by Mary Logue
“No, I didn’t, and I feel bad for that. But as I’ve already said, I never liked him much. I think there was a good reason he was stabbed. I decided not to interfere. I knew someone would find him soon enough.”
“A good reason? What do you mean? What more do you know?”
“Nothing specific. I just figured anyone who put a knife into Jed Spitzler more than likely had a damned good reason to do it.”
“I have to tell you, Mr. Snyder, that I’m having a hard time believing that it wasn’t you who stabbed him. It seems to me that you had some very strong, albeit old, grudges against this man. You never liked the guy. How can you expect me to believe that you didn’t do it?”
For the first time in the interview, Snyder raised his voice slightly. “I’ve never killed anyone or anything in my life. Even in Vietnam. Why would I let a lowlife like Jed Spitzler ruin a perfect record?”
A knock on the door sounded in the room, and then the door swung open. A tall man with sharp features wearing a suit that looked too small for him came in with his briefcase and held up his hands. “Let’s stop right here.”
He reminded Claire of someone, but she couldn’t remember who. She stood up and asked, “What do you think you’re doing, barging in here?”
“I’m his lawyer, Kent Byron.” The man sat down in a chair that was next to Pit and asked him, “What are you doing calling your wife? When you get your one call, you call your lawyer. I can call your wife.”
“I don’t need you here.”
“You need me here worse than you even know.”
“I haven’t done anything.”
“That’s what I mean. Ruth called and told me to come.”
Pit thought about it for a moment. “Okay.”
As Claire watched the lawyer speak to Snyder, she realized who he looked like—Ichabod Crane. Even though there was no such person, if there had been, Kent Byron would be his double.
Byron turned his long thin face up to Claire’s and said clearly, “This interview is over.”
The sunsets were as gorgeous as they had been a week ago. Rich knew they were. The sun was dropping down behind the western bluffs of the lake a little earlier, and a little farther to the south, but the last red light still poured across the lake and turned it opalescent, as he liked to think, like a good oil spill.
His life was solid and good around him. The pheasants were getting plumper, the air had snap in it, the season of fall would be upon them soon, and he would be busier than he cared to think getting his pheasants to market. As he sat on his front stoop and watched the night fall from the sky and snuff out the last colors, he knew he was a lucky man.
But he missed Claire terribly. And what he missed even more was the possibility of her. He hadn’t known her long enough or well enough, she hadn’t been woven intimately enough into his life, that he should mourn her leaving it so much. However, he realized that he had hoped that she would be the woman that was going to step into his life and give it richness and completeness. And then there was Meg. A terrific kid to fill out the picture. He had wanted it all. He still did.
He tried to think what he could do. He was embarrassed to remember what he had done two nights ago. He had driven by her house, feeling like he was in high school again. It hadn’t been out of his way at all. In fact, it would have been out of his way to avoid it. But still, it seemed like such a sophomoric thing to do. It had been after ten o’clock at night, and he had gone over to Stuart’s to play cards and drink a brew. The lights had been off in all the house except her bedroom. He had actually thought about pulling over and getting out of the car and standing in her yard to look up at her window. What then, Romeo, were you going to warble her a tune?
But the urge to do something, to communicate with her, was strong in him. He had thought about writing her a letter and had even started it, but every word he wrote sounded utterly sappy. I miss you. I want to see you. I hope you’re doing all right. I think about you all the time. It was all true and stupid. He wasn’t a very good writer, so he couldn’t expect to think of anything original.
Then he thought of calling her. Just say a quick hello, ask how she was, how Meg was, tell her he was fine. Hang up. Short and snappy. But it seemed like a breach of promise. He had said he would stay away.
He could send her flowers. After all, she had left him flowers. He could give her a pheasant. Bake something. Make her a chair.
But none of that would quite work.
He knew he had to do what she had asked him to do—leave her alone for a while.
The first star shone not far from where the sun had dropped below the horizon. He suspected it was actually a planet. Such a small light, but it did make a difference in the dark sky.
He would leave her be for a while longer. That’s all he could promise himself this night. He would make dinner, watch some TV, call his nephew Eric and see if he would come and give him a hand with his first load of pheasants. It would be nice to have someone else around working with him, someone to talk to. He got lonesome now.
Missing Claire made him lonesome in a way that he had never been before.
18
WHEN Claire drove up to the Snyder home, she sat in the car and took a better look at it than she had last time. Built over a hundred years ago, the house’s style was classic midwestern farmhouse, a two-story white clapboard house with a red brick chimney poking out the side of the roof, two gabled windows upstairs, and multipaned glass in all the windows. The house was in good repair—no peeling paint, no broken windows. A tight, compact old house.
Two huge hydrangea bushes flanked the doorway. Their bushy heads were turning brownish red. Claire found this burnished fall color prettier than when they were bright white in midsummer.
Claire raised her hand and knocked at the paneled front door.
When Ruth Snyder came to the door, she had flour smudged on her face and a big floral apron tied over her clothes. Her face registered resignation when she saw Claire. “Yes,” she said. “What more can I do for you?”
“I’m wondering if I could come in and talk to you about your husband’s predicament.”
Ruth wiped her hands on her apron. “Yes, come on in. You must think I’m Miss Susy Homemaker. Every time you come over, I’m in my domestic mode.”
Claire laughed and said, “I find it rather inspiring.”
“I just didn’t know what to do with myself this morning. I feel so helpless, so I decided to bake. It usually makes me feel better.”
When they entered the kitchen, Ruth held out a large plate of twisted rolls. Their smell was in the air, sweet and spicy. “Cardamom rolls.”
Claire’s mouth watered at the sight of them. She hadn’t had time to stop by Stuart’s bakery on her way to work this morning and so had to skip her morning treat. A bowl of yogurt was simply not enough sustenance to get her through a whole morning of running around.
“Is there any chance I could bring some rolls in to Pit?” Ruth asked. “They’re his favorite treat.”
“I think that would be fine. They look delicious.”
“Would you like one?”
Claire hesitated. Could this be seen as a form of bribery? Was it ethical of her to take a cardamom roll from the wife of a suspect? Her stomach won out in the argument. “I’d love one.”
“Please sit down.” Ruth pulled out a chair and then unwrapped the rolls.
Without even asking, Ruth poured two cups of coffee and got out plates for the rolls.
Claire took a bite of the roll and was delighted with the taste. A lovely spicy, peppery flavor filled her mouth. “These are delicious.”
“Thanks.”
“Listen, Mrs. Snyder,” Claire started.
“Ruth.”
“Okay, Ruth. I have come here to talk to you about your husband. I questioned him for quite a while yesterday, and something isn’t sitting right with me. Actually, a lot isn’t. And I thought maybe you could shed some light on what your husband might be t
hinking or doing. He claims he didn’t kill Spitzler.”
Ruth wiped at her face and then brightly smiled. “Thank God for that.”
Claire continued, “Yet he also says he didn’t see who did and that he’s not sure why he picked up the knife. But you need to understand that the knife did have Spitzler’s blood on it and your husband’s fingerprints.”
“I’m really glad you came by. I’ve been wanting to tell you that you’ve got the wrong person.”
Claire waited to hear what Ruth had to say. She was happy sipping her coffee and eating her roll. So she simply nodded to acknowledge having heard the statement.
“I’ve lived with Pit for over ten years. In that time, I’ve come to know him quite well. He did tell me about Rainey. I know he was in love with her. From time to time, he expresses concern about her children. But he’s a good man. He would never, ever kill anyone.”
Claire knew how hard it was for family and friends to accept that someone they loved was capable of murder. She would not waste her time arguing with Ruth. “I can understand you feeling that way,” she said.
“You see, Pit can’t kill anything. And I do mean anything. We live in an old farmhouse in the country. Look around. Like with any other house this age, we often get wildlife in our house. You know what I mean—mice, spiders, bugs, bats, sometimes even squirrels, and once a skunk. Pit insists on setting live traps for the mice. Have you ever heard of anyone doing that? It’s ridiculous. But he won’t use snap traps. He hates them. We tried once. I set it up, and he went wild at night when it went off and the mouse dragged the trap around the kitchen for a minute or two. He swore never again. So he sets up the live trap and empties it every day. I’d like to put tags on those mice so we could track them. I know they just come in for more food every night and probably enjoy the little ride outside in the morning. He walks wasps out the door on pieces of paper towel rather than swatting them. If I want to kill flies, I have to do it out of his presence.”
“Why is he like that?”
“I have a feeling he was always a kindhearted soul, but Vietnam made him even more pacifist. He was a medic. After he came back, he abhorred any form of violence. Even football—and he used to love to play football.”
“Many people wouldn’t kill a dog, but they’d kill a human. And do.”
Ruth stopped and thought about that. “Yes, I’m sure that’s true. And Pit does have a bit of a temper. He’s not perfect, and he does get mad and all. But I just can’t believe he could take a knife and stab someone.”
“So how do you explain his behavior?”
Ruth’s eyes teared up. “I didn’t sleep much last night. I got up and thought long and hard about what’s happened. Pit is mayor of Little Rock, he’s been mayor for many years. I think he takes his job very seriously. Maybe too seriously. He sees himself as a protector of the innocent. I think it’s one of the reasons he was attracted to me—he saw me as one of the innocents. But I’m not as innocent, nor as in need of protecting, as he thinks I am. So the only thing I can figure is that he’s protecting someone. That’s the only thing that makes sense to me. I’m sure he would never kill anyone.”
Claire thought about what might make a person kill. “What about if it were in self-defense?”
Ruth said firmly, “Not even then.”
“What if it was to save someone else?”
Ruth said nothing.
When the patrol car drove up in the farmyard again, Jenny thought of running and hiding in the barn. But then she knew they would just come and find her. Get it over with, she decided.
Walking into the house, she pulled out her litany of rules on how not to interact with people. Don’t look them in the eye. Think of them sitting there with a squirrel on their shoulder. Have a faint smile on your face. Don’t listen to them. And above all, don’t let them get to you. Never let them get to you. If you do, it will be all over. It will come flooding in, and there will be no escape.
“Jenny?” Deputy Claire Watkins said her name. They were all sitting around the kitchen table. Mrs. Gunderson had left the room. “Did you see Mr. Snyder by your father’s body?”
Jenny snapped her head up and stared past the deputy. “Maybe. It’s hard to remember.”
“Brad?”
Jenny turned to watch Brad. He was one of the safe ones. Like an island in a river, like a cloud in the sky, a place to put your eyes. She always could trust him. He had tried his best to take care of her. She was curious how he would answer. He had been very upset on the bus when he had told her the news about Pit Snyder.
Brad screwed up his face and thought. Then he nodded. “I think he was there. Off to the side. It’s hard to remember. All I could think about was Dad.”
“This is very important, you two. We are going to seat the grand jury on this and we will need both of you to testify. I need to know if you can place Mr. Snyder by your father after he was stabbed.”
Jenny didn’t say anything. She would not be part of this. She would deny she knew anything. It would be up to Brad.
Brad spoke again, and this time there was more certainty in his voice. “Yes, I’m sure he was there. He was standing off to the side when Jenny and I found Dad.”
“You would be willing to testify to this?”
“Yes,” Brad said, looking the deputy right in the face. He had such an honest face. Everyone always believed what he said. They never believed her.
Deputy Watkins turned to Jenny. “Jenny?”
“I think I was too out of it. I don’t really remember much about that night. It’s all kind of a fog.”
She hadn’t taken any pills since her little incident. Mrs. Gunderson had flushed some of them down the toilet, but she didn’t know that Jenny had more stashed away. She might need to take one to sleep tonight. They helped when you didn’t want to think about something, when you wanted the troubles of the world to flow away.
“Climb up,” Rich yelled at Eric. Eric had come over after school, and they had done the first pheasant drive.
The birds in the first flyway were over twenty weeks old, mature birds, and ready to ship out. Eric had helped him flush the birds out of the covered cornfield and into a narrow fenced-in strip down the middle. From there, they were funneled into the crates. They had loaded the crates onto the trailer, and they were ready to roll.
They were such pretty birds. Since the crates were open to the outside, people always wanted to see the birds if he stopped anywhere on his delivery route. Once a cop had pulled him over to give him a ticket, but once he saw the birds, the cop could talk of nothing else. He let him go with just a warning.
They had loaded up about five hundred pheasants. This first delivery was going to a hunting club that was only a few hours away. More and more the hunting clubs were where he was selling his birds. It was a lot easier than driving them up to the processing plant in northern Minnesota, then staying overnight to bring them back to the Twin Cities for various stores. For the hunting clubs, he just dropped off the live birds, and they let them go in the fields.
Eric was driving with him to make the delivery. Rich could have done it alone, but it went a lot quicker with someone along to help, and it was nice to have the company. Eric was really catching on how to handle the pheasants. He learned when to let them move on their own and when to rush them. He was only a sophmore, so Rich was glad he would have a few more years of his help. He was turning into a real nice kid.
Once they were on the road, Rich asked him, “So how’s school going?”
“Boring.”
“Not for a smart kid like you. You think at all about what you want to do after you’re done?”
“I want to live like you. Big farm, raise livestock, fish and hunt and hang out. Looks like the good life to me.”
“But don’t you want to go on to college?”
“Naw, I’m not interested in that stuff.”
“I’m surprised. You strike me as someone who would want to get out of town for a while
. See a bit of the world.”
“Did you?”
“Yeah, actually I did. I took a couple years of college, then my uncle died and I inherited this place. But before I started working it, I did manage to get over to Europe for a couple months. Hitchhiked, slept in hostels. I’m glad I did it. I’d like to go over there again. I remember sitting on the Pont Neuf in Paris, eating a loaf of bread and some cheese I had just bought in the market and thinking I’d sell the farm and learn French and move to Paris and paint. But when I got back here, it was just too easy to stay.”
“I wouldn’t want to go to Europe and not be able to talk to anyone.”
“Oh, you’d be surprised how well you’d manage. Most of the girls know at least a little English, and they’re dying to know more.”
“Oh.” They were both quiet for a while.
“Are the Spitzler kids back in school these days?”
“Oh, yeah. In fact, Brad Spitzler went spastic today.”
“He did what?”
“You know Brad’s usually real quiet. Does what he’s told, never gets in trouble. Kind of a brownnoser. Anyways, some kids said something about Pit Snyder getting arrested, and he threw a fit. Slammed his locker, threw his books around. It didn’t last very long, and he didn’t hurt anyone, but it was real weird. He seems like the kind of kid who just might shoot up the whole school someday.”
“What about his sister?”
“She’s too out of it to do anything to anyone.”
“I can’t believe you drove over here. How did you manage to squeeze behind the wheel?” Claire escorted Bridget to the most comfortable chair on the porch, where she would catch the night breezes.
Bridget lowered herself gently into the chair, gripping the sidearms. When she was in, she raised her long blond hair off the back of her neck, rolled it into a twist, and knotted it. “I just needed to see you. Get a perspective on my life. I get so lonesome. Chuck said he wanted a baby—it was his idea—and now he doesn’t even want to hang around with me while we get ready to have it. He went out to a bar tonight with some friends. I’m a drag to him because I can’t drink and I don’t smoke and I don’t like to watch him repair cars or watch football.”