“I just asked where you were going to take your riding lesson?”
“At a horse farm out in Blue Mountain. Okay! Are you happy now?”
“Oh, which one?” Abba asked.
“Shouldn’t you be working on my omelet?”
Abba shot me a bemused look as she got up and headed into the kitchen, saying over her shoulder, “Blue Mountain Stables has an incredible reputation … as a breeder of miniature horses.”
George ignored this, jutted out his chest and chin and sat down on the stool next to mine. “Pearl, may I have a café con leche, por favor?” She looked at him like he was speaking Martian. “A cup of coffee, for Christ’s sake!”
“I didn’t think adults could ride miniature horses,” I said.
“I said it was my first riding lesson with a real horse, not on a real horse. It’s a slow process of acclimatization.”
“I’m sure it’ll be great.”
“Don’t patronize me.”
“How’s the Van Wyck campaign going?”
“I think he’s going to win, but he wants to win big to set himself up for his next move. I’ve only met him a couple of times but he seems pretty real, for a politician. And on the issues, he’s amazing. His ambition is a little scary, but ambition usually is.” His coffee arrived and he took a sip. “How’s your investigation going?”
“It’s expanding.” I filled him in on Natasha’s memorial and Kelly’s Farm.
“Let me know if you need my help with anything. Kelly’s Farm sounds intriguing. Personally I could never get into S&M—too many accoutrements.”
I eyeballed his riding gear.
He gave me a mea culpa smile and said, “It’s a good thing you’re cute.”
I walked from Chow through the village and then down the road leading to the Sawyersville lighthouse. It was fun walking around town and the road down to the lighthouse wound above the Esopus Creek so it was especially cool. The lighthouse sits at the end of a spit of land that sticks out into the Hudson almost half a mile. The Hudson is tidal even this far up, and at high tide things can get sloppy. But I wasn’t headed to the lighthouse today—I was looking to pay Mad John a visit.
I walked a little ways down the lighthouse path and then veered north, heading into the riverside snarl, ducking brush and branches, until I came to a tattered rubber-ducky shower curtain strung between two trees: Mad John’s front door.
“Knock-knock.”
“I’m up here, Jan-Jan.”
I looked up into the trees and there was Mad John sitting on a branch with a raccoon in his lap. The critter was sprawled on its back and Mad John was scratching its tummy.
“Edgar loves this,” he said.
“I need your help.”
He righted Edgar and they clambered down the tree together, looking more like distant cousins than different species. He pulled back the shower curtain and ushered me into his digs, a little encampment furnished with rusty lawn chairs, ratty rugs, and a primitive ever-changing altar that currently featured the Indian goddess Kali, a bobble-head Ringo Starr, and a plastic turd.
“What’s up, chowdahead?” he asked.
I opened the map and spread it out on a rug. “Do you know where this is?” I asked, pointing to the distant valley.
Mad John pulled on his beard and pondered for a moment. Then he started his ecstatic jumping up and down thing, “Catskills-Catskills-Catskills!”
Edgar, busying himself with an overripe banana—Mad John was a world-class dumpster diver—looked over in bemusement.
“See this farmhouse, I want to do a little reconnoiter, but on the down low. Do you think you could get me there through the woods?”
He froze and eyeballed me intently, then went right back to jumping, “Bushwhack–bushwhack-bushwhack!”
“I take it that’s a yes?”
He jumped up and clicked his heels (well, thumped his barefeet), “Hot cha-cha-cha!”
“Does tomorrow work for you?” I asked.
“I’ll have to check with my secretary.”
“I’ll pick you up in the afternoon, I think we should get there at dusk.”
As I walked away I heard, “Hey, Edgar, wanna go fishing?”
TWENTY-TWO
I headed back to town and opened the store—it’s always good to put in an appearance at your own establishment. I put on some tango and paid attention to Bub and Sputnik while Lois sat on her favorite armchair giving us the evil eye. Looking at her I couldn’t help thinking: she’d make an adorable throw rug. The phone rang.
“Janet’s Planet.”
“Hi, it’s Josie. I found out a few interesting things about Collier Denton. In 1979, the actor Ian Stock who was the star of the soap opera The Well Runs Deep died in a suspicious fire at his house in Sneden’s Landing. Two weeks later his part was recast with Collier Denton.”
I flashed on the scar on Denton’s left forearm.
“And no determination was ever made as to the cause of the fire?”
“Stock was a smoker and forensics was able to determine that the fire originated in his bedroom, but his body was so badly incinerated that medical examiners were unable to establish a definitive cause of death. No charges were ever filed.”
“Incredible. What’s the other info?”
“In 1998, Collier Denton’s ‘roommate’ died in a mysterious fall at his house in Stone Ridge. There was a police investigation and a manslaughter charge was under consideration, but never filed.”
“Any other details?”
“The deceased’s name was Tony Ramirez. He was twenty-two years old, Dominican, unemployed, he and Denton had met in Miami Beach the year before. He fell down the house’s back stairs, which are very steep, and died of a cerebral hemorrhage. Denton didn’t call the police for two hours.”
“He was probably waiting to sober up.”
“That’s just what I was thinking.”
“Good work, Josie.”
“Talk to you later.”
So Collier Denton was not only a sleazebag, he might be capable of manslaughter or even murder. I went back to my workroom and started to wax a table, physical work tends to clear my head, which needed it, cluttered as it was with information, innuendo, and suspicion. The bell rang out in the shop and since my wheels were spinning in place I welcomed the interruption.
I went out to find Julia Wolfson looking around. She was wearing a tight black skirt, black ankle boots, a shimmery purple blouse, too much make-up—she was way overdressed for Sawyerville. She was a little less jittery, but not much, gave me a too-big smile and said, “You’ve got some really cool stuff. And chill town, so authentic. Oh look!” she said, her attention ricocheting to Bub. She went over and scratched his chest, he smiled in delight.
“That’s Bub.”
“I’ve never had a bird.” Sputnik approached her. “We had a dog when we were little but it shit in the kitchen and Sally sent it back. Can I smoke in here?”
I shrugged.
She took out some hip English brand and lit up. “I don’t smoke. Boy, yesterday was a freak show. My parents just push every button I have, all at once.”
“They’re dynamic people.”
“They’re self-obsessed freaks. Every time I see them on television I get nauseous. I can’t believe anyone buys their bullshit. That was the first time I’d been in their house in two years.” She walked around the store, eyeing stuff, picking up stuff, putting it back, ADHD in overdrive.
“They’re busy people.”
“Not as busy as they used to be, ha-ha. Their books don’t sell like they used to and the TV gigs are drying up; they’re kind of bugging out about it, especially Sally, plus you know she’s getting old and I think Dad is fucking someone on the side.”
“Is it serious?”
“Who knows. I wish Sally would get some on the side herself, but she’s still bug-eyed for the old man. It’s hitting her hard, she’s even more tense than she used to be. Suddenly she wants to be my ‘fr
iend.’I mean how sick is that, she was barely my mother, and now she wants to be my friend.” She gave a bitter snort of a laugh.
“Did she and Natasha get along?”
“Not really. Sally put on a good game when people were around, but it was all playacting. Hey look, I’ve been in rehab, I know the drill: she had a traumatic childhood, was never really parented herself, she did her best blah-blah-blah.”
“What was traumatic about her childhood?”
She turned away from me, examined a chrome lamp, “I don’t know the details.” She took a deep pull on her cigarette. “I mean at this point who really gives a fuck, right?”
“Were you and Natasha close when you were little?”
“I never really knew her too well, isn’t that weird, I mean I’m four years younger, Sally pitted us against each other, we were sent away to different boarding schools. I kind of idolized Natasha, I mean she was pretty cool, she used to send me letters from school, funny shit, she called me Sis Kid, and at holidays we would have some fun together.” She plopped down on a sofa and ran her hand over the fabric; I got the feeling she was holding out on me.
“What about your dad?”
“What about him?” she said, quick, defensive.
“Did he and Natasha get along?”
She was silent for a moment and then said quietly, “You’d have to ask him. … Were you close with her?”
“I only met her once, the day before she died, but she made an impression, I liked her a lot.”
“Oh, I loved her and all that, but, you know …” She leapt up, opened the shop door and flicked her cigarette out into the street. “These boots are Versace, I got them at Housing Works, forty bucks.”
“When did you last see her?”
“A few months ago.” She walked over to a display case, “Is this her jewelry?”
“Yes.”
“It’s gorgeous, it reminds me of her. Can I have it?”
“I told your folks I’d send them a check for it.”
“Fuck them. They shit money.” She looked at me, clenching her jaw. “Send them less. Their checks go right to an accountant. They’ll never notice. What do you think—they’re going to come after you?”
“I think it’s between you and them.”
“Well, I’d call them up except I don’t have their cell numbers.”
“What about their land line?”
“They don’t have a land line. I mean they do, but it’s to their office and their manager’s secretary answers it.” She sat down again, lit a fresh cigarette, and looked like she was about to cry. “I haven’t had an acting gig in awhile, I’m twenty-five fucking years old and living on ether, I could sell this jewelry in the city for decent cash.” She eyeballed me—her need acute, her sadness infinite.
“Go ahead, take the jewelry.”
She went over to the case and opened it, stuck the cigarette between her lips and shoveled the jewelry into her bag. “Oh man, you don’t know how much I appreciate this.” She came over and gave me a quick hug, I could feel her bones, then she just about ran out of the store, cigarette dangling from her mouth, reaching into her bag, pulling out her cell.
Sputnik watched her go, then turned and gave me a questioning look.
TWENTY-THREE
Mad John and I drove deep into the Catskills. It’s strange and beautiful up there, towns so small and empty that they almost feel abandoned, a smattering of farms, prefabs with plastic over the windows, gorgeous mountains and streams—there’s something scary about all the openness, beauty tinged with terror, Night of the Living Dead in Brigadoon.
Mad John had brought a machete and was in high spirits.
“Where we going?” he asked.
“To a whorehouse.”
“Do they take checks?”
We laughed. “No handling the merchandise, young man. I want to scope the place out, get a sense of how it operates, take some pictures. What I’d really like is to get inside and find the little black book.”
The afternoon was waning, the light growing denser, the air pouring in the car windows drier than down in the valley, with each mile it got more remote and rural; out here there was no one to hear you scream. Men drove into this isolation to get tied up, beaten, humiliated, away from the eyes of their wives and girlfriends, of the world, of themselves. It would be a whole lot healthier if they’d just get their wives to do the beating—I’d worked with clients who’d revealed their secret lusts to their spouses, who were usually happy to oblige. But I guess healthy wasn’t what these men craved.
We reached the mouth of the mountain valley; Kelly’s Farm was about three miles up a narrow road. I found an old dirt track and drove down it far enough to be out of sight. We got out of the car. The woods looked awfully dense. I’d brought two flashlights and a pair of binoculars along.
“Are you sure you’re going to be able to get us in and out?”
Mad John just gave me a huge grin and took a whack at the underbrush, which disappeared like magic. I had complete faith in his outdoor skills, I just wished I had the same faith in my own sleuthing skills. But Natasha had worked at this place and I needed to know who her clients were and I sure as hell wasn’t going to get the information by asking.
We set off through the woods, gallant little Mad John in the lead, machete swinging, carrying on a running conversation with the local avian population. I find woods a huge bore, but the terrain and my own mounting anxiety kept me alert and after awhile I went into a sort of fugue state, one foot in front of the other.
Then Mad John stopped and hissssss-ed.
Up ahead the woods ended and an old farmstead began—there were fields, stone walls, a couple of cows and goats grazing, a hen house, several barns and outbuildings, and a large old farmhouse. About half a dozen cars were parked out front. The place was in good repair but hardly had that Currier-and-Ives look you get when rich city folk tart-up an old farm, it just looked like an old farm that was somehow hanging in there.
“Let’s just chill here and see what happens,” I said, feeling pretty unchill. It looked like we had about another half-hour of daylight, which was perfect timing, I could plan my steps and then take them under cover of dark.
The house was rambling, with a rear wing that led to a screened breezeway that connected it to a barn. I raised my binocs: lights were on in the front of the house and the rooms looked perfectly ordinary. I’m not sure what I was expecting—red velvet walls and fringed lampshades maybe—but it looked more like Mayberry with corduroy couches, reproduction rockers, a massive TV. Behind the living room, there was a cozy claustrophobic kitchen with yellow walls, floral curtains, decorative trivets on the wall.
I moved my sights farther back in the house—the windows were blackened, either with paint or fabric. I came to the breezeway and saw a tall, buxom not-young woman holding a leash at the end of which crawled a hairy, paunchy, middle-aged man wearing a diaper and a baby bonnet with a pacifier in his mouth. Fun. She led him into the barn.
There were no lights on upstairs so I couldn’t tell what the rooms looked like. What I wanted to find was the office. Oh yeah, and I should probably photograph the license plates on the cars.
Night had fallen, a dark night with just a sliver moon—it was time to make my move.
“Mad John, can you wait for me here? I shouldn’t be more than half an hour.”
I set out across the lawn in a running crouch, avoiding the pools of light casting out from the windows, my heart thumping in my chest, my breathing shallow. I headed to the driveway, took out my cell and photographed the license plates.
I headed around the other side of the house and moved in close—sure enough, through a window I saw an office: desk, computer, printer, fax, all neat, orderly, professional. There was a large datebook open on the desk, with several other ledgers nearby. The door leading from the office into the rest of the house was closed. I stepped closer to the window and was about to reach up to try and push it open
when I felt a hand on my shoulder.
“Hi, Fran.”
I practically jumped out of my skin. I spun around to see a lumpy old woman in a loose housedress and slippers, her eyes vacant, her mouth open. It took me only a second to realize that this gal had Alzheimer’s and was on a twilight ramble.
“I’m sorry, I’m not Fran.”
She bit her lower lip and tears started to slip from her eyes. Man, that disease is a heartbreaker. But I had to get us away from the house.
“Listen, I’m kind of here on business,” I whispered, “but do you want to take a little walk or something?”
She nodded. I took her hand and led her toward the edge of the field, where Mad John waited.
“Psst! Can you take this lady?”
Mad John appeared and gave her a huge grin. She smiled back. He took her hand and held it to his cheek, she purred.
I headed back toward the house. Then the front door opened, a woman’s silhouette appeared in the doorway and the beam of a flashlight swept over the lawn. “Ma, you out there?” Then the beam landed right on me. “Who’re you?”
“Hi, I’m Janet,” I said, trying to sound nonchalant.
“What can I do for you, Janet?” The lady sounded pretty damn nonchalant herself. I walked toward her and she lowered the flashlight. She was about my age, average looking, shapely with some middle-aged spread, the kind of person you wouldn’t look twice at in the supermarket.
“I was just, um, walking around.”
“You were, huh? Did you happen to see my mom?”
“Yes, she’s with my friend over there, I think they hit it off.”
She aimed her beam across the field—Mad John and her mom were communing with one of the goats. “That’s nice. Now you want to come in and tell me what the hell you’re doing on my farm?”
“Ah, sure.”
She led me into the living room, a basketball game was on the television. She muted it. “I’m Kelly. Have a seat.” I sat on a sofa, she sat across from me on a lounger. There were bowls of Chex mix on the coffee table in front of me and on the table next to her. “Help yourself to some Chex mix.”
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