Tilden could have killed Camille Wimmet, yes, she felt that now. After all, he’d been failing Camille’s class. And he did drugs, Donna had told her that. The drugs, whatever they were, could change a Dr. Jekyll into a Mr. Hyde.
She was glad when Russell called—briefly, because he was having dinner with two Mohawk men he’d met during the latest reenactment and was already late to meet them. She asked him about the name Lafreniere and he, said he knew a fellow of that name up in Quebec. “A mellow guy—eighty-four years old. Wanna drive up some weekend and meet him?”
She didn’t, but she’d tell Ruth about the man. She didn’t tell Russell about a possible link with the name Ashley, though. The less Russell heard Olen’s name, the better—although he’d approved of the way Olen “took care” of Tilden Ball. The two men seemed to have arrived at a kind of truce.
Finally, “Love ya!” Russell bellowed, and the phone went dead.
Next Donna arrived, and there were questions and explanations all over again about the extra copy. “I didn’t know you’d taken it to the Willmarths’,” the girl said. “Not till after I hung up and found it was gone. You should have told me.” Donna was “done in”; she flung her jacket and book bag down on a chair. She had a “mountain” of work to do. “I’ll need the computer. You’re not planning on using it?”
“Not tonight.” Gwen held up the earring. “This was in the file box. What was it doing in there anyway? Where’d it come from?”
Donna laughed, tossed back her hair. It was looking especially lustrous; she’d just washed it in lemon and beer, she said. “Ral-phie gave it to me. It was part of his shiny collection. I don’t know where he found it. Why do you ask?”
“Oh, just curious, that’s all.” Gwen dropped the earring into a pocket. The nightshade death had been called an accident. She didn’t want to pursue it. She didn’t like Ralphie’s talk about shiny men.
Donna shrugged and adjusted a gold bead earring where it had gotten twisted on its stem. She was at the refrigerator now. “I didn’t have any supper. I was in the library. Exams are coming up and I still have two more papers. Well, short ones, but even so . ..”
“Can you give me a half hour in the barn? The place is a mess, and Leroy’s got a cold again. I swear he’s become more and more of a hypochondriac.”
“Oh, Mother. Can’t you? I’m starving. I’ve got this Frost paper due tomorrow. We have to analyze ‘The Death of the Hired Man.’ I haven’t even read it yet.”
Gwen gave up. If things were to be done around here, she’d have to do them. What was the point of having children anyway? Brownie was no better. He’d gobbled down his dinner and then she’d had to drive him to a friend’s birthday party. In a couple of hours she’d have to go pick him up again. She supposed she should talk to Ralphie Ball, find out where he’d found the earring. After all, it could be evidence of some kind. But then she might run into old Harvey, and she didn’t want to face that. Though he’d been lying low lately; there’d been no more calls about her selling land—not with Tilden a murder suspect. Did she hope they’d find the boy guilty? Or did she just want to keep Olen’s name untarnished? In a way, she loved him, didn’t she? Olen was family.
Gwen stopped by her hives on the way to the barn. All was contentment here, the bees busy at their tasks of gathering early nectar. By June the clover would be in full bloom, and the alfalfa; the bees would be working like madwomen, they would keep the coffers full.
“Good work,” she told a pair of honeybees murmuring in her newly opened tulips. She felt they could hear her, that they liked her approval. Bees were like people in so many ways: their complex social structure, their language. Through their special sense of smell they could recognize each other and their queen, tell one another where the food was, alert one another to danger. If they left a stinger in a person, Gwen felt, it was to mark the enemy, because the alarm odor would continue to be released, no matter where the enemy fled.
“Help us to find the truth,” she pleaded, “whether we like the answers or not. Shep Noble’s enemy, and Camille’s.”
The bees went humming along at their task.
* * * *
When Ruth called the police department, a woman’s voice informed her that Olen Ashley was off duty—she might try his apartment on Cross Street. But Ruth was not about to go there alone. “I don’t know the man,” she told Colm, who was sitting in her kitchen devouring her doughnuts. “You know him, you can tell him we just want to ask questions about a Lafreniere?”
“Uh-huh,” said Colm, “I’m your fall guy. Look, Ruthie, I don’t want to go to Olen Ashley’s apartment. I don’t want to ask questions about a Lafreniere. He’s my colleague, for Pete’s sake.”
Now Colm’s arms were folded, he was staring at the floor— it was a crunch of crumbs from Vic’s evening snack. The boy ate like the birds at her feeder, kernels dropping as they swallowed the sunflower seeds.
“I called Emily to babysit,” she told him, ignoring his attitude. Colm would come around, just so he didn’t lose face. It was a game; she’d have to butter him up, offer a prize.
“Just this once, Colm, I can’t do it without you. If nothing pans out, I’ll give up on the Lafreniere quest, help you with Tilden Ball. Maybe there’s French blood there, too. Maybe there’s a Lafreniere in their past.”
“Now you’re talking sense,” he said, unfolding his arms, sighing, then going to the phone. “Dad?” he said to his father. “I can’t come home now. I’ll help with that cremation later tonight. . . . Look, Dad, the guy’s dead, he’s in no hurry. I’ve got something else to do—it’s for Ruth... . No, Dad, I’m not making love to her—not at the moment. . . . Why not? Well, I don’t know why not. Ask her. I’ll call when I can, Dad.” He hung up, grimaced at Ruth.
“He didn’t really ask you that. If you were making love.”
“He did. It’s his dearest wish, I’ve told you. He says Mother wanted me married. So he wants me married. In his lifetime, he says. I’ve got a responsibility to him, Ruthie.”
“Let’s go,” she said, ignoring the responsibility part. “We’ll take my truck. Your car sounded like a freight car when you pulled in. If Olen’s guilty of anything, he’d be out the back door in seconds.”
“Sure, Ruthie,” he said, placating her. “Why not? I’m practically out of gas anyway.”
* * * *
Vic was surprised to see a policeman when he opened the door. “Uh-oh,” he said, thinking of his mother’s hemp and the trash barrel down back—Vic didn’t like her burning trash, it wasn’t good for the environment. They’d been talking a lot about the environment lately in school. It would serve his mother right if she got caught.
The man was smiling, a nervous kind of smile; he kept shifting his weight. “It’s all right, son,” he said. “I just dropped in to see your mother. Nothing to worry about.” Vic saw him glancing about the kitchen, his eyes coming to rest on Emily’s PC. “She home, son?”
“Gone off,” Vic told him. “With Colm Hanna. You know him? He’s a cop, too.”
“Yes, yes, I do. I was looking for him as well. Do you know where they went?”
Vic shrugged. He wanted to get back to his program. He was watching Jeopardy. A man with a bronze-colored mustache was really raking in the money. Vic would like to go on Jeopardy himself one day. He could buy a humongous telescope with the money he’d make just answering questions. He’d help his mother pay off what she owed the bank. All you had to do was answer the questions right. Sometimes Vic knew the answers when the contestants didn’t—like, ‘What novel did the character Eustacia Vye appear in?’ Heck, Eustacia was one of his mother’s cows. She came right out of Thomas Hardy’s Return of the Native. Vic hadn’t read it, but he knew the title.
The man repeated his question, and Vic said, “Looking for something, I don’t know. Police business, I guess.”
A vein bulged in the man’s neck, his cheeks pinkened, and Vic wondered if he should offer a glass of water. Back
in the living room he heard the audience cheer and he decided not to offer the water after all; he wanted to get back to the program. “I’ll tell Mom you were looking for her. Unless you want to wait here?”
“Oh, no,” the man said, gripping his hands together. “I’ll get ahold of her later. I’m on my way out of state.”
He was turning to go when the door opened; Vic saw him jump. Jeezum. It was Joey, thumping noisily in, staring openly at the cop. He would have seen the police car outside. He probably came in for a close look at the uniform. Joey was crazy about uniforms. Colm Hanna never wore one, but he’d look better if he did—this was Vic’s personal opinion.
“I never rode in a police car,” Joey said, fingering the man’s buttons, gazing up into his face.
The man started to pull away, then took a breath and smiled. “Maybe one day,” he said. “But I have to go now, on business.”
“Out of state,” Vic informed Joey, who looked disappointed.
The door opened again and it was Tim. Vic would never get back to his program now. He could hear the audience yelling and he’d bet the guy won a million dollars. Lucky guy. He was a minister, too, he’d said. What did a minister need a million dollars for?
The policeman stepped back. With Tim, it was like a whole barnful of cows just walked in. That was one way to get the man out of here. You could see from the way his nose twitched that he was smelling it, too.
“I can’t leave yet, we got a sick calf,” Tim told Joey.
“But Tim, I got my job,” Joey whined, sticking his hands on his hips. “I gotta get there, Tim. Maybe he could take me?” He pointed at the cop.
The man was halfway out the kitchen door when Tim asked, “Officer? You heading downtown? Joey here needs a ride, it’s his night at Greg’s Market. I can’t take him, I got a sick calf.”
Vic saw the policeman put a hand to his nose, like the smell was too much for him. Or maybe it was Tim’s question. Himself, Vic wouldn’t have asked. Cops were busy. They had speeders to chase, con men to capture—that killer that was on the loose around here. That worried Vic, too. The kids in his class talked about it all the time. Yes, it might be interesting to be a cop; Vic would think about that. Would he turn his own mother in? Well, probably not. But he’d give her a good talking to about that hemp.
“Greg’s Market,” Joey was saying, “I gotta go there. I pick up carts and stuff. I missed last time. They say, ‘Joey, you get here on time or you lose the job.’ ”
Joey squeezed out the door ahead of the man. Vic knew he’d jump right into the police car, that was Joey. Joey was missing something upstairs, he didn’t read all the signals people gave out. Vic liked him, though, the guy helped around the place.
“Well, just to Greg’s Market,” the policeman said to Tim. “It’s out of the way; I’m on my way east of here. But okay.”
“He’ll be thrilled,” Tim said, following the others out. “Thrilled to ride in a police car. Just drop him at the main entrance, Officer. He won’t give you any trouble.”
The door shut behind Tim, and a moment later Vic heard the police car peel off. He went back to his program. But when he plopped back down on the couch, the commercial came on. Loud. The program was over. “Jeezum,” he said, disgusted, and headed back into the kitchen to make himself a sundae: vanilla ice cream with chocolate sauce and a maraschino cherry on top. His mouth watered.
Only there weren’t any cherries in the refrigerator. Some days a kid couldn’t win.
* * * *
The place was ablaze with lights, but there was no answer when Ruth banged on the door. Olen wasn’t home. “What now?” Ruth asked.
“We go home,” he said, turning back.
“Hold on a minute. Check the windows. There might be one open.” He still didn’t move and she ran around back.
“You can’t do that,” he said, following her, “you can’t just break in. We don’t have a warrant.”
She’d discovered a bedroom window that was open an inch, enough to squeeze her fingers under. It was a warm night. A light rain was misting her hair. “See? We don’t have to break in after all.” She shoved it wide.
Colm said, “Jeez, that’s funny. He’s a stickler down at the station for turning out lights, shutting windows when it rains.”
“He would’ve left in a hurry, that Noel Lafreniere.”
“What! You don’t know that. About Lafreniere.”
“Ten bucks on it, Colm. Think about the name ‘Olen’.” She climbed through the window, scraping her elbow on the splintery sill. She was glad to be inside where it was dry. Colm followed, with a “Jesus! I shouldn’t be doing this, Ruthie.”
It was a spare bedroom in the literal sense of the word: a double bed with a plain pine headboard, a pine bureau, nondescript wooden chair, a closet. Clothes were spread out helter-skelter on the bed as though he’d been in a hurry to leave. He had to be wearing his dress uniform, Colm observed, because it wasn’t in the closet. A day uniform was hanging there, though. And in a corner, apart from his shirts and pants: a dark jacket and a white apron, fringed and trimmed with badges and symbols, a pair of pristine white gloves pinned to it. She recalled Gwen saying he was a Freemason. She’d seen pictures of Masons in the local paper, wearing those fancy aprons.
The living room was equally spare. An uncomfortable-looking black vinyl couch, a hard-backed rocking chair, a couple of massive mission chairs, a large oak desk littered with papers, a small oval blue rug on the hardwood floor. Yes, it was a man’s apartment. If Olen had had any women on and off, there were no signs. He’d been married once, Gwen had told her, but the female touch was gone now.
Colm shuffled through a pile of papers on the desk, held one up. “Sons of the American Revolution,” he read. “Here’s an application from the New Hampshire chapter. Why New Hampshire?”
“I don’t know. Maybe there isn’t one in Vermont.”
“Dated, um—1994? Jeez, what’s it still doing on his desk?”
“A reminder of who he might be? Hoped to be?”
“Ruthie, there’s nothing here about a Lafreniere. Let’s go, before he comes back. He could shoot first, then ask questions! I have to work with the guy. He could be our next chief.”
“Just a minute.” Ruth held up a genealogical book entitled The Goodpastures of America. There was no Lafreniere in the index. She wandered into the entryway, plucked a wrinkled map off the floor. “Map of New Hampshire,” she called back to Colm. She unfolded it; a town in the central area was circled in red. She gave a shout. “Andover, Colm. Look! That’s where he’s gone. To Andover. Looking for Annette.”
“Whoa, there, woman. Aren’t you jumping to conclusions? How would he know she’s in Andover? And why?”
“She could be a relative. He could be the son of a Noel Lafreniere who got a Godineaux pregnant. He’s, let’s see, in his late fifties now? Sixty? So Annette could be his grandmother.” She refolded the map. “But what do you suppose he’d want from her?”
“To do her in?” He was smiling, playing along with her, she knew the look. “He’s been hanging around the Woodleaf place, you said. He could have heard about our going there.”
“I suppose Gwen could have said something. He was there when I called her about going to Andover.” Now she was really worried. If she’d put that old lady’s life in danger. ..
“Ruthie, cool it. I’m leaving. You can stay here and get caught if you want to. Ashley’ll have you arraigned for breaking and entering.”
“You’ll have to walk, then,” she reminded him. “I’ve got the car keys. The only way to find out,” she said, as much to herself as to Colm, “is to go there.”
“Tonight? But I’m supposed to help Dad cremate a guy. And Emily won’t like it, either.”
She considered. “No, she won’t. But she’ll do her homework and go to bed. I’m her source of milk and meat, she’ll do what I say. Your dad has a fellow he can call on to help, hasn’t he? Come on, Colm. You might be right. He re
ally could kill her.”
“Hey, I was kidding. Why would he want to do that? You haven’t got any proof.”
It was true. They’d broken into a policeman’s apartment—a policeman with a sterling reputation, as far as she knew. What reason did they have? What evidence? Just a name, a hunch. A deleted page from Camille’s disk.
“To keep her from talking, maybe?” Colm was interested now, he had her hands in his, was squeezing them, smiling at her. Placating her, yes, but respecting her concerns. “Her and Pauline—though he may not know about Pauline yet. He may not have known where they were till now.”
“To keep them from telling the world he’s a Lafreniere, not an Ashley, right? To keep them from telling us. He doesn’t know that we know.”
“0len...” Colm mused. “Switch the letters around—if the son had the father’s first name—you’ve got Noel. Hey!”
“See?” she said. She’d already figured it out.
Colm was hooked now, she could see that. He said, “We’d better damn well find out before somebody else gets killed.”
She followed him out through the bedroom window, dropped to the ground with a thud. It was still misting; she couldn’t see the house next door for the fog—a fog that matched her brain. “We’ll have to stop at the farm first, Colm. You can call your dad. I have to see to Vic. Ask Tim to stay till Emily gets there.”
“No so loud. You want the landlady to overhear us? Call the cops?”
“But you are a cop.”
“Never mind. Just get in the car. I’m driving.”
“Not my pickup, you’re not. Get in the passenger seat, mister. I’m driving.”
Chapter Twenty
The brakes screeched as Olen paused at a stop sign in New London. He’d gotten off the thruway too soon. It would cost him an extra twenty minutes to get to Andover. No one was coming in either direction, but out of habit he waited, to be sure. The boy was in the back, asleep. Greg’s Market had been out of the way, it would have cost him a good fifteen minutes to backtrack; he was on police business, he told the boy. And when the boy clapped his hands and pleaded, “Can I come, Officer? Please? Can Joey Godineaux help?” Olen had kept going. He didn’t know why—it was the shock of the name, maybe— Godineaux. Afterward, driving up over Bread Loaf Mountain, he was sorry he’d said yes. The boy was talking nonstop, nonsense. At the foot of the mountain, though, at the turn onto Route 100, the kid fell, thankfully, asleep.
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