The Hot Pink Farmhouse bam-2

by David Handler

  He looked away, swallowing. “Okay, maybe I do. But I don’t know the answer.”

  “You didn’t wonder?”

  Chuckie heaved a pained sigh and said, “Sure, I did. I wonder about a lot of stuff, lady. That don’t mean I get it.”

  “Now you’re living on my side of the street.” She put her hat back on, flashing a smile at him. “Don’t take it so hard, Mr. Gilliam. We’re not supposed to know all the answers. In fact, we’re lucky if we even figure out what the questions are. Please be sure to tell Sandy that I said good night, will you?”

  There were lights on inside the Patterson Gallery. And when Des slowed up her cruiser out front she could see Greta seated in there at her oak partner’s desk, pecking away at a computer in the soft glow cast by her desk lamp’s old-fashioned green glass shade.

  Des got out and rapped her knuckles on the glass front door. Greta squinted at her over her reading glasses, then waved and came over to let her in.

  “I hope I’m not interrupting you,” Des said, as Greta unlocked the door.

  “Not at all, trooper,” she said cheerfully. “I was just trying to catch up on some of my gallery work. I’m afraid that Wendell has hogged most of my time lately. First he had me handling some estate-related matters. Then I had to find a criminal attorney for Jim Bolan. Do have a seat,” she said, filing the work she had on her computer screen.

  Des sat in the wooden chair next to Greta’s desk, crossing her long legs. “This estate work you were doing-it wouldn’t have any bearing on Moose’s death, would it?”

  “You know I can’t talk about that,” Greta responded with a grin.

  “Never hurts to ask,” Des said easily. “What can you talk to me about?”

  Greta sat back in her swivel chair, studying her. “Try me.”

  “How about Melanie Zide?”

  She let out a harsh laugh. “What about that little cow?”

  “Somebody shot her. Her body just washed up on Big Sister.”

  Greta froze for a second, stunned. Then her squarish, blotchy face seemed to scrunch inward upon itself, like a beer can being crushed in a strongman’s fist.

  Des had wondered if she’d get a reaction. She got one. She got pain. Definitely pain. “I’m told that Melanie used to do clerical work for you.”

  “That’s true,” Greta said hoarsely. “She’s… she was a good little worker. But she needed more hours than I could give her, so I helped her get that job with the school district.”

  “You two were close?”

  “If by that you’re wondering whether we were mixed up in some form of unwholesome, incorrect, same-sex physical relationship, the answer is yes,” Greta said bluntly. “And in answer to your next question: Yes, I did care about her. What else do you want to know?”

  “Did Colin know about you two?”

  “We have no secrets from each other.” Greta’s voice suddenly sounded very tired and old. “I told you that already.”

  “And I didn’t believe you. Everyone has secrets.”

  Greta got up out of her chair and went over to a landscape painting by Hangtown’s grandfather that hung over the fireplace. It depicted the tidal marshes near Lord’s Cove at dawn, with the steam rising off the water and the early-morning sunlight slanting low. “I love the light in this painting. Every time I look at it I feel as if I’ve never truly seen the dawn before.” She gazed at it a moment longer, then shook herself and turned back to Des. “I was devastated when Colin moved out. It made me realize that you really can’t count on anyone else in this world. We’d had our ups and downs, naturally. But I’d still expected that he’d be there by my side when I got old and decrepit. Now…” Greta trailed off, shaking her head. “Now I’m not so sure. He’s not sure. And so I find myself living these days in a constant state of paralyzing fear, I’m ashamed to say.”

  “Fear’s nothing to be ashamed of.”

  “I’m one of the reasons why the school board wants Colin out, you know,” Greta pointed out bitterly. “I didn’t want to say anything to you about this last night, in front of him, but they don’t approve of me-the concerned young mothers. They don’t think I am a suitable school superintendent’s wife. It’s the Salem witch hunt all over again, you know. The intolerant and self-righteous are taking over, and they’re imposing their mean, narrow vision of correct behavior on everyone else. If you’re not one of them, then you are someone to be shunned, someone evil. The new school building is just a smoke screen. The real reason they want Colin out is that he’s a bisexual depressive with an aging bull dyke for a wife. They don’t want him or me anywhere near their dear, precious kids, twisting their dear, precious minds. These are scary times, trooper. These are not the enlightened sixties and seventies of my youth. I was fooled. I thought we had become more open-minded, more accepting of other people’s differences. We didn’t. The pendulum has swung back the other way, and now we are hurtling back to the dark ages all over again, fighting the same old battles. Only now we’re losing.” She came back to her desk and sat down again, her eyes beginning to puddle with tears. “Poor Melanie… Poor cow.”

  “Where did you go last evening after the lieutenant and I spoke with you at your house?”

  “I was home with Colin all evening,” she answered, cocking her head at Des curiously.

  “You didn’t leave?”

  “No, I didn’t leave. I was concerned about him. So we threw another log on the fire and we worked on a jigsaw puzzle together-Fountain Head. We do that one every year. We went to Hawaii on our honeymoon, you know. Doesn’t that just quaint you to death?” Greta broke off, her chest rising and falling. “Now if you’ll please excuse me, trooper, II have a lot of work to do.”

  Des thanked her for her time and started for the door. By the time she had closed it behind her she could hear Greta Patterson sobbing.

  “Can I buy you a round, trooper?”

  Dirk Doughty was drinking hot cider all alone at a tavern table in front of the fire in the Frederick House’s wood-paneled pub. On the table before him was a copy of The Sporting News, opened to the waiver-wire page with its long columns of agate type detailing which teams have signed or cut which players. In the world of journeymen ballplayers, old habits apparently died hard.

  “I think I’d like that,” said Des, taking a seat across from him. An older couple was sipping brandy at one of the other tables. Otherwise, they were alone in the pub. “But let’s put it on my tab, because I never did get my dinner tonight.” She ordered a roast turkey sandwich to go along with the cider, then said, “I’m real sorry to bother you again, but there are some other things I need to ask you.”

  “That’s okay by me,” he said, squaring his broad shoulders. “I’m always better off when I’m talking to other people. I don’t do well if I sit by myself for too long. I think too much.”

  “I guess we can all do that.”

  Dirk sat back in his chair, folding his arms in front of his chest. He wore a navy-blue fleece top emblazoned with the logo of a sneaker maker. “How can I help you?”

  “By telling me what you know about Melanie Zide.”

  Dirk reddened slightly. “Melanie? Well, sure. We went to high school together. In fact, I ran into her just the other day over at Doug’s Texaco. We stopped and got caught up. She was real glad to hear I’ve remarried and I’m staying sober and all.”

  The pink-cheeked barmaid returned now with Des’s sandwich and cider.

  Des dived in hungrily. “Were you ever involved with Melanie?”

  “Why are you so interested in her?”

  Des told him why. “Naturally, the lieutenant’s asked me to find out as much background about her as I can,” she explained.

  Dirk sat there staring grimly into the fire for a moment, a thumb absently stroking his square jaw. “I can help you out, I guess. But I want you to know this is not something I would talk to you about under normal circumstances, and I take no pleasure in doing so now. I always liked Melanie, understa
nd?”

  “I do.”

  Dirk shot a furtive glance over his shoulder at the other couple in the pub, then leaned across the table toward Des, lowering his voice. “The real deal is that everyone was involved with Melanie-me, Timmy Keefe, Timmy’s brother, Will… Back when we were fifteen years old, Melanie was a rite of passage, I guess, you’d call her. Everybody’s first. You got yourself a couple of joints, a six-pack, and you hit the beach after dark with Melanie Zide. It wasn’t like she’d do just anybody. If she thought you were stuck-up or phony, she wouldn’t let you anywhere near her. But if she thought you were okay then, well, you were in.” He trailed off, shifting uncomfortably in his chair. “I can’t believe somebody shot her. You say her body washed up on Big Sister?”

  “It’s possible that someone took her out on their boat and dumped her.” Des took another bite of her sandwich, dabbing at her mouth with her napkin. “You mentioned you’ve been out on Tim’s Boston Whaler.”

  “That’s right. He and I…” Dirk’s eyes suddenly widened in alarm, his body tensing. “Wait, you don’t think I did it, do you? I swear I didn’t. You’ve got to believe me.”

  “It’s not my job to believe or disbelieve you, Mr. Doughty,” Des said, calmly sipping at her cider. “I’m simply recanvassing, that’s all. Since I’m the lowly resident trooper, I’ve been given the longest of the long shots. But I have to do my job, understand?”

  “I guess.” Dirk relaxed a bit, although his big calloused hand was still gripping his cider mug so tightly that his knuckles were white. “As long as you understand I had no reason to kill Melanie. I mean, hell, why would I?”

  “In theory? Because she knew something that could hurt you.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like, say, the identity of Colin Falconer’s male cyber lover, Cutter.”

  “Why the hell would I care about that?”

  “Because you’re Cutter.”

  Dirk gaped at her in shock. “Now look, I know I use a laptop, but that’s to keep track of my billing, not to carry on some… some

  … Hey, we are still talking theory here, right?”

  “All we’re doing is spitballing,” Des assured him.

  “That’s good,” he said, pausing to sip his cider. “Because I honestly can’t think of a single reason why I’d want to carry on with Falconer that way.”

  “I can-to ruin his career.”

  “Why would I want to do that?”

  “Because he was having an affair with Moose Frye, and you still loved her. You never stopped loving her. That’s why you came back to Dorset-to try to win her back.”

  “Whoa, I’m calling time-out here…” Dirk furrowed his brow at her, bewildered. “Are we still spitballing?”

  Of course they were. But there was no reason he had to know that. So Des said, “You tell me. She got you that job with the Leanses, didn’t she?”

  “Well, yeah,” he admitted. “But what does that mean?”

  “That you were still in touch with her, maybe.”

  “She was like a sister to me,” Dirk insisted, his voice catching slightly. “We all grew up together-me, Moose, Takai, Timmy, Melanie-all of us.”

  “And your wife, Laurie?”

  “What about Laurie?”

  “Is your life together back in Toledo as solid as you’ve been portraying it?”

  “It’s rock-solid,” Dirk said, his face a tight, angry mask.

  “Would she echo that if I called her up on the phone?”

  “Okay, so we have some issues,” he said defensively. “Name one couple that doesn’t. I want kids. A whole bunch of kids. She wants to keep working full-time. My work takes me on the road a lot. She hates the road. She loves Toledo. I hate Toledo. But the important thing is I’m staying focused and sober. We can work this stuff out. We can work it all out.”

  “When was the last time you spoke to Laurie?”

  “Three weeks ago,” he admitted, ducking his head. “How did you know about us anyway? Have you already called her?”

  “No, but you should. The more you talk, the better.”

  “You sound awful sure about that,” Dirk observed.

  “Only because I’ve been through it. He was in Washington. I was in New Haven. Our marriage died somewhere on the New Jersey Turnpike, just outside of Trenton. You have to stay each other’s best friend, Mr. Doughty. The day the friendship stops, the marriage stops. So call her. Call her to say good morning. Call her to say good night. Damn it, just call her, will you?”

  The charred remains of the feed troughs and livestock had been cleared away from the ditch out in front of Winston Farms. But a foul stench still lingered in the air, just to serve as a reminder of what had happened there-not that Des or anyone else in Dorset would ever be able to forget.

  She cruised another half mile past the crossroads before she turned at the fire station onto Mill Road. Tim Keefe’s was the third house on the right, an old wood-shingled farmhouse with a sagging porch. His pretty blond wife, Debbie, was finishing the dinner dishes in the kitchen. Tim was out in his shop, she informed Des cheerfully.

  It was a converted barn fully rigged up with a big band saw, lathe, drill press, router and workbenches. It smelled of linseed oil, glue and fresh-sawed lumber. Husky young Tim, with his ruddy face, walrus mustache and air of steady maturity, was brushing a coat of water-based polyurethane sealer onto some oak kitchen cupboards, ZZ Top providing background music on the radio.

  “Come on in, Trooper Mitry,” he called to her, turning down the music. “Just getting your cabinets ready for installation. How do you like ’em?”

  “They look great, Tim.” In fact, they were even nicer than she’d imagined. “Really great.”

  “I think so, too,” he agreed. “Hey, we got those new roof joists in for you today.”

  “So the roofers can start tomorrow?” she asked hopefully.

  “If the weather holds.” Tim never, ever just said yes. Always, there was an if. “What brings you by-is it the Melanie thing?”

  “You heard the news on the radio?”

  “No, Dirk just called me,” he answered, continuing to brush on the sealer, his strokes smooth and sure. “Why would someone want to do an awful thing like that to her?”

  “That’s what we’re trying to find out. I understand you and Dirk knew her pretty well back in high school.”

  Tim immediately reddened, just as Dirk had, and shot a nervous glance through the open barn door at the house. “That was a long time ago,” he pointed out delicately. “Before Debbie and me ever started going together.”

  “You went to school with Moose, too, am I right?”

  “You bet,” he agreed, eager to change the subject. “Absolutely.”

  “How did she feel about Dirk?”

  “She loved the guy, no two ways about it. Would have married him, too, if Takai hadn’t turned his head. Dirk, he liked Moose well enough, but he didn’t appreciate her. Not when we were seventeen, eighteen years old. Let’s face it-when guys are that age we’re drawn to certain flashier qualities in women.”

  She smiled at him. “You mean you’re taken in by certain flashier qualities, don’t you?”

  Tim let out a laugh. “Okay, you win. What Moose had going for her was intelligence and warmth and good, common sense. She would have made a fine wife and mother, a partner for life. Dirk would have come to realize that as time went on, but he never got the chance. Takai made sure of that,” he added with obvious distaste.

  “Why did she?”

  “Because she could,” he answered simply. “And because she never could stand Moose having anything that she didn’t have. That’s Takai. Hell, she never really wanted Dirk. But she got him. And she poisoned that well for all time. I’ve always felt bad about it, to be honest. If she’d just left him alone, cast her spell on some other poor slob, he and Moose might have had something solid together. Moose would have kept him level-headed, despite all of those ups and downs of his ball-playing
career. He’d have a life there on that farm with her. He’d have been happy.” Tim finished coating the cupboards and went over to the work sink in the corner to wash out the brush. He kept an old refrigerator next to the sink. He offered her a beer. She declined. He pulled out a cold bottle of Corona, popped the cap and took a long, thirsty gulp. “As it turned out, neither one of them ever got happy.”

  “And Takai?”

  “I don’t know how that nasty bitch lives with herself. But she’ll get hers, and it won’t take any shotgun, either. One of these days, not so many years from now, she’ll be a wrinkled, dried-up old hag. No man will so much as look at her. And she’ll totally freak. That’s a day I’m looking forward to, trooper. I’ve got it circled on my calendar. And if that sounds small and mean of me, then I guess I’m small and mean.”

  “Dirk told me you two have been going out together on your Whaler.”

  “Yeah, we’ve gone out a few times since he’s been back. For me, being out on the water is like going to church.” Tim let out an easy laugh. “Actually, it’s instead of church.”

  “I know I’m a landlubber, but it’s getting a little late in the season, isn’t it?”

  “Not for lobstering. Best time to catch ’em is in January. Mind you, there’s a real art to it-you need a strong back and a weak mind. Me, I’m strictly what the old Maine lobstermen call a ragpicker. An amateur with six measly pots.”

  “When’s the last time you went out?”

  “Sunday. Got us four fine lobsters.”

  “You haven’t taken her out since then?”

  “Nope.”

  “Could someone else? Without you knowing about it, I mean?”

  Tim stared at her stonily. “Someone like Dirk?”

  “Yes.”

  “There’s no chance of that, trooper. None.”

  “How can you be so sure?”

  “She’s grounded, that’s how. Her engine was misfiring on Sunday. I pulled it when we got back, and haven’t fixed it yet. It’s still sitting on a tarp in my garage. Go take a look,” Tim challenged her, his temperature starting to rise. “Take a look if you don’t believe me.”