Summerkill

by Maryann Weber

  “Small crowd?”

  “Big crowd. We got the morning off, so did all the guys who work for Clete. It was one of those, you know, like impersonal funerals. Like the minister never knew him, so he couldn’t say anything that fit right. The brother didn’t even get up to speak.”

  “Did anybody?”

  “Clete and Eleanor. You know how she is. Clete ran on and on. I expect everybody’s glad it’s over.”

  “Apparently nobody around here got to know him very well.”

  “I sure didn’t. He was okay, I guess.”

  That struck me as a good place to leave it. “So except for funerals, how’s it going?”

  Dante brightened. “Great!” His standard answer, and I don’t believe it’s an exaggeration. Besides being what they used to call “a little slow,” Dante’s neither good-looking nor ambitious and he wouldn’t know how to start hustling. Give him a job that keeps him outdoors, send along a few people he can chat with, and all his days are great. I wouldn’t want to trade personas permanently, but you could talk me into a week’s swap once in a while.

  “Are things getting back to normal at the Garden Center?”

  He shrugged. “I stay out back, mostly. You didn’t come say goodbye last Friday.”

  “Rodney wasn’t sounding like he’d go for a farewell tour.”

  “Willem will patch things up for you.”

  “Not this time. That’s what I was doing down in Platteville—talking with clients. My own.”

  “Same ones as last fall?”

  “New ones, same idea.”

  “Great! Can I buy you a beer to celebrate?”

  “The only thing worth celebrating where that woman is concerned,” boomed a voice behind me I didn’t need to turn to identify, “would be watching her leave town. Permanently.”

  Shit! I thought, letting my head come slowly around. Clete looks like he comes on—excessive. Too many pounds on his body, too much red on his face, too much “screw you” in his posture. Every eye in the room that might have us in view did. I’d as soon have skipped this one—tell the truth, what I’d have liked most was to hunker down in my seat and become magically invisible. Nonetheless, I do have some credentials when it comes to playing out scenes. “Jesus, Clete, I feel like I just got dropped into somebody’s half a star Western.”

  “You know what I’m talking about. That poor boy we buried today … You’ve been nothing but trouble ever since you showed up. I read in the paper how you like to move around. It’s time for your feet to start itching.”

  “Funny, they’re not.”

  His hands got planted even harder on his hips. “You might not like it around here much longer. I know you were behind what happened to Ryan. It would take a hell of a lot more than the word of a couple of … kids to convince me otherwise.”

  Uneasily I watched Dante clouding up. It would be grossly stupid of him to get on Clete’s bad side, but he’s an old-fashioned guy and logistically, at that moment, I was his lady. I’d better crank the old belligerence up another notch. “Clete, tell me something: Is any of this filtering through your brain before it comes out of your mouth?”

  “You figure you snowed the sheriff, you’ve got it made? Just because Baxter’s in over his head doesn’t mean nobody else around here can see straight.”

  “I was curious about your thoughts, not your vision. And wouldn’t it make more sense to lean on somebody who can’t provide an alibi? Assuming you really want to know who did the killing.”

  “The person I’m looking for is the person I’m looking at. And I’ll tell you something: Stick around here, I guarantee you’re not going to like the kind of attention you get.”

  Dante was half on his feet. I shot up faster. “Clete, if Pinehaven spoke as one voice and yours was it, I’d run straight home and put up a FOR SALE sign. Fortunately most people around here can think for themselves. I do not work for you or for anybody you can intimidate. I do not want anything from you, I do not owe you money, and thank God I’m not related to you. So stuff it.” I turned to Dante: “I’ll take you up on that beer some other time.”

  When I turned to leave, Clete stepped forward as if to block my path. We glared at each other. “Dad,” came Kyle’s calm, soft voice from behind him. As the big man turned toward the sound, I brushed past him and stalked out. Hopefully, nobody noticed the shaking.

  • • •

  Shortly after I stormed into the house from my encounter with Clete, the phone started ringing—Mariah calling to tell me that what looked like several truckloads of plants, paving materials, mulches, and she wasn’t sure what else had been unceremoniously deposited outside her front gate during the afternoon while she was away. The Garden Center’s response to her financial arrangement with me, maybe? Or a sneak preview of Clete’s campaign?

  The unexpected delivery had been an act of meanness on two counts. First, if someone had been there to receive those materials, the heavier ones could’ve been brought much closer to where they were going to be used. More critically, the plants should have been set out in the shade, to minimize the stress on them before they got into the ground. The area Mariah described gets full sun, and tomorrow was predicted to be a relentlessly bright day until a cold front came through toward evening.

  In my years with the Etlingers’ I’d experienced enough shortfalls of assistance to learn where to look for able-bodied emergency help. After getting off the phone with Mariah I called around and with the offer of a generous bounty induced three teenage boys to show up bright and early and bring everything inside the walls. Accessing my settlement data on the computer, I added in that pass-along, together with a hefty aggravation factor penalty. If we kept going, Mariah’s deductions from her final payment would gobble up the whole thing.

  The prospect of landing a financial right jab on the Garden Center did nothing to diminish the swirling black cloud I strode around the house under. Poor Roxy, dutifully following, rarely got treated to such a steady expulsion of air-bluing commentary. That scene at the Red Barn had been ludicrous, and now this additional piece of shit. How had I managed to put up with these people so long?

  More to the point, how seriously should I take Clete’s threat? I didn’t see that he could harm me much professionally—it was unlikely I’d be trying to work for anybody he could scare off. My local reputation was vulnerable, though. Clete could swell the number of people who’d believe I’d beaten the rap—unless or until the real killer was found. I wouldn’t care that much, for me, but if it impacted on the boys … With Hispanic last name and Hispanic features, plus an inner-city background, their path to fitting in at Patroon Central was already bumpy enough.

  There’s also the consideration that stoicism is not a hallmark of my temperament. Might it be sensible to withdraw before I once again did something unfixable? I wouldn’t be looking at a sympathetic family court judge this time around. Eleanor was right, I could make a very nice profit on my property, and nowhere was it etched in granite that this had to be a permanent residence. A move across the river would do it—we’d be nicely beyond range of Clete’s influence but still within acceptable proximity to both Vicky and the Platteville area.

  Except—isn’t once often enough to get run out of your own home? Granted, life with Ma wasn’t paradise; granted, Birchwood was a lot better for me; granted, Pete and Janey were terrific cottage parents. I nonetheless spent my teens as an outcast, allowed nominal participation in the world of normal people but no chance to claim full membership. Even when our basketball team took the sectionals and got as far as the state semis, Ayesha and I were still a couple of Birchwood girls, a phrase townsfolk would use with, at best, neutral connotations.

  “It isn’t fair!” I used to scream at Pete. “So fucking what?” he used to yell right back.

  Well, so, damn it, Clete Donnelly wasn’t about to run me out of a territory that was just as much mine as his.

  “Don’t sweat it, he’ll calm down,” Kyle started out b
y saying the next time I responded to the ringing phone.

  “Let us hope. Then what?”

  “Nothing, probably. Dad was drinking all afternoon, and being a man of … you could say industrial strength emotions—”

  “He’s going to call and apologize after he sobers up?”

  “I wouldn’t sit by the phone. He’ll keep right on believing you should leave town. But what’s he going to do about it? Dad’s vented now. That’s usually enough for him.”

  “Usually?”

  “Val, I really wouldn’t worry.”

  “I really wouldn’t either, if I were you.”

  When I got around to playing my answering-machine tape, there were several messages: Vicky was “just touching base”; Jake left me a ballpark plant materials estimate for several of the changes we’d made in the garden plan. Baxter wanted me to call him when I got a chance. The last message on the tape was in Ayesha’s deceptively lazy drawl. If I could play basketball with anything like my old point guard team-mate buddy’s flair, I’d still be at it. She is, in an Albany league. She also owns a mini-chain of two thriving boutiques; the oldest of her three kids enrolled at a morethan-decent engineering school last fall. Combined, we did wonders for Pete and Janey’s success rate. Her message was a warning: “Pete’s picked the story up on the Internet—you’d best give him a call.”

  I thought about it, as I had the day of Ryan’s murder. And again rejected the idea—maybe I’d been weaned too long. Or more likely: Pete would come down on the “get the hell out of there!” side, a position Janey would reinforce with her calm logic.

  Instead, I dialed Ayesha’s number and assured her everything was almost back to normal, promising to come up for lunch as soon as I got a breather and asking her to e-mail Pete something reassuring.

  “You still haven’t got yourself a new e-mail account? Girl, what’re you waiting for—somebody to give you one for Christmas?”

  “I’m waiting for the image of those 572 messages that had accumulated the day before I cancelled the old address to fade away.”

  “You’re not supposed to give it out to everybody under the sun, you know.”

  “I do now.”

  “Anyhow, you could pick up the phone and call Pete. You’ve got their cell phone number, don’t you?”

  “Yeah, but—”

  “Not quite ready for the third degree, huh?”

  “I guess. You know Pete.”

  “Okay, I’ll help you out this one time. You make the headlines again, though, you’re on your own.”

  “Deal.”

  Vicky got the day’s good and bad news both. She thought I shouldn’t take the Clete business to heart. All the waitressing she’s done, that sort of outburst has long since ceased to faze her. Assholes will be assholes. Jake didn’t expect a callback, and whatever Baxter wanted, I’d had enough of the whole Ryan Jessup–Hudson Heights–Etlingers’ syndrome to give it a rest the remainder of the evening.

  At quarter after ten the phone summoned me back. “Aunt Val? Are you okay?” Alex’s voice is different on the phone: higher, reedier. Not what you’d expect from the fierce creature he is.

  “Yeah, I’m fine, hon.”

  “So why didn’t you call?”

  I’d flat forgotten to the night before at Mariah’s; I’d also forgotten the “if not Monday then Tuesday” provision in our arrangement. The mood I was in I’d have ignored it anyhow. It is Vicky’s policy to be honest with the kids. I have not always succeeded in implementing that, and it didn’t seem a good idea to go whole hog then. “Alex, are you calling from the camp store?”

  “Where else?”

  “Okay, so hang up and I’ll dial you back. There’s no point wasting your money.”

  “I’ve got enough quarters.” From his tone, I could visualize the dug-in posture.

  “Right. Alex, I feel awful about not calling last night. I had to go out. And tonight I just plain forgot. There’s this new garden I’m trying to get a contract on, and—”

  “Yeah.” And me and Galen don’t really matter, he must be thinking. Would I ever get it right with this kid?

  “So how are things going up there? Are you guys having fun?”

  “I guess. We just sort of thought you’d call. Galen was crying.”

  “Tell him I’m sorry and I owe him a big one. Is he there now?”

  “No, I sneaked off.”

  “Well, I’m glad you checked it out. Are you mad?”

  “It’s okay. Look, I’ve got to go.”

  “You take care now. I’ll call tomorrow at nine. I promise.”

  “If you want.”

  I felt like a real shit, hanging up. Also borderline suffocated. And beyond that: for the first time truly aware that it wasn’t just me I had to negotiate through this mess.

  CHAPTER 13

  Wednesday morning I got over to Mariah’s earlier than she’d possibly be stirring. There were things that needed doing before the sun got strong. Just take it one step at a time, I’d finally decided last night. The first step, at least, was obvious.

  Mariah’s front lawn had a few trees, but basically it was grass, grass, grass; she sometimes contemplated, not entirely frivolously, grazing sheep there. Once past the lawn you were confronted by a fortress. The rest of the property she’d had walled in, and I’m not talking knee-level New England stone wall. To access Mariah you needed her complicity, a sturdy ladder, or the right burglary tool. The first season I worked there, she’d given me a key to the south gate. I used it.

  By the time my teenage hunks had brought everything inside the walls and there was just me and garden, I was feeling half a ton lighter. I sort of expected Mariah to saunter on down and hang around once she got her day’s act in gear, but somewhere approaching ten she hollered to me from the spa patio, something about having to go up to Albany again and she’d leave the back door open so I could use the house. I shouldn’t kill myself trying to get everything done ASAP.

  Assuming you’re not cramped for space, there’s something extraordinarily restful about being all by yourself, enclosed within walls, a feeling of security that extends beyond the physical. Inside Mariah’s compound I not only had lots of interesting elbow room, I also was protected from having to think about anything or anyone beyond it.

  Some people have little taste for working in a garden: the labor is too hard, the sun is too hot, the bugs are too pesky— and besides, they’re bored. I do love physical labor, and maybe it says something about the limitations of my mind, but working with plants and soil occupies it fully and pleasantly for hours on end. I don’t even think about time. The only reason I stopped at what turned out to be a little after four was what looked and sounded like a sizable thunderstorm had started rolling up from the west. That front, it must be. Roxy gets terrified; I like to be home with her when I can. All the seriously temperamental plants were in, so I packed up and left.

  My sense of peaceful isolation lasted into the early evening. It was a nice storm, vivid with lightning, that eased off into a good steady rain. When the noise abated, Roxy emerged from under the sofa and allowed herself to be comforted by extravagant petting and a couple of Milk-Bones. After that she toggled between wherever I was and the porch door. If the pattern held, she’d keep watching for the boys till twilight, then presumably put them out of her mind until tomorrow afternoon, when she’d again expect them home.

  I found myself missing things too: some of the routines, the goodnight hugs. A positive sign, surely, that Alex and Galen were starting to take up residence in my life, not just sharing it by legal arrangement. Still, I was immensely relieved that for the next week they’d be at least a phone call away from the lingering murder aftermath.

  A little before eight-thirty, as I was prepping myself to make that evening’s promised phone call, the doorbell rang. Roxy bounded into the kitchen to bark at it. As she neared the door the barking stopped and the tail, which had been wagging at generic greeting speed, shifted into high.
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  “For a corporation, you’re lousy about returning phone calls,” Baxter groused from beyond the screen. He was wearing his olive-green uniform pants and a messageless T-shirt that might once have been close to matching. “And in case you care, your answering machine ran out of room this morning.”

  “Lately it functions better that way. Is this an official visit?” I asked, opening the door. “It’s hard to tell from your attire.”

  He considered it. “We do have business, but you can offer me a beer if you feel like.”

  I took two of the three in-stock Molsons from the refrigerator, and he followed me into the living room. I picked one end of the sofa, he picked the other end. “Cheers,” I said, raising my beer can.

  “You’re in a good mood.”

  “That does happen sometimes. It’s been a wonderful Wednesday, so far. Not a single soul has given me any grief.”

  “Going by the quotes people keep feeding me from yesterday’s standoff at the Red Barn, you’re not the safest person to do that to. Anyone who loudly and publicly tells Clete Donnelly to stuff it—”

  “What was I supposed to do—shrivel up and slink off? Kyle called later with sort of an excuse: his dad had been drowning his sorrows all afternoon, so naturally one look at me and he was ready to do a little venting. Like Clete probably wouldn’t actually run me out of town, much as he’d love to. I couldn’t tell if Kyle was tempering or reinforcing. I never can read him with much confidence. Kate, you at least know where she’s coming from.”

  “I was in the grade between the two older Donnelly boys in school. After all Junior’s bluster, Kyle was relatively reserved—except when engaged in an activity involving a ball. He was forever getting tossed out of games for fighting or arguing with the ref.”

  “Our Kyle, the genial go-between?”

  “The very same. He and Kate are both still brats on a tennis court. My sister and I drew them in a doubles match a couple of years ago. What amazed me was the instant we finished they were civilized adults again—like they hadn’t spent the last hour and a half being obnoxious.”