Summerkill

by Maryann Weber

  “Like?”

  “Like I don’t know. Production records? What if she found that some nasty substances apparently never got disposed of at all?”

  “Because the deliveries were never recorded? Or somebody had lifted the records?”

  “Maybe something like that. She must’ve spotted a pattern of some kind. It didn’t shout at her, though—remember the phone message. She needed to take it further and she wasn’t sure how to do that.”

  Baxter tapped his fingers on the binder cover. “Okay, I’ll redirect Steve, get him to pull production records and whatever else he sees that pertains to the toxic chemicals. He’s got several hours before they close. Maybe something will jump out at us.” He pulled out his cell phone from one pocket, a small notebook from another, and delivered a succinct message. “But you know,” he said, collapsing the phone, “even if we can figure out what Mariah found, it’s going to be well short of proof that there’s a toxic-waste dump under the plateau.”

  It seemed as good a time as any to make my pitch. I stood, moving over in front of his chair. “Wouldn’t it help if we actually found toxics on the site?”

  “Obviously. But Val, if there’s anything to find they’re not going to say ‘Sure, come on out. Run whatever tests you feel like.’ Unless Steve comes up with something more solid than I expect—”

  “The strongest pointers are likely to be in the soil at Hudson Heights, not in some records room up in Albany. Let’s go look for ourselves.”

  “Val, a sheriff can’t—”

  “You don’t need to come along, though I wouldn’t say no to having somebody within Mayday range. I can find my way around that area well enough in the dark to keep out of sight of any guards.”

  He rose. “But you’re not going to—if I have to sit on you.”

  “You keep telling me I’m not safe right here.”

  His hands shot out to grip my shoulders. Not hard, but I do have my flashpoints. “Don’t you ever do that!” I said, furious, shrugging away.

  He reddened. “It’s still ‘no,’ Val. Simmer down a minute, can you? There’s another angle we need to look at. Let’s say we’re right about Mariah. We don’t know that yet. How did the killers find out at least as early as yesterday that she was on to something? Could she have left Willem a message, too? There are a couple of calls to the Garden Center on the list, and one from his home number, late Tuesday night.”

  “Given the probable bad guys and Willem’s inability to keep things to himself, I can’t imagine her cutting him in that soon.”

  “She must’ve alerted somebody. I have studied and studied the local calls on the list from the last several days. All I see are people she’d normally call, people—going from the previous records—she did, in fact, call frequently. Take a look, see if anything strikes you.”

  It was a long list. His source had printed out time, call duration, and numbers, next to which someone had penciled in the names of the parties. He was right: there wasn’t an unfamiliar name showing. And except for Willem not a one with any particular connection to Hudson Heights. Nobody, indeed, she wouldn’t be in touch with in the course of her normal life’s business. Nobody she’d likely ring in on her research project. Unless …

  Her call was made at six-twenty Wednesday evening. Duration, less than a minute—almost surely a message left on his answering machine. He had called back at ten-eighteen the following morning, duration three minutes, twenty-three seconds.

  “Is it okay if I check out something?”

  “With whom?”

  “Chauncy Bellis.”

  “He showed up on the list several times. A late back and forth, as I recall.”

  “That’s what interests me. Do you know what Chauncy’s profession was before he retired here to live with his brother?”

  “College professor, wasn’t he?”

  “Plant pathologist. He taught at Northwestern, did a lot of projects for the Illinois Department of Agriculture.”

  “And you want to ask?”

  “If he’d had a chance to answer that question Mariah and I were wondering about.”

  It didn’t take him long to work it through. “Maybe that’s why there was no tape in her answering machine. Use your portable. I’ll listen in on the kitchen extension.”

  He picked up on the third ring. “Chauncy, it’s Val Wyckoff. Sorry I’ve been so long getting back to you. Before it altogether slips my mind, with all that’s happened, did you ever get around to answering that question Mariah said she was going to hit you with?”

  “Certainly,” he snapped in his habitually peevish tone. “It was just Thursday morning we talked. I’d have thought you’d know the answer to that.”

  “I’m not too good on my toxics.”

  “Apparently. It’s really rather basic, what a Cornell Pink, or for that matter any other azalea, would do if one were idiotic enough to plant it where the soil was contaminated with chromated copper arsenate. It would shrivel up its little toes and expire.”

  “That’s what I was afraid of. Did you happen to mention to anybody else that she’d asked?”

  His never-warm tone grew even chillier. “I don’t believe I like the direction of this conversation.” With that he hung up.

  “Chauncy left a message on my answering machine yesterday, wanting to know more about what happened to Mariah. Uneasy conscience?”

  Baxter was good enough not to bring up how my mouth got too far ahead of me on that last question for Chauncy, but from his expression I could see he’d worked it out. “The University Club luncheon meetings are the third Thursday of the month. They had me as their speaker once. Chauncy and Thurman were both there that day.”

  “Thurman didn’t waste any time, then, did he?”

  “And we can’t expect anybody to start doing that now. Val, you’re out of here. I’ll put you in protective custody if I have to.”

  “Wouldn’t it be more practical to accompany me to the plateau tonight to get soil samples? Start making yourself an official leg to stand on?”

  “You will be sitting in jail tonight, or the refuge of your choice, provided it’s a goodly distance from here. Maybe I’ll take a run out, later. I can always claim an alarm activation.”

  “Sheriffs aren’t immortal either, and you don’t know exactly where to look. I do, now.”

  “You can tell me.”

  “No. The sort of guidance I’d be able to send you out there with wouldn’t be good enough. I can show you, though.”

  CHAPTER 20

  A friendly standoff? I couldn’t say for Baxter, who had sat back down, reopened the black binder, and commenced, with a show of concentration, to review the dumpsite material. For me, not quite.

  I stared out the window, working on it. Okay, I should have left maneuvering room, but even if I had, how could he possibly go along? He’d be putting a civilian volunteer—one he’d slept with the night before, for whatever that might be worth—in obvious danger. But if he continued to say no, what was he going to do with me? Protective custody had to be considered a very short-term fix.

  Surely he was too good a cop not to recognize I was partly right. If checking that soil was the wedge he needed, hadn’t he better give himself a decent chance to succeed? While Hudson Heights was open for business, nobody was going to let him poke around up on the plateau without the authorization he was certain not to get. And after closing hours? The outer-perimeter phase of their security system had been added on at the beginning of June. Doubtless Baxter was more familiar with the system design than I was, but did he know how you could still drive in reasonably close to the plateau without hitting any security checkpoints? I’d worked that one out. Up on the plateau, the grounds were discreetly but definitely lit all night. Being able to pinpoint sample locations, I could work out a shadows-to-shadows itinerary. He needed me: it was that simple.

  Maybe I still had a shot at making him see? “The thing is,” I began, turning back toward him.

 
He didn’t even bother to look up. “Val, forget it.”

  All right, then, screw the friendly part. “Baxter, I still have vivid memories of that one night I spent in jail when I was thirteen. If you lay something like that on me, I will do my best to make you regret it. And I flat-out can’t afford to hang around wondering what else somebody’s fixing to do to me. The first chance I get, I’ll be out there with my core sampler and my plastic containers. I don’t see how you can stop me for very long, or that I have any other options.”

  He did look up then, his expression carefully blank. “I take your point. Excuse me, I need to go to the john.”

  I watched after him, steamed. Maybe he was giving himself a chance to search for other approaches to the problem, or leaving me time to soften a little. Or he could be thinking about what he was going to have for supper—who knew? I’d already seen it a couple of times with one of his men, with the media, when he’d had enough of whatever they were pushing. He must make Phil Thomson crazy. If I were compiling a list of human qualities I liked and didn’t, declaring unilateral breaks in the action would be well up there among the latter.

  I thought about making a run for it, getting as far as the kitchen before remembering there would be a cop car down the road, ready to take off right behind me. Frustrated, I leaned against the counter. What, other than getting a replacement in place, could be Baxter’s incentive to hang around? That was probably why he’d gone to the john—to use his cellular in peace. And what could I do about that? Well, manage to sound even bitchier and more unreasonable if I tried to resume our discussion. Those do take more than one voice.

  So I kept my mouth shut, he went back to his purported reading, and about twenty silent minutes later another sheriff’s department vehicle pulled into the driveway. The florid-faced deputy, Frank, emerged.

  The changing of the guard didn’t take long, mainly because I elected to be gracious about it. This was not what Baxter expected. His last glance at me as he left contained a questioning element.

  Not that I was up to anything. It just seemed an improvement to have someone around I wasn’t actively mad at. Should the opportunity arise I’d hop in the Bronco and go to cover until it was dark enough for the plateau excursion. This didn’t strike me as the hottest of prospects, what with that car out on the road and Frank right there with me in the house. I’d have to see how things broke.

  “Do you do much baby-sitting?” I asked conversationally.

  “No more than I have to,” came the slightly testy response.

  “It’s fine with me if you want to move on to more important things.”

  “What it says on this badge, if you want to take a closer look, is Deputy Sheriff. You’ve heard of chains of command?”

  “Even when the order strikes you as a waste of time?”

  “Baxter considers you the key to a double murder investigation, he thinks you’re about to do something to put it or yourself at risk, and he wants you watched. Makes sense to me.”

  “It strikes me as overkill, putting his lead investigator on it.”

  That won me a minimal smile. “You must’ve made a strong impression. Baxter told me there’s no way out through the bathroom. Anywhere else you go on the premises, I follow. Off the premises is a no-no. Are we clear on those ground rules?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And I’d like the keys to your Bronco. In case I need to go to the john. Both sets, please.”

  I made a face and dragged a little but complied. Most people probably don’t bother to have a third set of vehicle keys made up. I’d slipped mine into my jeans pocket while Baxter was in the bathroom.

  “Here,” I said, a little sullen. “Any suggestions what we do for entertainment?”

  “Ms. Wyckoff, my assignment is to watch you, not amuse you. I thought I’d go through some of the Hudson Heights application material. It’s all here, Baxter said.”

  “That binder on the table and those stacked and rolled-up plans over by the sofa are the most promising stuff. Help yourself. And could you for heaven’s sake call me Val? I don’t know what to call you. Should I stick with ‘sir’?”

  “Frank or Deputy Givens, take your pick.”

  “Any relation to Jamie Givens?”

  “Uncle.”

  “Jamie was one of the few decent workers at the Garden Center. He’s with Skip Boyles now, isn’t he?”

  “Right.”

  As he edged toward the sofa I gave up hope of any significant thaw. Maybe if he hadn’t been the one to pick Baxter up that morning? He seemed kind of a stuffy type. “If you want interpretations,” I said crisply, “I can help you. A lot of that material’s pretty technical. I’ll be doing some computer work—the one in the dining room, so you can keep watch.”

  Shift change, hadn’t Baxter said, was three P.M. That hour came and went, and my guardian didn’t budge, nor did he choose to tap my expertise. Four, four-thirty. “Would you like something to eat?” I strolled into the living room to inquire. The fax to Donna on the latest developments had taken less than half an hour to compose and send, the research on the chromated copper arsenate another forty minutes or so. After that it had been computer games. I was bored to the point of screaming. He grudgingly agreed to relocate to the dining table and make himself a sandwich.

  At five, we turned on the television for the news. No waiting—the cameras were in Riverton, covering a joint statement by Phil Thomson and Judge something-or-other Weidell. “At Mr. Thomson’s request,” the judge was reading from a piece of paper, “I have appointed Assistant District Attorney David Streeter to oversee the investigation into the murder of Ryan Jessup.”

  “It is my belief,” Phil Thomson took over, “that the people of Patroon County have the right to feel someone is in charge, that law enforcement personnel are pulling together and working effectively to produce solid answers.”

  “Does this mean,” the Channel 11 reporter demanded, “that Sheriff Dye is off the case?

  Good old Phil fielded that one, too. “As you may know, Sheriff Dye is new to the job, and a murder investigation can be a very complicated business. We just felt we ought to give him some help.”

  “Son of a bitch,” Frank Givens said softly.

  “They can do that?” I half listened as the female anchor asked if her reporter had been able to reach Sheriff Dye for comment and was told not yet.

  “The county judge has the power to appoint an investigation coordinator, if the DA requests one. They can’t run us off altogether, but they can box us out. Sit on things, screw up the evidence taking.” He glared at me as if somehow this would be mostly my fault. “I told Baxter the smart move was to go down to that conference this morning, pretend to play along.”

  “You really think Phil Thomson would have bought it?”

  “No.” His expression got a shade friendlier. “Any more than he would’ve from me. We’re neither of us world-class actors. That was Jerry’s game.”

  “How solid is the department behind Baxter?”

  “Up here, like a rock, and this will get backs up even higher. Of course, a couple of the men do have to think retirement. The Clarksburg substation’s a different story. Their connections are strongly south county. What Phil’s probably angling to do is work with Andy Meyers, the undersheriff in charge there, so it’ll look like the department’s still in the picture. Why? What’re you pushing?”

  “I’m just a helpless prisoner. What have I got to push with?”

  “Right. Okay, if you’re as tired of your computer as I am of that Hudson Heights bullshit, we could play some cards.”

  I stood abruptly. “I’d rather chop wood. Watch or stack, take your pick.”

  Calvin tooled up about half an hour later, to Frank’s undisguised relief. They conferred briefly in the driveway before he split.

  “Did you catch the five o’clock news?” I asked Calvin as we walked back around the house.

  “Oh, yeah. Bummer.”

  “So what�
��s happening?”

  “Dunno. Baxter thought it’d be a good idea to lean on Thurman Haynes, but the man’s gone to ground. Then we went to see Chauncy Bellis. Asshole’s stonewalling. His brother’s got a chunk of dough in Hudson Heights, could be why. Steve’s bringing back everything he’s had time to copy this afternoon. Maybe we’ll get something strong enough there to go over Phil’s head for a warrant.”

  “Don’t count on it. All Mariah could have found in Albany was a basis for speculation. She was trying to shore that up when she called Chauncy about the effects of that chemical. It’s used in making wood preservatives, by the way, so it’s a fit with that one Albany Univers plant. But if Chauncy’s not cooperating—”

  “Also, we have to figure in how tight the definition of probable cause is in Riverton just now. Maybe we ought to have you go public. You’ve got legitimate claims to expertise, you’ve worked out at Hudson Heights. If you’re quoted as saying they might have this problem, how many houses are they going to sell until somebody checks it out?”

  “As many as they can build? Think about it. I was close friends with a woman known for her opposition to Hudson Heights. In the course of the past week I have found two bodies—one of them in my own front yard—blown my only local professional connection, and had it brought out that I once was a troubled teenager with a propensity toward violence. At this point my credibility isn’t worth spit. Even if Chauncy Bellis admits to uttering the words ‘chromated copper arsenate’ in my hearing, which it doesn’t sound as if he’s about to do, it’s still a longer leap from theory to fact than most people would be willing to make. Like I keep saying, for credibility I need properly taken, properly witnessed, properly analyzed soil samplings that give the right results. Yet here we sit.”

  “Val, Baxter’s not giving up on this. Cut him a little slack, can’t you?”

  “Do I have a choice?”

  “Not on my watch,” Calvin acknowledged. “So, want to play some cards?”