“Who was that Russian guy they couldn’t kill?” She mused.
“Never mind Russians. When did Mickey have a heart attack?” I was lost.
“It was Rasputin. Neither Doc is absolutely sure, but they imagine it was when he collapsed into the bush. He lived some minutes after that. At some point he moved a little and got his face in the water, but reflexively coughed up the water he had inhaled. Then he died. Finally.”
“Did the head wound cause it?” I asked.
“Not directly.” The kettle whistled and Sonny poured his tea. “He was dragged, carried and walked all over the place with a serious wound; he was laid in cold mud and had to be bone chilled; he was soaking wet; he was full of booze and drugs—not a real good guarantee for longevity.”
“So now where does this leave Branch?” Cindy looked hopeful as she made herself tea.
“Your hero is now charged with assault and battery. In my opinion that will last about five minutes after he gets a lawyer. There is no direct proof the wound caused the heart attack. At the very least, Branch stopped Mickey from illegal trespass into a house where two women were staying…never mind all the other plans he had.” Sonny stopped short, he hadn’t meant to get into details with Cindy.
I covered for him. “Yes, he had said something to Branch about trashing the house so Ken would think we left it that way.”
Sonny quickly resumed his tale. “I would bet Branch will walk. With the way this town feels about Mickey, they may give him a medal. Ken is going into town with them in a minute and post bail for him and bring him back here to spend the night, since Clay’s away.”
“Where will he sleep?” It seemed to me we were running out of beds.
“There are two beds in the room I’m using. I guess we’ll be roomies for a night. Unless… I’ve been thinking. How tired are you two?”
My first thought had been to answer, “Exhausted,” but then I realized where his question was leading. I changed my answer to, “I’m tired, but jumpy, not sleepy.”
Cindy just said, “Dead.”
“Okay.” He grinned. “Then you get the first shift in the backseat with Fargo.”
Hearing his name, Fargo crawled out from under the table and cocked his head. Were we going somewhere? It looked as if we might.
“Are you crazy?” Cindy couldn’t fathom what the Peres kids were suggesting.
“Look,” Sonny explained, “I really need to get back, and I can’t believe you aren’t ready to leave, too. Nothing is holding us here. I’ll take the first driving shift. Alex can take the second after a nap, and if you feel like it, you can take the third. By this time tomorrow…or earlier…we’ll be home!”
Cindy straightened. “Now that you mention it, I’m brimming with energy. Alex, let’s get those bags back in the car.”
“Wait.” I held up a hand. “Let’s say goodbye to Branch and Ken in case we leave before they get back.”
We caught them at the front door and explained our plans. Ken, too, would be leaving early tomorrow morning, along with Ray. Lewis might need to stay longer. So everyone understood Sonny’s need to get going. They politely didn’t mention that Cindy and I might be eager to get the hell out of Dodge City.
Branch was tearfully grateful of our support and insisted that next year we come again and stay with him and Clay. I wondered if Clay was aware that Branch had become a permanent fixture. We thanked Branch for “solving our problem” and assured him we would be available if he needed us “at a later time.” We thanked Ken for his “gracious hospitality,” declared how we had “enjoyed the natural beauties” of the area and were “charmed by many of the townspeople we had met.” Having been right up there with the politicians at saying everything while saying nothing, we both kissed both men on the cheek as they left.
And I whispered, “Hang tough, Saint George!” to Branch.
While Sonny loaded suitcases in the trunk, Cindy and I cleared the dining room table and jammed food into the refrigerator. We stacked seemingly endless plates, cups and glasses in the sink, Cindy remarking that Mrs. Fouts would have a field day. I said it would simply confirm her opinion of Yankee women and men in general.
I took the cookies and fruit and put them in the bag with Fargo’s remaining food and treats. We took our light jackets from the hall closet and went out the kitchen door, leaving Lewis, Ray and Dave huddled over the coffee table filling out the endless reports that accompany this kind of event.
We stopped in Beulaland’s one late-night store and bought six-packs of caffeine-packed sodas. As Sonny pulled rapidly away, I cautioned him to slow down till we were out of town. “You don’t want a speeding ticket at this point,” I warned.
At that moment from behind the town gasoline station came a flicker of lights and the universal horn greeting: Shave and a haircut. Sonny answered with: Two-bits.
We had received and acknowledged our final salute from Beulaland.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
The first half of the drive home was very different from our drive down to Beulaland. The road seemed very black, and our headlights felt as if they encapsulated us even more from any life or scenery that might be near. We saw some semis, a few cars and a surprising number of RVs.
We rarely could make out the person driving or any passengers, and I wondered giddily if the vehicles drove themselves up and down the road just to give the few real people the illusion of company through an otherwise empty land.
There were, of course, the oases. Bright lights, vehicles pulled evenly into marked slots. Surprisingly clean restrooms, typical diner menus with almost every dish known to man included, and waitresses of all ages—but neat and usually friendly.
We stopped every three to four hours, mainly to give Fargo a run, occasionally to get fuel and usually to eat something. And that something became different for each of us as the hours on the road expanded. At one point a waitress placed a hamburger and fries in front of Sonny, presented Cindy with a fruit salad and gave me a generous stack of pancakes with bacon.
I was driving when I noticed the headlights didn’t seem to have as long a range as they had on my last shift. I worried that something was wrong with the alternator but hated to waken Sonny—I tried fruitlessly to remember how long it had been since he had slept through a night in his own bed. But the lights grew dimmer yet. Where was an oasis when you needed one?
I looked from side to side—and suddenly realized the “problem.” All night, whenever I had driven, I had stared ahead along the beams of light, not looking toward the blank black sides. Now, I could see things alongside the car. It was early daylight! I was thrilled. I tried to think of a poem about the dawn and could not.
But I felt that I must share this wonderful event with my companions, so I quoted the only reference to the sun I could remember.
I cried, “‘Tis morning and Juliet is the sun!’” I threw my right arm out as I spoke and my fingers clipped Cindy on the side of her head.
“Jesus Christ! Alex, pull over. You’ve finally lost it.”
Sonny sat up in the back. “What’s going on? What’s wrong?”
“Alex is quoting Shakespeare, complete with artistic gestures.” She rubbed her temple.
“Are we still on the road?”
“Yes.”
“Then leave her the fuck alone. You got something against Shakespeare?” He sank back down, Fargo his pillow.
At last, in mid-afternoon, we crossed the Sagamore Bridge over the Cape Cod Canal and began, what seemed to me, the longest leg of our journey…the seventy miles between the bridge and the dunes of Provincetown. I had lived in Ptown all my life and never realized there were so many towns to pass.
Long after I had given up, we reached the Orleans traffic circle, which spit us out into Eastham. That left only Wellfleet, Truro and…home! Sonny was driving at the time, and a few hundred yards down the road, he pulled over near a wooded area.
“Sorry, ladies, gotta go.”
“God, Sonn
y, we are only about twenty minutes out! Can’t you wait?”
“Nope.” He opened his door, and Fargo squeezed into the front to go with him. They seemed to be gone a considerable time, and returned with Sonny explaining that Fargo had to sniff a dozen trees before finding the right one.
All journeys must end, as ours finally did when Sonny nosed the spattered, road-filmed car into the driveway.
The back door to the house opened and erupted people. Mom and Aunt Mae ran to Cindy and me. Trish kissed the bearded Sonny with no apparent problem. Lainey and Cassie, Peter and Wolf, Walter and Billy, Ellen, and Choate Ellis all hung back for a few minutes and then joined the hugfest. And I realized why Sonny had had to “go.” He had phoned Mom to tell her where on the highway we were, and she had done the rest.
Peter and Wolf had of course come armed with champagne. Peter lifted his glass in a toast: “Welcome to your gorgeous, newly extended home!”
Cindy and I looked at each other and broke into a run toward the back of the house. There was our unpainted, unfurnished Master Suite in all its glory. The bathroom of my dreams, complete with bidet. When had Cindy found time to call Orrick’s from Beulaland? I had forgotten all about it. I gave her a hug and kiss, and we turned to the sliding doors leading to our small, private deck. Beyond it was a petite trickling fountain and the beginnings of a flower bed. Mom and Aunt Mae had been busy.
“Was it worth all the trouble?” Mom asked from the doorway.
Cindy laughed. “My dear Jeanne, compared to our restful bucolic vacation, it was all a very minor irritation. But you and Aunt Mae have been busy. I never imagined we’d come home to a working fountain and live plants.”
Her look became dreamy, and she turned in a slow circle. I knew she was decorating. Choosing just the right paint, carpet, draperies, furniture. She could see the completed Master Suite—oh, all right, the name kind of fit—where I could not. But Cindy had a marvelous eye for color. It would be perfect when she finished. Go for it, sweetheart.
“Excuse me for interrupting, girls.” We would never be quite adult to Aunt Mae. “Your guests know you are tired and don’t wish to prolong their welcome, but they—and I, I must admit—are dying to learn what on earth went on down there. And how on earth you survived it.”
I managed not to sigh, put my arm around her shoulder and smiled. “Why sho’ nuff, honey chile, it will be our pleasure.”
Fortified with champagne, we gave the briefest possible account of our time in Beulaland. They were horrified, saddened, amused…much as we had been when it was going on. Only we had also been good and scared, which was difficult to put across in the safety of our living room, surrounded by relatives and friends.
Even their comments sounded familiar to ones we had made.
“How can anyone hurt or kill an innocent animal?”
“That poor old lady—so scared she got chest pains!”
“Bastard was sure hard to kill. Reminds one of that Russian fella…his name just slips my mind.”
“Rasputin,” Sonny supplied. “Haven’t I had this conversation before, or am I just groggy?”
“That Sheriff Jeffie ought to be on TV.” There was general laughter at this comment.
“He may soon have time to look in to that possibility,” Sonny added. “The State Police captain intimated that our Jeffie may presently receive several suggestions that he resign to ‘spend more time with his family’ if he has one, or ‘to pursue other endeavors’ if he doesn’t.”
Everyone was laughing, but I was not especially amused,
“What’s the matter, dear?” Mom asked. “You seem very solemn.”
“I just have wondered sometimes if we weren’t simply a couple of busybodies. We didn’t live there or own property there, or expect to. We really knew no one, except very casually. That planned ‘development’ had no real effect on us. Perhaps we should just have kept quiet. Jeffie aside, they are bright folks down there. They would have worked it out in their own time and way. I am not entirely certain we didn’t just make matters worse. Maybe Rasputin the Second didn’t really have to die.”
“Listen, Sis.” Sonny poked a finger at my chest. “McCurry was on the fast track to disaster. If it hadn’t been you and Cindy, it would have been someone else who just happened to say the wrong thing when Mickey had ingested the right amount of alcohol and drugs. Maybe he would have killed that Mildred woman, maybe Sara, or that outspoken Dermott guy or Branch himself. But it would have happened. Trust me.”
Choate Ellis nodded. “I’m sure Sonny is right. He’s experienced in such matters. And I know it resulted in a terrifying experience for the two of you. But perhaps you will feel slightly better about your intervention if you remember the words of the Parliamentarian Edmund Burke: ‘The only necessity for evil to win is for good men to do nothing.’ Of course.” He smiled. “Nowadays that means women, too.”
And that about said it all.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Peace. It’s wonderful!
And we had had a whole eleven days of it. From the Wednesday afternoon when we got home, and for the entire weekend, we simply reveled in being home. Not to mention alive and well.
We finally got back to sleeping normally and eating normally and doing normal little things. Like housecleaning, getting the car washed and waxed, putting away heavy winter clothing, spading up the garden, housecleaning, planting radishes and sugar peas and housecleaning. I will leave it to you to figure out who did what.
The pets were also glad to be home. Fargo was assiduous in his patrols of the yard and announcements of visitors. We had one small problem with him. The minute we turned the fountain on, he was delighted with his new wading pool. We were still working on convincing him that taking a drink from it was fine, splashing in it was not. I had the feeling it might be a lifetime project.
Wells, too, was some concern. She was still a little nervous at having been left—even with her favorite aunt—and spent a bit too much time alternately under the bed grumbling to herself or demanding to be petted. But the vet assured us those extremes would wear off.
When Monday came, we both went back to work. I reclaimed my clients from Harvey Weinberg and took him to lunch. I visited the art galleries that handle my photos and got some good, some fair orders—enough to keep me busy for a while signing, numbering, matting and framing.
Cindy played some catch-up at the bank, but was generally pleased with the way her department had functioned. Since we hadn’t managed to get souvenirs for anyone, she did the lunch bit also, and everyone seemed happy.
I was especially pleased—relieved might be a better word—at Cindy’s manner since our return. When Sonny informed her that retired officer Edgar Fountain would be back in place as her lookout when she started work Monday, she accepted the fact almost casually.
“I suppose it’s wise,” she admitted. “But somehow I don’t feel threatened.” She laughed. “Perhaps after our Beulaland adventure a simple stalker is just a minor passing annoyance.”
Sonny was a little more serious. “Well, he could have been a transient and has now moved on. He could have given up on you and is now busy adoring someone else, or he could have been waiting impatiently for your return. Let’s give the good Edgar one more week.”
“All right, whatever you think is best. But, Sonnny, there’s one part of this I was too frightened and upset to tell you about earlier. And that whole situation at Beulaland didn’t help.”
She told him of her experience with the men—particularly the supervisor—working on the broken water main.
“I hope this hasn’t caused you to waste a lot of time and taxpayer money. I was just too rattled even to bring it up. Alex didn’t know, either,” she added, “until shortly before we came home.”
Sonny just shrugged. “It could well have caused you to think you were being followed, and you actually may have been…by him or someone else. Edgar and I will get a look at this guy if they’re still dawdling along with t
hose repairs. At least we’ll know who we’re looking for.”
Later in the week we received a bouquet that would have been quite at home in the winner’s circle of the Kentucky Derby. The enormous card hoped we would visit Beulaland again soon and was signed by all the people we had met and several we couldn’t recall. Even Jeffie had managed to get his signature included.
We kept the card, divided the bouquet into quarters and took it to the clinic to be given to those who might be lacking in that sector.
We thought about the card for a few minutes and decided it was too soon to say whether we couldn’t wait for next spring to go back…or whether it was the last place we would ever set foot.
When I returned from the usual errands Friday morning the phone answering machine was flashing peremptory blinks that indicated three calls had come in.
For some reason, even not knowing what they were, I was not inclined to listen to them. I had a feeling I wasn’t going to want to know. I put away the groceries that needed the freezer or refrigerator. I let Fargo out—the fountain was not running, although it was still the first area he headed for.
I went in the bedroom to check on Wells. Although the Orrick crew was long gone and she knew Fargo and I were now at home, she was still in hiding. I crawled under the bed to give her a pet and coax her to come out. Suddenly I heard the dim distant chirp of my cell phone.
I lay there a moment wondering where it could be, and then remembered the T-shirt I had worn briefly yesterday. It was in the pocket. To answer or not to answer? Three calls on the tape, at least one call on the cell. Somebody really wanted me.
Reluctantly, I rolled out from under the bed and over to my bureau. See, I knew right where the little phone was!
“Hello.”
“Where the hell have you been? We’ve been looking all over for you half of the morning.”
“And it’s nice to hear your voice this lovely day! Stop yelling, Sonny, there’s no law saying I have to report to the police before I do the weekly shopping. What do you want?” I sat up and leaned against the bed.
Murder Takes to the Hill Page 21