Broken Strings

by Nancy Means Wright

  She wanted to find 59 Mountain Drive, in Stowe, where Harley Grimes lived. It was at least forty minutes southeast of here, she figured. She drove slowly, right hand on the wheel, the left clutching her cell phone. Unsafe maybe, but she had the road practically to herself.

  “Hello. Dolores here. Just waiting for your call.” It was almost a song. Fay could hear the bells jingle on the headpiece the foster coordinator traditionally wore in the office. It was to cheer up the kids who came in, Fay had discovered when Ruth Willmarth had introduced her to the woman. Fay liked Dolores Reidinger at first meeting. The woman was one of the perks of working now with foster care.

  “It’s me, Fay. With two questions.”

  “Fay! How lovely to hear from you. Well, my dear, Chance already asked the first question, you bet. And I told her yes. Yes, Samantha Rule is William Kidde’s half-sister. The two were separated after their stay in the orphanage. Sammy was taken first, for possible adoption, those blond curls, you know. Women go for that. They don’t always look underneath.”

  “What exactly is ‘underneath’?” Fay asked, and Dolores chuckled.

  “Oh, I didn’t know the girl all that well. She evidently caused a few problems. Too smart, that was it, really. She outwitted the foster parents any number of times. Now that’s all I can tell you. Samantha escaped our jurisdiction when she turned eighteen. So what was the second question? Or was I taking too much for granted with the first?”

  “No, no. That was my first question. You see, the girl’s in love. Or thinks she’s in love. So I never quite know where she’s coming from. Nor does she, I think.” Dolores clucked in sympathy. “Okay, here’s my second question.” Fay told about Billy working with the marionettes, his surprising skill. “He claimed he got it from a foster mother, Jane Fingerling, in Williston. Know anything about her? If she’s still in Williston? Billy seemed to think she’d left.”

  “Hang on there, dear. I’ll go diving.” Into the files, she meant. Fay could hear the squeak and scrape of drawers. Fay was driving slowly along Route 15. Mount Mansfield to the north looked bluish and snowcapped, although it was still October. Too soon for winter. Let it be clouds!

  “Here we are, dear,” the caseworker said. “And she’s still in Williston, still a foster parent. Why don’t you call her yourself?”

  Dolores gave her the number. When they’d hung up she dialed, and hit home.

  “Yeah?” It was Jane Fingerling, a perfect name for a puppeteer. “Shut up! You hit her once more,” the woman cried at some disembodied child, “you’ll go to bed and stay there a month!” Uh oh. A frustrated foster mother.

  Jane gave a whooping laugh when Fay asked about marionettes. “Oh lord, oh geez, I’m just a dabbler. Sure, I remember Billy. He broke everybody’s toys so we gave him a hand puppet. And it worked. He acted out his angers, don’t you know?”

  “So he didn’t learn how to operate a marionette from you?”

  “What’d I just tell you? Harry! Put down that cat, you’re hurting it. Put it down, I said! Sorry, Fay, I’ve a live one here.”

  “You’re busy,” Fay said. “But thanks, about Billy. He seems a nice young man. He’s helping with my marionette shows. When he mentioned you, I thought you might like to – ”

  “Not me!” She giggled. “I’d never be able to work those strings. You got the wrong person.”

  Fay thanked her and hung up. So who did teach Billy to handle a marionette?

  Marion, she thought. Aha! The answer was right under her nose. Marion. What would that relationship signify? And if she was a mentor, why would he try to hide it?

  Now she’d missed the turn onto Route 100, into Stowe. No one behind her, so she backed up a few feet. One more metaphor for her life. One step ahead and two back.

  * * *

  Skull Man’s house was a white ranch set back from the busy mountain road and surrounded by trees. There were two cars in the yard. Someone was home, yes? She pulled in a breath and then knocked. A middle-aged woman in a black pants suit answered. In a glance, she took in Fay’s shabby boots and furry Maine Coon pants.

  “You got an appointment?” the woman asked in an accent Fay couldn’t place. Fay nodded. “You want the other door. The side door, that’s where he is. If he doesn’t answer, it means he’s working. Unless you really do have an appointment to buy?”

  Fay recalled Dashiell Hammett, who said it was okay for a sleuth to lie, misrepresent, cheat, blackmail and steal evidence to get his perp. So she nodded yes, and went around to the side door. A sign announced Harley Grimes Paintings.

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” she said when she opened the door and he glared at her, his face a furnace. He was on the phone, furious with someone on the other end of the line. “Damn you,” he was shouting, “you told me to reinvest in that firm so I reinvested. Now I’ve lost twenty thou and it’s all your fault, you friggin’ robber!” His sharp-nosed face was mottled red and his hair looked like he’d been hit by lightning.

  He went on yelling like he hadn’t really seen her yet. So she rose tall in her bones and glanced about at the paintings. They were mostly landscapes and portraits, not a single skull. Maybe the skulls were just a phase? No, wait. She paused in front of a portrait of a young blond woman. It was the woman in the landscape she’d seen at the Arts Center, the one with the skull necklace. She stopped, breathless, at an actual skull on a fireplace mantle. It wasn’t the skull that took her breath, but the turquoise in the skull. It had a turquoise mustache over the mouth, turquoise brows, and a pointed turquoise beard on the chin, with a gleaming ruby in the center.

  She heard the artist slam down the phone, then lower his voice slightly. “I didn’t see you come in. I’m not taking appointments for today. I have to leave in ten minutes. You see the sign?” He followed her eyes to the skull. “Oh that? It’s a joke, that’s all. A way to make people laugh at death. You like it?”

  It was rather whimsical, a grinning skull. Nothing she would display on her shelf, but in here it was intriguing. There was a cadaverous look about the artist as well, with his shaved head and sucked-in, transparent-looking cheeks that revealed prominent bones.

  “I’m sorry I didn’t call first,” she said. “I saw your work earlier today in Fairfax, a nice landscape of Glastonbury, for one. But there weren’t any skull paintings there.”

  “I don’t do that many. They’re not everyone’s choice. So I do these.” He waved his hands at the landscape paintings. “People like landscapes, still lifes – especially women. Of course now and then…” He pointed at a still life with a grinning skull between an apple and a pear. She hadn’t noticed it earlier.

  “You do portraits, too, I see,” she said. “Is this the woman in the Glastonbury painting?” She pointed at the blond woman.

  He slanted his eyes sideways at her, then shrugged. “She’s a blond, that’s all. I like to paint blonds. They’re like the jewels in the skull, you know? But the work’s more than you can afford,” he said, looking down at her scuffed boots, her cheap Guatemalan bag. “The jewels are worth a lot more than the paint and canvas.”

  “But less than the artistry perhaps?”

  “Perhaps.” He gave a smug smile.

  “In truth, I was only coming to look. And to show you this.” She pulled out a copy of a letter she’d earlier found among Marion’s papers. It was the threatening letter responding to Marion’s lesbian take on Sleeping Beauty and signed with a tiny ear-ringed skull. “The owner died. I’ve taken over the marionette troupe.”

  He glanced at it, then put a hand to his reddening cheek. “Not mine.” He peered at his watch. “Look, I have to leave now.” He went over to a desk and picked up a briefcase.

  “It looks like one of your skulls,” Fay persisted, waving the letter. She wasn’t going to let him intimidate her. “Like that one.” She pointed to the painted skull on the blond woman’s necklace. “I mean, the way you paint jewels into it. There’s a high school French teacher in my town who bought one of your pain
tings. She knows you, I think. Her name is – ”

  “Please go,” he said, his face darkening. “I don’t know any French teachers. I’m late to an appointment.”

  “But you do know a Samantha …” What was the woman’s surname anyway? “You did her portrait. There. She looks a lot like the blond woman in the Glastonbury painting.”

  He blew out his irritation with three quick breaths. “I may have done. I paint a lot of people – women. Now go, I said. You’re wasting my time with questions I can’t answer. Can’t, I said.” He practically pushed her out. She felt him close behind as she walked quickly to her pickup. Safe inside, she locked the door. He got into a black Lexus and shot off down the road.

  She followed him to the center of Stowe and pulled into a hotel parking lot three spaces away from his car. He went into the hotel with his huge briefcase. Had he seen her? Was he simply selling a painting, and she was on the wrong trail? Was it some copycat who’d written the letter and copied his skull to make a point? She didn’t know. If he confronted her, she’d say she’d come to make a reservation, a night out.

  She followed him into the hotel, and merged with a group of tourists who were checking in. Ah. There he was with a woman, a tall slender blonde. Fay could see only her back. The woman wore a turquoise sweater, slim sleek black pants, and carried a rhinestone purse slung over a shoulder. Did it have a skull on it? She couldn’t tell from this distance. Was it Samantha? The artist’s eyes met hers over the woman’s shoulder and she gave a feeble wave, went to the desk and asked loudly if they had a coffee shop. When she turned back, the couple had vanished. In the café she guzzled a mocha latte and redoubled her determination to find Marion’s killer. When she returned to her car, there was no sign of Skull Man and Samantha – if it was she.

  Fay checked the phone book she kept in her pickup for emergency use and called the Co-op. She asked for Samantha and was told it was her day off. If she’d only learned how to take a photo with her cellphone, had photographed the Glastonbury painting! But she had only her post-menopausal memory—not always the most reliable. She didn’t know beans about detecting, had only her basic instincts. Right or wrong. Right and wrong.

  She drove down Route 100, veered onto I-89, and slowed down for the Moose signs. She was thinking of the Free Press photo of a moose lying on top of a crashed jeep when she heard a thumping noise. The pickup began to wobble. The noise grew louder. The truck lurched and pitched. A trailer truck rode right up to her back fender. It swerved and passed. It was so close, Fay’s pickup slammed into it. She could see the driver’s startled eyes. She was shoved over onto the thruway shoulder and down into a ravine. The air bag rammed into her just before the pickup rolled over. Her purse and cell phone banged into her face. Then everything went black.

  * * *

  Glenna parked her ancient Ford on Mill Street. When Fay came back she would announce that she’d finished her assignment. The shop was a square brick building, whitewashed, with a big sign that read ROUND ROBIN: UPSCALE USED CLOTHING. Glenna supposed that meant Lord & Taylor’s faded, washed and ironed vintage. Anyway, she had the raincoat in hand. It was in pretty good shape except for a tiny rip under the arms and an inch of hem hanging down one side. Doubly, triply used, most likely.

  “Hello there,” she said to the saleslady, a stylish looking, seventyish woman who was hanging up a black skirt. For a minute Glenna saw her own face on the woman. She was always trying to hold her hands still, and if she stretched the fingers far apart she actually could. Otherwise they were butterflies. Parkinson’s, the doctor had told her, but at her age she wasn’t going to worry about that. You had to die of something.

  “Are you looking for anything special?” the saleslady asked.

  “Something ordinary, not special,” Glenna said. She pulled the black raincoat out of a plastic bag and held it up.

  The woman squinted at the coat. “It might need a little dry cleaning before you – ”

  “It’s not for resale. A lady left it in a chair at the local school. I found a note in her pocket that says she bought a blouse here.” She pulled out the note and read it aloud. “She’s a brown lady – African-American, you might say. If she comes in, please give her this coat.”

  “Ishtar,” the saleslady said.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “It would be Ishtar’s coat. She’s a regular here. She’s always elegantly dressed though she seems to prefer second hand.”

  “What kind of name is that – Ishtar?”

  “Well, some Babylonian goddess she said, when I asked one time. She came in to buy a blouse. Ishtar was a mother goddess, symbol of fertility,” she explained. “A goddess on a quest for a lost child or something. And when she’s gone off, nobody can conceive.”

  “Not a bad idea. The world’s overpopulated as is.”

  “All life is threatened with extinction,” the saleslady went on. “Fascinating, isn’t it? I was a Latin teacher, you see, we dealt with mythology.”

  Looking for the lost child, Glenna thought. Was that what this Ishtar was doing at the marionette show? She could relate to that. There had been a local farm boy in her youth, a tumble in the hay, and before she knew it, she was pregnant. Lost it two months later. At the time, she’d thought herself lucky, but as the years wore on, she realized how unlucky it really was. No offspring to liven up her old age.

  But now she had Fay. First time she’d thought about it like this – like Fay was her child, not her peer, not her cousin. Even though Fay brought in a houseful of foster kids with her. That was a bit over the top.

  “So where can I find this fertility goddess?” she asked. “I’d like to meet her. To return this note. I don’t want to leave it in a pocket.”

  The woman spread her hands and lowered her voice when another customer entered the store. “All I know is it’s one of those affordable housing places. You might find her in the phone book. Try the Chamber of Commerce.”

  More work, Glenna thought, asking here, asking there. She couldn’t think what this Ishtar had to do with a murder. But she’d carry on for Fay. “Thank you,” she said. “Do you know her last name? Do goddesses have surnames?”

  The woman smiled. “Just Ishtar is all I can tell you. Are you going to leave that coat with us?”

  “Changed my mind,” Glenna said. “I think I’ll let her come and get it at my place. I always wanted to meet a Babylonian goddess. Here.” Glenna scribbled her name and number on the back of a grocery receipt. “Next time she comes in, tell her to call me. Tell her I’ve got her raincoat.”

  * * *

  When she got home, Glenna parked the old Ford with a bang. What in hell? She’d hit her yew bush! Either Willard transplanted it or her eyes were getting worse. Okay. So she’d parked too close to the house. Her license was already a year out of date. They wouldn’t renew it now without a test and she’d never pass that. How many indignities did an older woman have to put up with? The authorities threatening her right to drive a car? Next thing she knew, she’d have to peddle Willard’s old bicycle-cart into town.

  Inside the house, Apple was sitting with a friend, spooning up her Chunky Monkey. Something in the oven was burning. “Maple sugar cookies,” Apple said. “Have one. There’s more in the oven.”

  “I can smell them,” Glenna said, turning the oven off. “You want to burn the house down, do you?” She bit into a cookie. A tad burnt, but not bad. It was the oven’s fault, she decided. It was over-heating.

  “Sorry,” the girl said. “Anyway, Ethan milked the goats and he was mad.”

  “Too bad. Milking goats builds character.”

  “What does that mean, ‘builds character’?” Apple’s friend asked.

  “It means he should smile while he does it,” Apple told the friend.

  “Wise little Apple,” Glenna said, smiling. “Fay’s not back yet?”

  “Nope. There was a phone call though.”

  “Where? You write it down?” Glenna was sick and tired
of phone calls. All the damn thing did was ring, ring, ring these days and always bad news.

  “I didn’t have to write it down, I remembered it.”

  “What then?” Glenna sat down and took another cookie. She’d been on her feet too much. Her legs were giving way under her, like a dilapidated bridge.

  “That Cedric called. He said you still owe him fifteen thousand dollars for the puppets. He also said somebody gave his new puppy a pile of chocolates and the poor thing was really sick until he took it to the animal hospital.”

  “Nasty! He had a new puppy?”

  “I guess so.” She sniffled. “Why’d they do that? What did the dog do?”

  Glenna put an arm on the girl’s shoulder. “Nothing, honey. Poor beast was just a scapegoat.”

  “A goat?”

  “Scapegoat, not a real one. Somebody to blame instead of the real person. They just want to scare Cedric. Warn him or something.”

  “But why?”

  “God knows,” Glenna told the girl. “And she’s not telling.”

  * * *

  “Hold it this way,” Billy told Chance. “Alternate your strokes, like this.” He demonstrated. They were in a two-person kayak he’d rented for the day. Now that she’d finally come down off her high horse and said yes to the outing, she seemed happy. She’d accepted the fact that Sammy was his half-sister and not a rival.

  It was a clear blue day, just a couple of clouds cruising across the sun, and he felt optimistic about life for a change. Sammy hadn’t bugged him about her “favor.” He hoped she’d forgotten about it. He just wanted to be left alone to do his music and now the puppetry. He got a kick out of the kids’ response. Wanted to make enough money to survive, to float through life, like today, under a blue sky, with a pretty girl.

  Chance was quiet. “Thinking of what happened last week?” he asked. “You’ve got to let it go. I mean, you’re with me now.”

  “My hero,” she said. “I wasn’t thinking of that anyhow. I was thinking of Marion. How awful it was she died that way. She was so full of life. It was so fun working with her.”