by Archer Mayor
It wasn’t too busy when we arrived. The summer was winding down, and while I was still impressed by the activity in the parking lot, it was still less than half-full.
J.P. and I got out of the car, looking out of place in our coats and ties, and walked into the only building that wasn’t a plastic-sheeted greenhouse. A young man greeted us from behind the service counter. “You need any help?”
“Yeah,” I said. “We’re looking for some information about a really rare tree—a ginkgo. You know anything about them?”
He pulled a face and shook his head, smiling. “I can handle the run-of-the-mill stuff, but that sounds more like Jay’s department. Hang on a sec.”
He reached under the counter and retrieved a portable radio. “Jay?” he said after keying the mike.
“Yeah,” came the answer after a pause.
“I got two gentlemen here asking about ginkgo trees.”
“Be right there.”
The young man replaced the radio with a laugh. “You must’ve pushed a button with that one. He’s knee-deep in mud, working out back.”
A woman approached with a tray full of small plants, and we faded back so the clerk could work the cash register. A few minutes later, an impressively tall, skinny man wearing a baseball cap and an open face ambled into the building, rubbing his hands on a mud-encrusted pair of khakis.
He smiled broadly as he drew near. “Hi. I’m Jay Wilson. You the ones interested in the ginkgos?”
I walked with him to an unpopulated corner of the room, speaking quietly. “Probably not in the sense you’d like, I’m afraid. We’re from the Brattleboro police—sort of on a research trip.”
Wilson’s bright disposition remained undaunted. “Neat. What do you want to know?”
“I guess for starters, do you sell them?”
“I do when I can find ’em. They’re pretty hard to get. Even as high-priced as they are, they move like crazy.”
“So there’re a lot of them around?” J.P. asked, disappointed.
“Oh, no. Offhand, I’d say fifteen to twenty tops in the whole county. Their rarity’s part of the appeal. Not that they’re fragile or anything,” he added quickly, as if we were customers. “They’re quite hardy—grow almost anywhere. Interesting tree, actually, and a real beauty. One of the oldest on the face of the earth. I read they were, around two hundred and thirty million years ago, native to North America, which is ironic, since their only native habitat these days is eastern China. That’s what makes ’em so pricey.”
“I gather they come in male and female varieties,” I commented.
He seemed to dismiss the idea. “Well, they do, but that doesn’t really matter. People only buy the males. It’s all I ever sell.”
We both stared at him. “Why?” J.P. finally asked.
“The females have seeds—orange grapey things about an inch long, coated with a messy pulp. They not only litter the ground, but they stink to high heaven—the pulp does. They’re famous for it.”
“How many females do you think are in Windham County?” I asked.
He considered that for a moment. “Probably no more than three or four, but that’s just a guess. They’re a little sneaky. For the first twenty to even fifty years, the males and females look pretty much the same. It’s only after they fruit that the females come out of the closet. So there’re probably several supposed males out there that’re getting ready to surprise their owners. I got called about one just recently. Guy wanted to know how to deal with the seeds. I told him he was screwed. Even picking them up won’t work, since they’re designed to break open when they land. The season only lasts six weeks, though, starting in late summer. I said he should try to work it to his advantage. Make it a selling point to his guests somehow. Asians actually eat the seeds—consider ’em a delicacy, after the pulp’s been removed—and they’re hot right now in the herbal medicine market. Supposed to treat everything from Alzheimer’s to hearing problems.”
He gave a sly smile. “They’re also sold as a sexual enhancer—that’s why I thought he could turn it into an advantage. He didn’t sound too convinced, though. Maybe he couldn’t figure out how to phrase it in the brochure.”
“Brochure for what?”
“He runs the Windham Hill Inn, just outside West Townshend.”
Chapter 6
THE DRIVEWAY TO THE WINDHAM HILL INN is modest enough—a dirt lane branching off from the road between Route 30 and the tiny village of Windham some seven miles farther north. There is an official state sign advertising the place—small, sedate white letters on a dark green background. Vermont does not permit billboards, a decision with which the inn had obviously tastefully concurred, since not even the mailbox continued the message.
The darkened lane meanders a short distance past a house or two, closely shaded by a crowd of trees before cresting a small hill and issuing into the light of a vast opening.
It’s a theatrical setting. From right to left, on a gentle downhill slope, are a pool, a tennis court, a huge converted barn, a discreetly landscaped parking area, and the main house of the inn itself—old, brick-clad topped by white clapboard—all looking like a watercolor of the English countryside. Beyond it hovers a view of thousands of acres—fields, forests, and haze-blurred mountains—and standing front and center, visually connecting the barn and the main building, towering in sharp contrast to the breathtaking but hazy horizon, was a tremendous, fan-shaped tree, unlike any I’d ever seen.
I had stopped the car on the crest, and now cast a glance at J.P., whose eyes were glued to the tree. “The ginkgo, I presume?” I asked.
“It’s huge,” he murmured.
I rolled down into the parking area near the tree and killed the engine.
“Okay,” I said, turning toward him. “Soft-shoe time. We’re here unofficially, no bones to pick. We’re working on something vague, checking a variety of neighborhoods. If we can avoid mentioning any interest in the tree, so much the better.”
“Do we even admit we’re cops?” he asked.
We opened our doors simultaneously. “Let’s play it by ear.”
We were met by a cloying, nauseating odor—a stunning counterpoint to the beauty surrounding us.
“Jesus,” J.P. gasped. “It smells like shit.”
“Or vomit,” I agreed, “Wilson didn’t even come close.”
J.P. was looking around him in shock. “I guess. The little bit I found in the car trunk smelled bad, but I thought it was something else—a dead piece of skin or something.” He glanced over at the main house of the inn, artistically swathed in flowers, bushes, and a couple of carefully pruned fruit trees. “I don’t think keeping the tree out of the brochure is such a good idea. This guy could have a lawsuit on his hands.”
As if in response, the front door swung back, and a tall, white-haired man with a tanned face, slight belly, and broad shoulders appeared on the threshold. He waved and called out, “Hi, there. Welcome.”
I waved back. J.P. was still glancing about, suddenly aware that I’d parked right in the middle of a blanket of the pulpy seeds. He lifted his foot and checked the sole of his shoe with disgust.
The man approached, shaking his head, but only speaking once he’d come within earshot. “I am sorry. You’ve just been introduced to our ginkgo tree, I’m afraid. It doesn’t last long, but it’s a mess while it does.”
He shook our hands. “I’m John Rarig, the owner. You’ll be glad to know this is the worst of it. We’ve put shoe scrubbers at all the entrances, the only rooms we’re using right now face away from the tree, and the dining room’s on the other side.”
Neither J.P. nor I said anything immediately, forcing Rarig to shuffle his feet a bit, put his hands in his pockets, and lean back to stare up to the top of the towering offender. I guessed him to be in his mid-seventies but in terrifically good shape. He sighed resignedly. “I know, it still stinks. There’s no way around it. It’s probably been there thirty years or more, as beautiful as any t
ree I’ve ever seen. In the fall, it turns an electric yellow, like it’s been plugged in—amazing. It only started doing this this year.”
“I know,” I admitted, mostly to spare myself another botanical lecture. “We heard all about it from Jay Wilson at the greenhouse.”
Rarig looked at us in surprise. “How did you know about my tree?”
“We didn’t. It came up in conversation. It sounded interesting, so we came by to check it out.”
J.P., yielding to curiosity, had stopped worrying about the slimy pulp and was instead taking a tour of the tree in its midst, circling the thick trunk and looking up into its branches. The tactic of avoiding all mention of the ginkgo had obviously been amended.
“Are you naturalists or something?” Rarig asked, showing his confusion.
I gave him what I hoped was a disarming smile. “Cops, actually—out of Brattleboro. I’m Joe Gunther. That’s J.P. Tyler. Wilson made this tree sound so weird, we came up on impulse. I hope that’s all right.”
Rarig was still smiling, but I felt the intensity of his eyes. “Sure—I wish I could turn it into a tourist attraction. Charge admission and make up some of what it’s costing me.”
“Cut into the clientele, has it?” I asked.
He gazed unhappily at the converted barn we’d passed driving in, his voice flattening now that he knew we weren’t customers. “Even after closing every room facing this damn thing. I’ve got twenty-one of them, grand total, so that’s only five or six I can’t use. But it still doesn’t matter. Guests are pretty understanding about most things, like when we were fixing up that barn—all the construction noise and trucks and workmen—but this really gets to them. Gets to me, too.”
Having finished his survey, J.P. circled back toward us. “Why don’t you cut it down?” he asked.
Rarig looked at the sloppy, stained driveway. “I probably should. It’s just that for the rest of the year, it’s like the focal point of the whole place—ties it all together visually.” He turned toward the main building and gestured with his hand. “Why don’t you come in for a cup of coffee or something? Get out of this stench.”
We fell into line behind him as he led the way, still talking. “It’s also worth an incredible amount of money—thousands and thousands of dollars. Plus, I’m the new kid on the block—only owned the place for four years—and it’s been here forever. I’d hate to come across as the turkey who destroyed the prize ginkgo ’cause he wanted to make a buck.”
“Where did you live before?” I asked.
“DC. I worked for the State Department. Gray life in a gray office inside a gray building. I couldn’t wait till the pension reached its max. I was out of there so fast I don’t even remember packing. I didn’t come straight here, of course. Took me ten years of roaming around the country before I found the best it had to offer.” He laughed and showed us how to dampen the soles of our shoes in a soapy pan and then scrub them against some stiff brushes bolted to the door stoop.
The interior of the main building was a blend of English pub, old family home, and New England antiquities. It was dark, comforting, heavy in wood and wool accents, and decorated with somber oil paintings and weathered brass knickknacks. Rarig led us down the short central hallway, around a cherry wood bar area, and back to a grouping of overstuffed armchairs overlooking the back lawn, a small pond, and the woods beyond. The chairs reminded me of ones my mother still had at home—a little old, a little faded, and utterly relaxing.
As soon as we’d sat down, he pulled open a drawer from under the coffee table at our knees and handed me a magazine. “This’ll give you an idea of why I’m so ambivalent about that tree.”
It was a two-month-old copy of the New York Times Sunday magazine, dedicated to “Great Escapes in New England.” It was doubled-back to an article featuring the inn, in which the ginkgo was resplendent in an opening, edge-to-edge color photograph.
“I see what you mean,” I murmured, leafing through the article.
The following shots were standard fare—the view, the inn, the barn, down the long, narrow dining room at night, complete with candles and contented guests. One picture, of the entrance hall, caught Rarig himself reflected in a wall mirror, looking distracted and morose. It had obviously been his intention to be out of the photographer’s way at the time.
I returned the magazine. “Very impressive. That must’ve helped business.”
“It didn’t hurt. Of course they were here before it started stinking like a sewer.” Rarig passed it over to Tyler and then went about pouring us cups of coffee from a fancy thermos parked on the table. As he did, I watched his profile, still digesting the improbable coincidence of his having come from the very city where I’d almost been stuck with a knife.
“You ever been back to Washington?”
He gave me my cup. “Not even maybe. I missed my own retirement party. They called me and said I had a certificate or something coming. I told ’em to mail it. It never arrived.”
He handed a second cup to J.P. and sat back, cradling his own before him. “No. If I never see another city again, that’ll suit me just fine. This life is no feather bed. You get cranky guests, leaky roofs, and bursting pipes in the winter—the place was built in 1823—but they’re the kinds of problems you can actually fix. Not some vague matters of policy set in place by a bunch of on-the-job-retirement bureaucrats.”
I took advantage of the reference to ask, “You have many cranky guests?”
He took a sip before answering. “Not really. There’s a New Yorker right now who’s a little thin-skinned, but I get the feeling he’s got problems back at the office—it’s nothing personal.”
“I suppose a lot of people come up here to get away from it all, kind of like you did.”
“Oh, sure,” he said. “They can never resist bringing their cell phones, of course, but they tell themselves they’re relaxing, and I suppose that’s half the battle. We try to make them feel like it’s real.”
He sighed deeply. “This isn’t the way I’d really like it, though. Twenty-five years ago, this place was almost a commune. The guests had to pay, of course. But they all ate family style, at one huge table, from a fixed menu. And everybody mixed in—the employees and the guests, everyone’s kids. Must’ve been like the Waltons. It caught a little flak for that, of course, especially from the local cops. The owners were pretty left-wing. Unmarried mothers-to-be, Vietnam War protesters, illegal immigrants—people like that hung out here a lot, mostly as temp help. But I really like the idea of one big family, all sharing the same experience, getting rid of the elitist image most inns try to pump up.”
Rarig paused, staring at the ceiling, and then blinked a couple of times, clearing his throat and looking straight at us. “Can’t do it, of course—economics. Nowadays, people expect the French cuisine, the four-star treatment. I’d be cutting my throat, turning it back into a hippie hangout.”
He shook his head mournfully. “That’s the only reason I really am considering cutting the tree down. On the other hand, late summer isn’t the best time for us anyhow. People have to get back home. Maybe I could just shut down for a month and a half… It’s a tough decision.”
“How long do your guests stay, on average?” J.P. asked, speaking for the first time since we’d sat down.
“Two days—a standard weekend—but we encourage them to stretch things out a little. The third day is half price, and the fifth is on us. Right now we have twelve guests, and for about half of them this is their fourth day, which is pretty unusual.”
“Any that’ve been here longer?” I asked. According to our calculations, the man with the tattooed toes had been killed eight or nine days ago. I knew such an obvious question might tip our hand, but I also couldn’t see what we’d gain by letting more time slip by.
Rarig slowly leaned forward and gently placed his half-empty coffee cup on the table, as if it were full to the brim. He stayed slightly hunched up and looked at me closely, his head tilted. �
��No. What is this all about?”
J.P. and I exchanged glances. He raised his eyebrows and shrugged almost imperceptibly. “We’re investigating a murder, Mr. Rarig,” I said, “and we suspect the inn is somehow connected.”
He didn’t move. “How?”
I didn’t have much to lose. If he was tied into all this, my being coy would be purposeless, and if he was as innocent as he seemed, he could do us some good.
J.P. answered for me. “We have compelling evidence the killing took place here.”
Rarig sat back again, smiling slightly. “The tree, right?”
“Why do you say that?” J.P. asked.
It was a silly question, occasionally workable with one of our run-of-the-mill clients, whose gullibility often seemed without bottom, but not with John Rarig, who was patently nobody’s fool. J.P. Tyler was a scientist by instinct, a little slow to discern such human subtleties.
Rarig laughed softly at his awkwardness. “Two cops drop by, a long way from their home turf, having discussed ginkgo trees in Newfane. Sure sounds like a research trip to me. Did your dead body have a branch clutched in one hand?”
But while no wizard at interviewing, Tyler had a fetish for discretion. He merely stared back.
“Have you been around here all week, Mr. Rarig?” I asked.
He crossed his arms, the informality of our get-together now utterly gone. “Yes.”
“Do you recall anything unusual happening eight or nine days ago, day or night?”
“No, but then I don’t live at the inn. I have a house just over the hill—well out of earshot. No one reported anything, though.”
“Did any guests leave ahead of schedule around then, or show any signs that something was wrong?” Tyler asked.
Rarig hesitated. “I’d have to check the register, but nothing comes to mind.”
I took the bait. “Could we look at that?”
Rarig avoided a direct answer. “What makes you think it was one of my guests? What is your evidence?”