She turned off the gas, set two cups down, and said, “They weren’t playing golf.”
“Who?” I asked.
“The two men on the course.” She looked at me as if I were the one in the room half short of a loaf.
The other dog lunged at my calf. He got in two thrusts before I picked him up and dropped him near her. He barked.
“Hush, Samson,” she said. “Mummy’s talking.”
“Two men,” I said, sitting again.
“I suspect they’d had too much to drink.” She poured the tea into the cups. The smell strengthened my suspicion she was serving potpourri.
“Why do you say that?”
“Well.” Her plump cheeks got rosy. “One of them was relieving himself.”
“He was peeing on the golf course?” I wrote this down.
She bit her lip. “Yes. On the grass by the eighth hole.”
“You saw him urinating?”
She shook her gray hair. “Not exactly. I saw his pants were down at his ankles.” She sipped her liquid potpourri.
“And the other man?” I asked. “What was he doing?”
“Just standing there. He seemed anxious. Maybe because of his friend.”
“How were they standing?”
“Upright. By the eighth hole.” She was giving me that “my, you’re dim” look she’d favored me with earlier.
“In relation to each other.” I grabbed her London Bridge saltshaker. “If this is the man who was urinating, where is his friend?”
She set the matching pepper shaker close to the saltshaker. Very close.
“He was facing his friend?”
“Yes,” she said. “They were quite near.”
A man facing another man whose pants were at his ankles? Urinating men don’t watch each other. Unless…
“What about their heights?”
She inhaled sharply and shook her head. “Oh, it was dark. And once I saw what they were up to, I tried to give them privacy. How awful to be caught doing that in public by an old woman.” She smiled at me.
She had no idea how embarrassing.
“The one urinating was tall, like you. But the other one. Well, he knelt down as I passed by. Tying his shoe maybe. So I couldn’t tell his height.”
The man facing his pantsless friend knelt in front of him. And she thought he was tying his shoe? Wow.
“Oh, but the other one. The tall one. He had a big belt buckle. Shiny. Like cowboys wear on the telly. I saw it resting on his sneakers.”
“A big belt buckle.” I repeated the detail as I wrote it down. “Anything else?”
Shasta was nearing my leg from behind. A new angle of attack. I lifted my heel, ready to counter.
“No,” she said. “That’s all I saw. Perhaps the men saw something that night, but then again perhaps they’d be ashamed to come forward. Because of what they’d done to the course.”
“Yes,” I said. I thought they might be afraid to come forward. One pantsless man and another kneeling before him.
“Did the men hear you or the dogs?” I asked.
“I don’t think so. Shasta was exhausted. I was carrying him home, and Samson was tracking something. Squirrel most likely. Lots of them in the trees.”
“One last question. Why did you wait to call us?”
She put her hand to her chest. “Oh. Yes. You see, I only got home yesterday. I left town early Sunday morning to go visit my friend, Barbara. She’s not been well. And I stayed until yesterday. When I got home, I heard the news and realized. So I called the station. Do you think it will help catch whoever did it?”
“Perhaps. Thank you, Mrs. Ashworth. If you think of anything else—” I gave her my card and stood. The dogs yipped. “I’ll just see myself out.”
“Oh!” she said as I made my escape. “But you haven’t drunk your tea!”
1430 HOURS
I was parked in Suds’s lot. I had the car door open and my left foot planted on the ground. The building’s eaves dripped rain onto the sizzling gravel. The humid air felt heavy. My hand was on the door handle, but my mind was two miles away, on the golf course. Could one of the two men Mrs. Ashworth spotted be Cecilia North’s killer? Or were they witnesses to the crime?
I got out of the car and stretched. My sticky shirt chafed my middle. I walked to the window and peeked inside. Nate stood behind the bar. No Donna. I entered. Nate did a double take. Morning coffees and dinners I ate at Suds, regular. But lunches? Never. “What’ll it be?” he asked.
“Grilled cheese with tomato and a side salad, please.” It wouldn’t do me wrong to eat more greens. I didn’t want to look like Stoughton. I’d seen him once. His belly looked like he was expecting twins.
Next door, the washing machines and driers created a symphony of white noise I enjoyed. In Idyll, the noise was all nature: hoots and growls and unexpected chirps. Give me sirens or car horns or whirring machinery any day.
I needed to find those two men from the golf course. But all I had was a vague physical description and a belt buckle. Oh, and they were gay.
The bar had few other customers. One left his stool to approach me. He was of average height and weight, with thinning brown hair. Joe Average. “Still working that murder?” he asked. His voice was reedy and had a twang.
My stare made him back up a step. “Yes.”
“Doesn’t seem like there’s been much progress.”
The other nearby faces turned away from the TV to watch the drama nearer them.
“And you know that how, Mr.—?”
“Lyle,” he said. He cleared his throat. “Mr. Lyle.”
“Are you a medical examiner, Mr. Lyle?”
He rubbed his nose. “No.”
“Detective?”
“No.”
“Eyewitness to the murder?”
He shook his head.
“So you don’t have any pertinent information for me,” I said. Someone behind my new friend snickered.
“No, I just thought—”
“No, you didn’t, Mr. Lyle. I think you’ve proven that. If you’ll excuse me, I have a lunch to eat. I’m getting to it a bit late because I was out working a murder.”
Mr. Lyle returned to his stool. His friend laughed at him.
Nate set a plate before me. “House dressing okay?” He set a gravy boat at my elbow.
“Sure.”
Nate shook his head. “You getting a lot of this?” He looked Mr. Lyle’s way.
“Not much.” I thought about Billy. “My men are probably getting the brunt of it.”
I dressed my salad and stared at the booze bottles as I ate. What to do next? I had new information, if Mrs. Ashworth was to be believed. But given the climate in Idyll, did I want to mention that the men were gay? I could only imagine how ham-fisted Wright’s interview would be. I needed more information. And I didn’t trust my men to get it without potentially outing men whose only crime had been to try to get it on in public. A thing I knew something about.
“Everything okay?” Nate eyed my plate. I’d only eaten the salad.
“Fine.” I lowered my voice to just above a whisper. “Hey, Nate, is the Nipmuc Golf Course a spot where people meet to um…” How to phrase this?
“Get intimate?” He dried a glass. Held it up and examined it for spots. “Nah. The woods above the golf course. And the old cabin, owned by the Sutter guy near Hought’s Pond.” Christ. Why bother with my detectives? Nate was better informed.
“What if the couple were, say, alternative in lifestyle?”
He leaned against the bar, his ponytail tickling the taps. “Gay?” He chuckled. “Not much of a scene in Idyll. New Haven, yeah. They’ve got a club there. Gotham Citi. Just opened up.” He was better than a detective. “This have anything to do with the murder?” He was also too quick by half.
“Naw. Just some local color.”
I suspected he knew better, but he didn’t argue. He dried another glass. “If you want to know more about that scene, you shou
ld talk to Elmore Fenworth.”
“The guy who writes about the aliens he claims we’re hiding in the station?”
He set the glass down. “That’s Elmore. He has passions. But he also pays attention, lots of attention. Just don’t mention JFK to him, or he’ll never stop talking.”
“Got it. Thanks.” I paid my bill. “My laundry ready?” My bag was navy-blue canvas and had a red tag. I often picked it up and left money on the counter.
“Lucy’s in there,” he said. Lucy was the part-time help and Idyll’s contribution to the Goth movement. She had purple hair, a powdered kabuki face, and torn fishnets, and she wore all the black eye makeup sold at Washerman’s Drug.
I walked into the Laundromat and found her reading Beyond Good and Evil. “Nietzsche fan?” I asked.
She shrugged, exposing a bit of freckled shoulder. “Everyone thinks he’s the ‘God is dead’ guy.”
“He is.” I pointed to my bag.
She hefted it up with a grunt. “He wrote other stuff, too.”
My father had taught Nietzsche, though he wasn’t a fan. “‘Madness is something rare in individuals—but in groups, parties, peoples, ages, it is the rule,’” I said. It had resonated when I began policing. Madness seemed common to groups.
“You know Nietzsche?” She was young beneath that makeup, impressionable too.
“I’m the police chief. I know lots of things.”
She snapped her gum. “There was a problem with your laundry.” She pulled a hanger off the rod behind her. “Your jacket. It had a stain. Wouldn’t come out. I tried everything.” On the shoulder were three tiny brown spots. “Blood, right?” she said. “I tried cold water, dishwashing liquid, peroxide. It wouldn’t come clean.”
“Thanks for trying. How much do I owe?”
She gave me a number. I handed her a bill and said, “Keep the change.” Her wide smile cracked her white mask.
I exited the laundry. The rain was a damp memory, the world shining anew. I glanced at my jacket. Cecilia North’s blood couldn’t be removed. Why wasn’t I surprised?
At the station, everyone but Finnegan was present, sorting through Cecilia North’s life. “We’ve got new information,” I said. That got their attention. Billy, hovering at the edge of the pen like a lovesick schoolboy, perked up. I waved him over. “A Mrs. Ashworth was walking her dogs the night of the murder. She saw two men on the golf course.”
Revere whistled.
“The description isn’t great. Two white men, one tall, and the other probably medium height. The tall man had a large belt buckle, the kind cowboys wore on the telly.” I gave an impression of her accent on the last five words.
“She British?” Revere asked.
I nodded.
“Ooh, laddie, your accent’s shite,” he said. His was better. Show-off.
“Mrs. Ashworth just got back into town. She’d left the morning we found Miss North. So that explains the delay.”
“Two white men. One with a big belt buckle,” Wright said. He cracked his fingers. “Needles in a fucking haystack.”
“So find me the needles,” I said.
“She mention a gun?” Revere asked.
“No. Her look at them was brief. She claimed one of them was urinating on the course.”
“What?” Billy asked.
I passed on Mrs. Ashworth’s information, skipping the shoe-tying bit. If they figured the men were gay, they’d start hunting.
“So, drunk perhaps?” Revere asked.
“Maybe.”
“How do we find them?” Billy asked.
Revere shook his head. “Lots of legwork, kid.”
“More door-to-doors?”
Wright groaned. “You got it.” Under his breath, “Fucking needles in a haystack.”
I’d left work an hour ago. And I’d been driving since, heading down roads not yet explored. Idyll was small, population-wise, but the town covered forty square miles, almost twice Manhattan’s size. You could spend a lot of time turning down random roads. My mind did its cop thing: assessing threats as I drove. There were few. Most of them in the form of potholes.
Wright had taken Billy with him on door-to-doors today, looking for anyone who saw our two men on or near the golf course. When they’d returned, I’d had to listen to Wright bitch about the town’s blind and deaf population. And about how Billy kept slowing the investigation down with his good manners. No cup of coffee refused. No picture of a child or grandchild left unadmired. Revere offered to take Billy with him on the next outing. Mostly to silence Wright.
I could narrow the search, if I told them what I knew. That the two men they were searching for, their needles in a haystack, weren’t as common as they thought. But what would the response be? And were the men stronger suspects than Gary Clark, our victim’s co-worker? He had an alibi, but so did two dozen men I’d put away over the years.
You don’t have to protect those men. I could hear Rick in my head. They’re grown-ups. They didn’t have to go outside for fun and games.
I wouldn’t be persuaded by his ghost. Not yet. If we didn’t find them by the week’s end, I’d give the men more information. Maybe let Finnegan talk to Mrs. Ashworth. He’d connect the dots.
It was time to go home. But I didn’t want to. I drove down a rutted road they didn’t feature on town postcards. Skinner Street. Why did I know that name? It came to me. Because Luke Johnson and his mother lived on it. I could make good on my curfew threat. I parked halfway in the driveway of number 116. I couldn’t go farther. A rusting boat dominated the space, abandoned to the pitted land of the Johnson plot. The dirt yard was decorated with appliances. The ranch’s shutters were in the process of falling off, and the windows boasted curtains that resembled beach towels. Probably were beach towels. A light outside each door attracted moths. I stood underneath the front one and rang the doorbell. Silence. I waited and pushed it again. Nothing. I opened the screen door and knuckled the wooden one behind. Mrs. Johnson opened the door. She clutched a ratty pink bathrobe at the neck. Her eye makeup had migrated south, flecks of black like a trail of ants marching toward her cheeks.
“Good evening, Mrs. Johnson. I’m here to check on Luke.” She loosened her grip. Under her robe, she wore a stained tank top and tiny, pink shorts that had lost their elastic grip. She’d had a C-section. I looked away.
“You really meant it about his curfew, huh?” she asked.
“I did. Is he here?” The air smelled bad. Like burnt tomato soup.
“Luke!” She yelled, not bothering to aim her shout inside. “Luke!” Her beer breath assaulted me.
“If he’s not here, I’ll send someone to take him to juvenile court tomorrow.”
She smoothed her limp hair. “He’s here.”
And lo and behold, he appeared behind her. “What?” he said. He rubbed his eyes.
“Police,” she said.
“Seriously?” He peered around her. “I didn’t do nothing.” The words were automatic. He looked behind him, quickly, and then back at me.
“Hi there, Luke. Remember me?”
He glanced behind him, and I peered around his mother to see what had him so anxious. I didn’t see any drugs or alcohol. Just a mess of clothes and a sloppy pile of unread textbooks. Beside them a pair of muddy boots and a baseball bat. “What do you want now?” he asked.
“Just checking that you’re obeying your curfew.”
His shoulders fell, and he relaxed his stance. “Yeah, well, here I am. Stuck at home, again. Playing video games I’ve played a million times before because someone drank my birthday-present money. Again.”
Mrs. Johnson turned to him and said, “Enough about that. I told you I’d buy you a game next week.”
“It’s always next week.”
Before I became embroiled in a family counseling session, I bid them good night and returned to my car. It smelled of food. I’d spent more time in it lately. If I weren’t careful, it would start looking like Finnegan’s. The mayor woul
dn’t like that. What was it he’d said? I was supposed to treat my car like a lady. Little did he know that my usual approach with women was to ignore them.
What now? I could grab a drink at Suds. But lately the locals had gotten chatty. Who were we investigating for the murder? When would it be wrapped up? Did I favor gun-restriction laws? Did I like those black-and-white cookies they ate in New York? And Donna often worked nights. I couldn’t handle her flirting.
I could drive a few towns over, watch a movie, and enjoy the anonymous shared darkness and silence. But it felt like giving up. I had to go home sometime.
My house had become contaminated with too much thinking. Too many memories. My mind kept reaching for Rick. I’d unlock my gun safe and see his key ring and the guilt would consume me. If I’d gotten Rick clean, if I’d had a gentle word with our super, maybe we could’ve quietly sent him to a facility. Rehab. More cops than you know go. And relapse. But it would have been worth a shot. Instead, I kept my lips sealed.
Why did I keep Rick’s secret? Simple. He kept mine. He had my back. So when he slipped up, what was I supposed to do? Narc him out? No. Not me.
And when he stole drugs from a crime scene. Why did I stay silent? Not so simple. Part of me worried he’d retaliate if I told. Tit for tat. I wanted to believe he wouldn’t betray me. But I wasn’t dealing with Rick. I was dealing with a guy inches away from junkiehood.
First rule of junkies: they only care about getting high.
Why did I remain silent in the face of his worsening addiction? Because it would bring about the end. Our partnership wouldn’t survive that much truth. Out in the open. Exposed. The both of us.
He might be alive if I’d gone to our super and told him what Rick was doing. But I kept Rick’s secret and managed to believe I was doing him a favor.
It’s amazing the lies we tell ourselves. Amazing what we’ll believe.
The funeral day was sunny and eighty-seven degrees. A breeze stirred the heat and brought the smell of cow dung closer. The cemetery was filled with people fanning church programs near their faces. The living almost outnumbered the dead. Sudden deaths attract people who don’t show at regular funerals: hairdressers, grocery clerks, and the librarian who’d once helped with a school research project.
Idyll Threats Page 10