Darkness, Sing Me a Song--A Holland Taylor Mystery

by David Housewright

“Porn sex.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “There are three kinds of sex, Taylor. Romantic sex, quickie sex, and porn sex. Dawn wanted to be tied to the bedposts, and Todd was happy to oblige.”

  “You’re kidding?”

  “I’m sixty—”

  “You don’t look it.”

  “Aren’t you sweet? I’m sixty, but Dawn is much older. You’d think she’d be a little more … conservative.”

  “How do you know all this?”

  “Todd. He kept very few secrets from me. It gave him a sense of power, and pride, I think, to brag about his conquests. I, of course, never told him a damn thing, especially about Mark and me. It wasn’t just women, though. Take the city attorney. He did what he did, which, if it wasn’t illegal was certainly unethical, because he wanted to keep his job. Todd had managed to get rid of Chief Philipps, and he told the attorney he could get rid of him, too. Probably he told Bob Barcott the same thing.”

  “Blackmail?”

  “Are you asking me if Todd was above blackmail? Of course he wasn’t. Except, if he did anything besides threatening to have someone fired, or whatever, those are the secrets that he did keep from me.”

  “Did you tell all this to the sheriff?”

  “Not at first. I didn’t want him to suspect that I had a hand in killing my husband. He figured most of it out on his own, though, and I ended up giving him the rest. Him and the chief. Maureen. She’s over forty. You’d think she’d know better, too.”

  “What about Eleanor Barrington?” I said.

  “What about her?”

  “Did she and your husband ever cross paths?”

  “Oh, I don’t think so. Not in the way that you mean. That’s the kind of thing Todd would have bragged about, bedding Mrs. Barrington. I met her a few times. A lot of people don’t care for her. I like her, though. I like her kids, too. Maybe if Todd and I had children we wouldn’t have turned out the way we did. Why? Do you think Mrs. Barrington is involved in this?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “If there’s anything more I can do to help…”

  “You’ve been surprisingly forthcoming, as it is.”

  “That’s because I no longer have anything to hide. All my secrets are public record.”

  * * *

  I used the app on my smartphone again, this time to get directions to the Barrington estate. It was tucked along the Trempealeau River just northwest of Arona, as advertised. Only when I turned off the county blacktop onto the dirt road, an iron driveway gate stopped me. A sign read: MERESHACK. NO TRESPASSING. The trees on each side of the gate made it impossible to drive around, so I parked my Camry, circled the gate on foot, and continued down the road.

  Poplar, birch, oak, maple, and fir trees formed a border on both sides, making the road feel more like a trench. A few of them had NO HUNTING and NO TRESPASSING signs attached. There was plenty of tall grass and shrubs, too. The vegetation gave off a kind of peaceful scent as though nothing bad could ever happen again in the world. The sun was on its downward arch, and shadows dappled the forest floor. The only noise came from light wind rustling leaves and the call of birds.

  I followed the road for what seemed like a mile until I came to a clearing at the top of a hill. The Barrington estate lay below the hill between the river and me.

  “This is what they call a shack?” I said aloud.

  There was a barn that looked as if it had built by Amish carpenters two hundred years ago and a couple of small cottages that might have been used in one of those life-is-so-whimsical-in-the-English-countryside movies that you occasionally find on the Independent Film Channel. The main house had two floors and a lot of odd angles. Apparently it had indeed started as a shack and had been expanded a little at a time over the decades until it had an eccentric appearance. The house was surrounded on all sides by a wooden deck. Most of the furniture on the deck was located in the front, facing the river. The deck facing the forest had only a few tables and chairs, yet it also had a covered hot tub.

  I followed the road down the hill. The grounds were well kept, and since the Barringtons hadn’t been there for over a year, I assumed they had help taking care of it. I passed the barn, which I figured must also serve as a garage, passed one of the cottages, and stopped at the main house. I knocked on the door; no one answered. I tried the knob. The door was locked. I peered through windows. There was a living room, dining room, and massive kitchen on the main floor. I followed the deck. A sliding glass door led from the house to the area where the hot tub was located. When I put my face up against it, I could see a large bedroom. The furniture inside seemed elegant and without dust, and I had a thought—were there Merry Maids in Arona?

  I left the house and made my way to the Trempealeau. A dock built with treated lumber ran about thirty feet along the river’s edge. There was plenty of galvanized hardware where you could tie up to the dock, yet no boats that I could see and no boathouse to store them in, which made me go “Hmmm” the way Freddie does. Maybe the Barringtons didn’t navigate the river. Maybe they just sat on their dock and watched it flow past.

  I sat on a narrow bench made from the same wood as the dock. Along with the wind-swept trees and birds, I was now serenaded by the murmur of gently flowing water. It made me sigh with contentment. I found myself asking how anyone could turn this into a silica sand mine, permanently destroying the beauty of it all for the temporary comfort of money.

  Ahh, money. That’s the thing, isn’t it? It is astonishing what people will do for money.

  The ringing of my smartphone startled me. I was tempted to ignore it; the caller ID told me I probably shouldn’t.

  “Hey,” I said.

  “How you doin’?” Freddie asked.

  “I didn’t get a chance to ask before I left. How’s it going with Sackett?”

  “Man likes his gin martinis.”

  “So he does.”

  “Besides that, I think we’re in for a nice payday. The company he wants to buy? Looks like the owners might have been inflatin’ its actual value while at the same time siphonin’ off its assets.”

  “Oh yeah?”

  “By a lot, too. I want to bring in a forensic accountant, make sure we’ve got these guys nailed before I take it to the client.”

  “You have anyone in mind?”

  “Steve Vandertop.”

  “You mean Sara?”

  “I mean Steve, dammit. He can be Sara all he wants after hours. I can’t believe I hit on that.”

  “Have you ever told Echo you were involved with a transvestite computer hacker?”

  “We weren’t involved, and you’re not telling ’er, either.”

  “All right, all right.”

  “How’s your case goin’?”

  “Swear to God, Freddie, this town is about as screwed up as it can be. It’s like civil war is about to break out. As it is, I’ve been here less than a day and I can already count at least ten suspects who might have killed this horndog mayor of theirs. Unfortunately, I can connect only one of them to the killing of Emily Denys.”

  “Mrs. Barrington?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “I think we might be riding a losing horse in this one.”

  “It wouldn’t be the first time.”

  “Yeah, well … Listen, I didn’t call about any of that.”

  “Why did you call?”

  “Cuz I got a call, we got a call; this woman you gave your card to.”

  “What woman?”

  “Professor Alexandra Campbell. She said to tell you that she was feeling much better, but if you wanted to talk about the shooting yesterday, she’d be happy to listen.”

  “No kidding?”

  “I looked her up. She has a pic on this U of M website for plants. Pretty damn hot for a woman her age.”

  “You mean a woman our age?”

  “What I’m saying. You should, you know, seize the opportunity.”

  “I’m a little busy right no
w, Freddie.”

  “Taylor, give the lady a call.”

  “Freddie—”

  “I’ll tell Echo if you don’t, and she’ll give you hell.”

  “What’s her number?”

  I inputted it into my phone as he recited it to me.

  “I’ll call her later tonight,” I said. “If I don’t get shot between now and then.”

  “That’s the spirit.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  The lobby, bar, and restaurant seemed pretty congested for five P.M. when I returned to the Everheart Resort, and I asked the young man working the desk about it.

  “It’s happy hour,” he said. “Plus, there’s a lot of folks looking for a drink or quick meal before heading off to the big meeting. This is a small town, and there aren’t that many places to gather.”

  “I get it.”

  “You should see the place on Friday nights before the high school football game, and then after the game, too. We always do good.”

  “Is Bill Everheart around?”

  “I haven’t seen him for a while. I can reach him on his cell.”

  “That’s okay. Maybe you can help me?”

  “That’s what I’m here for.”

  “Is there a business, a service, in Arona that specializes in cleaning other people’s cabins, that takes care of the cabins during the off-season when the owners aren’t around?”

  “Not really. There are people who do that, especially during the winter. Get paid to keep an eye on a place, plow out the driveways, that sort of thing, but not a business per se.”

  “What people? Can you give me some names?”

  “Do you want to hire someone?”

  “I’m trying to find out who takes care of the Barrington place when the family’s not in residence.”

  “You’re talking about Cheryl. Cheryl Turk. Yeah. She looks after Mereshack.”

  “Do you know her?”

  “She works here.”

  “At the resort?”

  “She’s one of them that takes care of the rooms. She’s probably taking care of your room.”

  “Where can I find her?”

  The desk clerk glanced at his watch as if the answer to my question could be found there.

  “I don’t know for sure,” he said. “She’s around somewhere. Maybe the laundry.”

  “Is it possible you can find her for me? If she has time, I’d like to ask her a few questions.”

  “You’re the detective guy, right?”

  “Right.”

  “Where will you be?”

  “In the bar.”

  The desk clerk grinned as if I had lived up to his stereotype—where else would a PI be if not the bar?

  “I’m on it,” he said.

  “Good man.”

  * * *

  The late Thanksgiving lunch I ate was still with me, so I passed on the happy hour appetizers and ordered bourbon. The waitress told me that all rail drinks were half price.

  “We used to advertise ’em at two-for-one, but the MADD people thought we were promoting excessive drinking, so now it’s half price,” she told me. “You can still order two, though.”

  I ordered just the one.

  I did a quick survey of the premises while the waitress went to get it. From my table, I was able to observe the bar, the restaurant, and much of the lobby. I was the only one sitting alone. That was okay. I admit I sometimes regretted quitting the cops and the sports teams. I’d chastise myself for neglecting to return the phone calls of my friends and refusing their invitations until they stopped issuing them. I’d regret being alone. Not often, though. For the most part, I liked being alone. I liked relying only on myself. It was so much easier.

  The waitress returned with my drink, and I entertained myself with some serious people watching. The patrons seemed to separate into two camps. Those opposed to the sand mines gathered in the restaurant area, while supporters congregated in the bar. I amused myself by guessing who belonged where as the individual customers passed through the entrance. Sometimes it was easy. Many of the environmentalists wore T-shirts with slogans printed on them. On the other hand, I didn’t see a single article of clothing that promoted sand mining, although an older, wider woman had the words JOBS JOBS AND MORE JOBS silk-screened onto her sweatshirt. She went with the miners.

  Richard Kaufman and Allen Palo belonged with the miners, too, of course, although neither of them seemed to acknowledge their allies. Instead, they seated themselves at a table in the restaurant with a clear view of the front entrance. Palo flagged a waitress while Kaufman buried his head in a menu. I don’t know what he ordered, but it seemed to take him a long time to do it.

  “Mr. Taylor?”

  I turned my attention to a woman who was dressed as if she had just finished cleaning her basement.

  “Mr. Taylor? My name is Cheryl Turk. They said you wanted to see me?”

  I stood, shook the woman’s hand, and offered a chair.

  “I hope I’m not taking you away from anything,” I said.

  “No, no. I was due for a break.”

  “Is there anything I can get you?”

  “No, please. I’m fine. What is it you need?”

  “I was told that you look after the Barrington place.”

  “I wouldn’t say look after. It’s not like I’m guarding it or anything. I just, you know, dust and vacuum, wash the windows, sweep the deck, make sure the grass gets cut and the snow gets plowed. It’s a side job. I do the same for a couple of other places, although mostly in the winter. We get a lot of summer people—that’s what we call ’em. They got their cabins, their lake homes, and they visit ’em for a couple of weeks or for three-day weekends, the Fourth of July. The rest of the time, they hire me to, you know, keep the place clean, keep the grass from getting out of hand, make sure the driveway is cleared in case there’s a fire or something.”

  “You do this for the Barringtons?”

  “Uh-huh, like I said, although they’re year-round. They come down all the time. At least they used to.”

  “I was out there earlier this afternoon. You do a very nice job.”

  “Thank you, but—no one’s supposed to be out there. Mrs. Barrington doesn’t even want me to bring someone along when I clean the place.”

  “She wants to keep it all private.”

  “I don’t blame her for that. Do you want people hanging around your place uninvited?”

  Good point, I decided.

  “Besides, they found some beer cans in the woods this one time above the hot tub. Do you know where the hot tub is?” Cheryl said. “On the back deck?”

  “Yes.”

  “They found some beer cans, and the family, Mrs. Barrington, they’ve been worried about intruders ever since.”

  “When was this?”

  “I don’t know. A year ago. Longer.”

  “How long have you been working for the Barringtons?” I asked.

  “Five years? Six? Even when she was here every other week, Mrs. B would have me come in to keep the place nice. She’s not the kind to do much dusting herself, you know. What is it you want me to tell you, anyway?”

  I retrieved my trusty smartphone, pulled up Emily’s pic, and asked the same question I had asked everyone else.

  “Nope,” Cheryl said. “I’ve never seen her before.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Pretty sure.”

  “Never saw her at the Barrington place?”

  “No. Why would I?”

  “She used to date Joel Barrington.”

  “I don’t know anything about that. I haven’t seen her. I haven’t seen Joel, either, for that matter. Not for a year or more. Not since they, the Barringtons, stopped coming down like they used to.”

  “When was that?”

  “Like I said. A year or so.”

  “I meant specifically.”

  “You mean the actual day? How should I know?”

  “Was it after Mayor Franson was k
illed?”

  “It had to be after. At least, well, wait. I know they were here for the funeral. Everyone was at the funeral. It was kind of comical. Not him getting killed, what I mean … Everyone was trying to guess who did it, you know? My money was on the wife. Still is. Sleeping with the brother-in-law…” Cheryl shivered as if she found the idea frightening. Yet the word she used was “juicy.”

  “The Barringtons went to the funeral?” I asked.

  “They wanted to pay their respects, I guess. I know they knew the mayor, can’t say if they were friends or not. Devon, the girl, was there, and so was Joel. I don’t remember Mrs. Barrington, though. I don’t remember seeing her there.”

  “You say they knew Mayor Franson?”

  “I guess. I’d seen ’em chatting, him and the Barringtons, once in a while.”

  “Where?”

  “Here. Everybody comes here. It’s the only really good place in town. The mayor, he was always cruisin’ the place.”

  “Did he ever hit on you?”

  “Sure. Everybody got a turn sooner or later. Wait. I did see him out at their place once.”

  “When?”

  “I don’t know. Before he was killed. What does it matter?”

  “I’m trying to figure out some things.”

  “I don’t know what I can tell you. I mean, I don’t live there, at Mereshack. I just clean the place once a week. Although…”

  “What?”

  “I keep a ledger. Mrs. Barrington is real particular. She doesn’t worry about money so much, she just wants to know what I do and when I do it and how many hours it takes. Sometimes, she’ll tell me to do something or not do something, and then she’ll forget she told me because it’ll be like a month or more without us talking, well, a year now, so I keep track of what she says and the date she says it in my ledger, and when I send her an invoice, I include all that. I could look. I don’t know if it’ll help, though.”

  “I’d appreciate it very much.”

  “You going to be around tomorrow?”

  “In the morning, at least.”

  “I’ll go look tonight, then.”

  “Thank you.”

  Cheryl rose from her chair.

  “You really are a detective, aren’t you?” she said.

  “I really am.”

  “Cool.”