d have to be.’
And he left.
As soon as he was gone Miriam was standing in the doorway. ‘You know who that was, don’t you?’ she asked.
‘Should I?’ Bud asked.
‘I did a search. He’s the guy who burned down that pig barn out in Talbotville. The firefighter was killed. Twelve years ago.’
‘Shit, the arsonist named Burns. I knew it rang a bell. Didn’t he go to jail?’
‘For two years,’ Miriam said.
‘Looks to me like he’s a slow learner,’ Bud said. He sat thinking a moment. ‘But the fact is he killed that fireman. He can’t be real popular around Talbotville even now.’
‘Probably not,’ Miriam said. ‘Why?’
Bud shrugged. ‘Just something to keep in mind. You know, if he’s determined to make a pest of himself.’