Summerkill

by Maryann Weber

Thurman shook his head. “That was embarrassing to watch. Perhaps we should have tried to restrain him, but he pushed away from the bar so fast. Accusing you like that was certainly unwise—not to mention, I’m sure, unfounded. He’d been drinking a great deal. What can I say?”

  “Beats me, Thurman. Did you guys happen to notice that old blanket tacked on to the house when you drove in?”

  “It would’ve been hard not to.” Matt grinned. “Knowing you, I wasn’t about to ask.”

  “If you had, I’d have told you it was covering the graffiti somebody painted on the wall earlier today. It reads go away, bitch! Now after that business at the Red Barn this does make me think Clete and Hudson Heights, and encourages me to ask all sorts of questions. If people would rather I didn’t engage in that sort of activity, they might spread the word I want to be left alone.”

  Matt stood up. “Hey, if my word reaches the right ears, whatever head they happen to be attached to,” he added, straight-faced, “you got it. Thurman? Val probably has things she needs to do.”

  Almost formally, Thurman took my hand. “Thank you for having us in.”

  End of threat, if that’s what it had been. Once they were out front, getting into Matt’s Jeep, I felt silly for even having wondered. Just a fishing expedition, had it been? A sales pitch? Or had we negotiated something? And what about that bandage on Matt’s hand? Surely he wouldn’t come around flaunting it, knowing what I must have seen. Unless he was testing me.

  Back inside, I went to check my answering machine. The tape was all used up again—still mostly media people, asking, begging, demanding I call them back. Jake left a message that he’d found a better source for the fieldstone we needed for Platteville; no comment on my latest personal adventure. Pete called from Colorado, demanding to know what the hell was going on now. There was nothing from Mommie Dearest. Hopefully, they’d left her name out of the papers this time.

  It occurred to me I ought to know what was being said in print, so I went out to the mailbox to fetch the Patroon Digest, the county’s twice-a-week paper to which I subscribe—it dispenses more than enough local news for me. Sue and Denny had the daily Star-Journal delivered. Neither car was presently in their driveway. When I saw signs somebody was home, I’d give them a call.

  I also discovered the reason for something I’d found mildly curious: why there were no reporters hanging around. They knew the location from last time, and my Bronco was sitting there to proclaim the likelihood I was back in residence. Hanging around was being discouraged, however. While I’d been busy indoors, someone had tacked the largest POSTED, KEEP OUT! signs I’d ever seen on my two driveway marker posts, and cruising slowly down the road was a sheriff’s department car. I waved at the occupant, whom I did not recognize, and withdrew partway into my yard to wait. Not quite fifteen minutes had expired when he came by again.

  The Patroon Digest didn’t have much—I guess the story had broken too late for them. It was almost time for the evening news, so I raided the refrigerator to put together something special for Roxy’s supper, as promised: leftovers supreme. I wasn’t hungry.

  True to Matt and Thurman’s alert, television had found its angle on Mariah’s death. Channel 8, anyhow, and the tail ends I was able to catch of the other two channels’ coverages indicated a similar approach. First we saw Baxter, from early this morning, giving his “mysterious circumstances” statement. Then, sometime during the afternoon, Phil Thomson had held a press conference in front of the Riverton courthouse. The gist was now that more details were known, this second death appeared to have been a tragic accident. He saw no indication at this point that it was linked to the murder of Ryan Jessup; in fact, he deemed that highly unlikely.

  This sent them in pursuit of Baxter again, and they’d caught up with him as he entered the department building— maybe straight from my place? Yes, he said, looking and sounding too laid back to be real, he was familiar with the district attorney’s statement. He felt, however, that too many unanswered questions remained for him to second it just yet. In both its aspects? he was asked. “That would be a fairly likely implication” was his slightly smiling answer.

  Then the Channel 8 reporter asked about me. Was I a suspect this time? I loved the firmness of his “Definitely not.” With that and the patrolling cop car, maybe the rest of the day would be more peaceful than I’d projected.

  At least it should be peaceful enough for me to go ahead with my paint job, while the light was still good. I checked out my stock. There was lots of interior beige, and probably enough of the sky blue the boys had picked for their walls. I also had a bunch of spray cans, left over from assorted small projects. So what the hell. With the time, the energy, and the materials, why settle for an upright monocolor rectangle? I, too, could make a statement.

  I was creatively at work on it when Roxy took off in the direction of the creek path. She reappeared momentarily with Denny following. “Hi,” I yelled, waving a spray can. “I tried to call you back a couple of times but there didn’t seem to be anybody around over there.”

  “Hate them damn answering machines.”

  “I’m starting to. What’s up?”

  “You had a visitor. I’m coming home for lunch, and there’s this asshole—a skinny guy with too much mustache?—you see him on Channel 5 once in a while. He was standing in your driveway, getting a pair of heavy-duty wirecutters out of his trunk. I chased him into the woods.” He broke into a smile. “And then I hung around a while. It’s buggy in there today.”

  “You are a good neighbor. What was he up to, anyhow? Did he think he could get in through the run and Roxy’s doggie door?”

  “He’d have lost his nerve on that one real fast, the racket she’d make. You got an inside bolt on that door anyhow, don’t you?”

  “Oh, yeah. Maybe he’s the one who left the porterhouse bone in her run.”

  “Didn’t see any bone. I told Sue to keep an eye out over here, call the sheriff’s department if anybody else came poking around. But then Jacob fell off the top of that rock fort they made down by the creek and cracked his head. We were all down at Riverton Memorial for a couple hours.”

  “My God! Is he okay?”

  “Headache and five stitches—caught it right on that bleeder area up top of the forehead. Could be a slight concussion, they think. They told us to wake him up a couple times tonight, check that he’s making sense. That’d be a first, come to think of it.”

  I grinned. Their two girls took a matter-of-fact approach to life; Jacob did not. He and Galen weren’t the most reassuring of playmate combinations. “That must’ve been scary.”

  “I’ve seen bleeders before, but it shook Sue up pretty good. Somebody else came around, too, looks like.”

  I’d obliterated the ITCH. The B and the ! were still mostly intact, as was the vertical part of the message. If he wondered why I wasn’t just taking a roller to the project he chose not to ask. “I’ve been thinking about hiring somebody to hang around and watch things for a week or two, whenever I’m not here.”

  “Looks like it wouldn’t be a bad idea. Sorry to hear about Mrs. Hansen. Good friend of yours, wasn’t she? Didn’t know her to speak of myself, but I appreciated her being so good to Chad.”

  “His mom’s taking off must’ve been one of the very few times Mariah and your dad ever agreed on anything.”

  “You got that right. But you know, I think Dad liked her in his way. Her spunk.” Two smiles in one conversation were a lot for Denny. “Down underneath somewhere he might even like you, too.”

  “Way down underneath, that must be. Anyhow, do you know anybody I could hire? The main qualifications would be to look large and menacing. I wouldn’t want them to do anything to anybody.”

  He mulled it over. “You could try the Yardley brothers. Billy and Ken? Don’t think they’re working much these days, with the cement plant closed. They ought to get a kick out of looking mean. How about if they fire an air rifle up toward the treetops once in a while
? They’d get a kick out of that, too.”

  “I guess,” I said, wondering what I was subscribing to. All I knew about the Yardley brothers was that they were oversized and very country.

  “I’ll give ’em a call for you. We’re talking days, basically?”

  I nodded. And if they worked out, maybe round the clock while we were off at the Cape next week. We could see about that.

  “We’ll keep an eye out, too.”

  “Thanks. But Denny, you know your dad might have something to do with this.”

  My neighbor gave a massive shrug. “If he does, he shouldn’t. I got to get back for supper. You take care.”

  CHAPTER 18

  It was approaching eight, and I was putting the final touches on my message without words when Baxter’s RV pulled into the driveway. A strong declaration, I took it, that he was off duty. I squirted out a little more of the red and dabbed it strategically around.

  He got out and stood behind me, studying. “If you got rid of the balls at the bottom, smoothed over the top, made it concave instead of convex, and put something that looked like a wick with a flame above it, you might be able to convince somebody that’s a candle.”

  “I’m not into deception.”

  “You’re really going to leave that there?”

  This sort of question usually triggers an affirmative, but I fought it. “Only overnight. Or I may come out later and tack the blanket back up. Okay?” I nodded toward the RV. “The day got too long for you?”

  “Much too long. I thought I’d go camping.”

  “Pick your spot and silence all communications devices, like I have my telephone: that should get you away from it all. Where are you fixing to camp?”

  “Right here. There’s plenty of space, good tree cover, water access, and the site fee should be right.”

  “Baxter—”

  “Look, you’re alone in an isolated house, without a firearm—”

  “If I need a weapon, I used to be pretty handy with kitchen scissors.”

  He frowned his intent to ignore that. “You’ve got a watchdog, here,” not needing to look, he reached down and patted her, “who’s into universal love, you’ve got enemies out there who’ve demonstrated their willingness to do bad things to people they don’t like—”

  “We don’t know it was one of the killers who painted that message on the house. Would it be worth the risk of somebody catching them in the act?”

  “Well, then you’ve got even more enemies. You’re basically defenseless, you look like you haven’t slept in a week, and you’re too damn stubborn to retreat to safer ground.” His belligerent look came on full strength. “So I’m camping here. If you don’t like it, call the sheriff’s office.”

  I made a point of sighing. “That doesn’t sound like a cool professional decision to me, but I don’t make your professional decisions. You want to set up shop here tonight, fine. Of course I’m going to feel safer. Plug in your neon sign that flashes SHERIFF in the back window—I promise to sleep like a baby.”

  He slapped the side of his head. “I knew I forgot something. I’ll pull up right about there, okay?”

  Thereby making sure my artwork could only be seen from up close. “The people I’ve met along my way are a mobile lot. If you want to set up shop over next to the kitchen, I can hook you up for lights and water.”

  The modern conveniences won out, though it looked close. “I’ll pull on over.”

  “Have you had supper?”

  “I’m trying to remember if I had lunch.”

  “I’ll fix us something.”

  Acquiring two young mouths to stuff with nutrition every single night had jacked up the frequency of my cooking, though it hadn’t done much for skills improvement. In spite of, or maybe because of, all the years she’s done waitressing, Vicky isn’t into meal preparation as art either. So I got away with simple and quick: hamburger, hot dogs, spaghetti, chicken; steak once in a while. Add a salad—grow-your-own in season—and some decent bread from the Olde Town Bakery and that’s our meal. There are always apples to munch on, other help-yourself fruits and raw veggies. Vicky couldn’t believe it the first time she saw Galen snacking on a plateful of broccoli florets and carrot sticks. The boys are both calorie burners; they may not look it but they eat more than I do.

  I rarely issue invitations. If anybody else is around at suppertime I make whatever I was going to, just more of it. That night I looked in the freezer and decided on spaghetti. I do up humongous batches of sauce every couple of months and freeze them in containers. Putting the two pots on the stove, I went out and picked a bunch of swiss chard leaves, two tomatoes, and a green pepper, and pulled a shallot. After depositing those on the counter I went back out to get some wood for the stove. It was beginning to feel chilly in the house, too. “I can do that,” Baxter offered, coming up behind me.

  “You’re on. There’s a basket of kindling inside.”

  “I saw.”

  I watched as he stacked himself an armload—several big pieces, then a bunch of intermediate-size ones—and held the door. He gave a last, mild head-shaking look at my wall transformation before entering. “It’s not that bad once you get used to it.”

  “I have a gift for spray painting,” I conceded. “Actually, it’s what got me into garden design.”

  Opening the woodstove door, he stared briefly at the scraps of paper inside before crumpling newspapers to put on top of them and lighting the pile. “You started off painting people’s yards?”

  “Well, my mother’s. I’d been at Birchwood a couple of years when she did something that really ticked me. They had this obscenely open front lawn, and the night after they left on a cruise—I’d signed out to stay with Vicky—I went over with spray paint and did some decorating.”

  “Was that how she viewed it?”

  “Not exactly. It was lettering, basically: what you saw out front this afternoon, minus the first two words. Much, much larger letters, and embellished. Very visible from the street. It took a couple of days before anybody could get in touch, to let them know. They cut short the cruise and came back.”

  “Wanting to fry you, probably.”

  “Or at least put me in a cage with a stronger lock. They tried to use that political influence that, as you pointed out, the Keegans have.”

  He opened the stove door and added a couple of intermediate pieces of wood. Closing it again, he stood up and looked at me. “What happened?”

  “Fortunately the program administrator had a low tolerance for getting leaned on by outsiders. Besides, he was under civil service protection. So I was allowed to stay at Birchwood.” There was a bouncy metallic noise from the kitchen. “Oops— I’d better check the spaghetti.”

  “The fire should hold for a while. I’ll come along and make the salad. You got off cheap.”

  “Did not. I was grounded for two months, and Pete came up with this primitive version of community service: Since I’d messed up a lawn, I had to do something to improve one. The town garden club had been bugging him about doing what they called a garden therapy project with us troubled teens—to get us interested in something wholesome. The grounds at Birchwood were screaming for rehab, but those ladies were pushing sixty on the average and not up for any serious digging. Pete decided I was. The ladies told me where they wanted the beds and I had to get them ready to plant. The right way, which I discovered required three times as much work as just spading them out.”

  “And you loved every minute of it.”

  “Nowhere near. There’s a damn good reason somebody invented the backhoe. Still, even if I wasn’t getting paid it was more fun than the housecleaning I’d been doing to earn pocket money. And it was duly noted that I became easier to get along with, evenings. Pete and Janey figured we were on to something.”

  “I thought there was a miracle missing somewhere in the newspaper account.”

  “Oh, Jack saw the hole right away, but no way was I going to drag out that old family
business. So we let the yard rehab be my miracle. It was, really. The way it came about isn’t the important part.”

  “Are you sure about that?”

  “So okay, I was far enough along in my own rehab to sense what getting bounced from Birchwood would mean. You could even say I was extraordinarily open to deliverance just then. If ditch digging had been Pete’s sentence, you’d be looking at an irrigation specialist. Satisfied?”

  Baxter cut up salad ingredients faster than anybody I’d ever seen. “But you know,” he commented thoughtfully, “since she did get you to Birchwood, you can’t say your mother never did anything for you. And maybe it wasn’t entirely inadvertent on her part. Was your stepfather molesting you?”

  I felt myself freeze up. “It would go as that today,” I managed.

  “Maybe she wanted you out of the household because she couldn’t protect you from him.”

  “Or didn’t choose to. It was the best option for both of us. So—” A little too vigorously, I dumped the spaghetti out into the colander. “—we look to be about set. Want a beer?”

  “Of course. I also have a subject moratorium request.”

  “Shoot.”

  “The cellular phone is out in the RV where I can’t hear it. Along with those twenty-three binders and a bunch of rolled-up plans. Your telephone is silenced. Short of mounting an invasion, nobody can bug us till we let them. I know we’ve got a few things to talk about, but it’s been nice taking a break from the murders for a while. Do you think we can stretch it through supper?”

  “Piece of cake.”

  Technically, we succeeded, though the conversation got to be so stumbly, it seemed he was unable to keep his mind properly channeled either. He helped clear the table and found a towel to dry the dishes as I washed. That and the low-level rate of talking, you could mistake us for a long-married couple.

  Dishes finished, we opened a couple more beers and carried them in to sit facing the fire. This time I more or less automatically picked the middle of the sofa, where I sit with the boys, so each gets a side. He sat beside me. “I didn’t want to say anything before dinner,” he began. “That bone you had me test? Depending on how much meat she gnawed off it, Roxy would be one sick dog now, or—”