Gourdfellas

by Maggie Bruce

  “Well, I’m here now.” B.H. stepped around the chair and looked down at Joseph Trent. I stood frozen, unable to see Trent’s face, struggling to breathe.

  “I need an attorney.” The pharmacist’s voice was barely a squeak, but he’d managed to get the words out.

  B.H.’s eyes smoldered as he looked down at the man in the chair. “It looks that way. Tell me why. Why do you need a lawyer?”

  The bustle of activity continued around us, but it felt as though all that motion was happening in another dimension. All that existed for me was a nine square foot space containing Michele Castro, Joseph Trent, and B. H. Hovanian.

  “I’m being accused of murder,” Trent whispered. He hung his head, avoiding Hovanian’s gaze.

  Michele Castro reached down and touched something on her utility belt. A tape recorder. She’d turned it on.

  “Whose murder?” Hovanian asked. When Trent mumbled something, Hovanian said, “I didn’t hear you. Please pick your head up and tell me who you’re being accused of murdering.”

  Trent’s head lifted but his shoulders sagged. “Marjorie Mellon. They’re saying I killed Marjorie.”

  “Anything else?” Hovanian folded his arms across his chest.

  “They say that I . . .” Joseph Trent pushed his glasses to the top of his head and rubbed at his eyes. A sob caught in his throat. “They were going to die anyway. Those people were very sick. I was going to lose the store if I didn’t do something. They were going to die anyway.”

  When I caught my breath, I started to move forward but something in B.H.’s eyes stopped me.

  “We’re all going to die, Mr. Trent. Those people might have had months or years to be with the people they loved. If they’d gotten the right medicine. I’m sorry, but you’ll have to find someone else to represent you.” He peered down at Trent, his craggy face impassive, and then he stepped out of the circle. When he looked at me he raised his eyebrows in a question.

  Trent’s hunched back was wracked with sobs.

  I shook my head and waited for B.H. to step from behind the counter. Michele Castro pulled a still-sobbing Trent to a standing position, her face emotionless. I wondered how she could keep from being a little rougher, a little harsher with someone like Joseph Trent, but her control kept her movements firm, as though a television camera were recording her actions for the six o’clock news.

  With a hand on my elbow, B.H. led me to the door, tapped, waited for the officer to let us out. I inhaled deeply, glad for the sweetness of the air.

  “You didn’t say anything.” B.H. headed for the steps, and I followed.

  “But you did. Thank you. You said it clearly. Without the drama.” I stopped before we reached the sidewalk. A small crowd had gathered, buzzing and pointing at the store. As we drew closer, they fell silent. “And you declined to represent him. I have to admit, I was a little surprised.”

  His generous mouth grew wider as he smiled. “Good. I didn’t want things to be too predictable between us.”

  The crowd parted. As soon as we passed, the buzzing started again, louder this time. “What’s happening in there, B.H.?” someone called out.

  “You know I can’t talk about active cases,” he said over his shoulder, and then smiled at me. It wasn’t his active case, but nobody knew that yet. His hand rested lightly on my elbow as he steered me toward my car. “You want some company? I don’t feel like being alone right now.”

  Another unpredictable turn of events. “How about a drink? I think there’s some Scotch somewhere in my house. I don’t want to be where people will stare and come up and ask questions about what happened or offer congratulations or anything. I don’t even know what I feel about all this except a great relief that it’s over.”

  “Your place. Fifteen minutes,” he said as he held my car door open for me.

  When he turned to walk to his car, I felt a pang at the thought that he’d be in a separate space. He’d known me better than I knew myself, and I didn’t want to let go of that. Not for a very long time.

  Chapter 28

  “You Came back just for this game? That’s great!”

  Karen swiveled at the sound of Nora’s voice and grabbed her in a hug. “Wow, you’ve got some kind of glow. Not just the game. David and I are going shopping tomorrow in the Berkshires. Hey, Nora, you think we can get away with convincing them we can play partners again?”

  Both Elizabeth’s eyebrows rose at the same time. “No way, you two. Fool me once, you know the rest.”

  Nobody would fool Elizabeth twice, and that was a blessing in my life—another blessing. That Connie was now on the real drugs, and looking stronger and feeling better, was the biggest one. Her doctor, chagrined that he hadn’t suspected sooner, was delighted and hopeful, and Connie’s gourds showed an exuberance that made me feel lucky to be part of her life. Joseph Trent would never dim another light, would not diminish the glow I felt when I looked around and saw my friends sitting around the table without an undercurrent of dissension, hurt, and anger crackling around the room.

  “Joseph Trent thought he was going to fool me twice. You know that those white pills he was calling valerian were really crushed up aspirin. B.H. says that he spilled not only all the beans but some of the rice, too. He was setting me up so that if I caused trouble, he could just give me something stronger and I’d be history.” I passed the chips to the center of the table.

  “You have to wonder—was he a sociopath? I mean, isn’t the definition someone who cannot empathize, who has no sense of how other people will be affected by his action? I see a kid like that every couple of years, and it’s so scary.” Susan flicked her red hair off her forehead and frowned thoughtfully into her wine glass. “Maybe it was just how he responded to the changes up here. I could see it in his face and hear it in everything he said. He’d gotten more and more bitter in the past two years. You know, the chains driving out Mom and Pop businesses. Lifelong service and what do you get, all that. But I’d never have imagined that he’d be greedy enough to do such a thing.”

  “Not greed, I don’t think, even though that’s how it might look.” Like the Caterra-Smith mediation, what looked like greed at the start was revealed to be something else by the end. In the case of Joseph Trent, it was more like self-preservation born of desperation. “The man didn’t know what to do. Profits down, heating costs and taxes up, those kids in college and all. His poor wife—she kept cutting corners and scrimping but the business was going under.”

  Melissa’s scowl deepened. “He killed Aunt Bernie. And Rod Phillips.”

  “And he got away with it,” Elizabeth said, “which gave him license to keep going. His desperation must have kept growing until it became so consuming that it burned up his sense of right and wrong.”

  “So consuming he didn’t even realize that he was planting evidence that could help convict him. Remember that address book that turned up under my stove? Castro finally admitted that no one in her department had checked under the stove during those searches.” I still couldn’t believe that mild Joseph Trent had slipped into my kitchen and planted Marjorie’s little red book where he hoped the police would find it. “Those notes I saw—they were shorthand for one of the expensive meds. Kytril. It’s an anti-nausea drug for people on certain chemos and it costs eighty-five dollars a pill. One single, tiny little pill.”

  Susan glared in outrage. “I cannot bear to have that discussion now. It’s one of those things that drives me crazy. I know big pharma has to spend money to develop new drugs, but those executives aren’t giving up their private planes and four homes and . . .”

  “But still. Joseph Trent saw those high prices as an opportunity to help pay his bills.” Elizabeth sipped from her wine.

  “Now he’s going to pay in a different way.” I took little satisfaction in the telling. The whole thing left me sad. “B.H. says that Marjorie called him and hinted that she’d found something that she needed to ask him about. He looked around and realized that his
books, the ones that almost got burned by Anita, were missing. He got frantic looking for them until he put everything together. So he talked her into a meeting. Smart cookie that she was, she demanded that it be in a public place. He convinced her to drive with him to a diner somewhere.”

  “Mistake. Big mistake. That one little slip made all the difference.” Melissa chewed thoughtfully. “If she’d been a little more careful . . .”

  I nodded. “She got in that car with him. Wrong. And he pulled over in the woods, dragged her out of the car and shot her.”

  “Blackmail.” Karen nodded and looked around the table. “I bet Marjorie was trying to blackmail him. You think?”

  “No. She was just furious.” I was about to start another sentence with “B.H. says” but I caught myself. “I heard that she told Trent she was going to the police. That she told him she couldn’t let him kill anyone else. And that those words were the last she ever said in this world.”

  “But why hide the gun in your house? Why not destroy it or take it somewhere far away? If he was smart enough to come up with this scheme, then surely he would have planned out how to get rid of the murder weapon?”

  “Plans get interrupted.”

  Everyone looked at Karen.

  “What?” She swiveled the silver ring on her index finger. “A car was coming or something and he panicked and ran. Saw Lili’s house, saw that no one was home and hid the rifle. Isn’t that what happened?”

  I nodded my confirmation.

  “At least we had that part right.” Nora laughed. “And like we’ve been saying for a while, once that happened, he started to do as much as he could think of to make it look like Lili was the killer.”

  “B.H. says Trent’s printer is the one that produced that note that was found in Wonderland Toy Town. And he put that address book under my stove the day before he planted the note, hoping the police would do another thorough search of the house. So yes, he was a man on a mission.”

  Stretching her long legs, Elizabeth made elaborate yawning motions. “Oh dear, I didn’t come here to sit through this rerun. What about our so-called game? As I recall, this is poker night.”

  This rerun, as she called it, had been playing in my mind for days. Hovanian’s visit the day after Trent was arrested had been full of interesting details about the case. But most of my mental replay centered around the sizzle of one electric kiss that stopped conversation for what felt like five minutes. I’d pulled away first and had sublimated all my confusion into questions about what would happen next.

  Obligingly, B.H. had filled in many of the missing pieces, but no matter how I played it back, I couldn’t understand how Joseph Trent had managed to cross the line from healer to murderer. Even before he shot Marjorie, that was what the man had been doing. Deciding who should live, who didn’t deserve the chance that the drugs might produce a miracle, however temporary.

  I was startled out of my reflections by a card sliding across the table toward me. Karen was dealing, Susan sitting out the hand. Everyone watched until I picked up my little packet. Then they picked up theirs, each doing the elaborate fan-and-shuffle that would help them play better . . . or fool the rest of us more completely.

  Five card stud—what my brother would call real poker—brought out the serious actor in my friends. Which made it harder to read their faces. My strategy for the past several poker nights had been to ignore everyone else and concentrate on my own hand, and my face. Now I wanted to show them consternation. What should I do? Hold ’em or fold ’em?

  King of diamonds, king of spades. I looked at two more cards. Queen of clubs, queen of spades. My heart banged wildly as I spread the final card.

  King of hearts. A full house.

  No question that I was holding ’em this time. But how to bet? Now that became the real dilemma. I didn’t want to scare the others out of the pot, which I’d surely do if I didn’t exchange any cards and also bet fifty cents. Enough to buy the book on African art that Berge had suggested might interest me—that was my goal for tonight.

  “So, what did Seth say when you told him?” Nora smiled and everyone else looked up from their hands and focused on me.

  “Told him?” I repeated, stalling for time. “Told him what?”

  Wrong maneuver. Now I had everyone’s undivided attention.

  “That he was no longer . . .” Melissa laughed and reached into the bowl for a handful of peanuts. “. . . on your list of suspects.”

  Susan’s eyes flashed. “Or is it that he’s no longer on your list?”

  “Wait!” Elizabeth held her hand up, palm out. Her smile crinkled the corners of her eyes. “Don’t answer yet. I heard from our esteemed mayor that Tom Ford has some ideas about how to grow Walden Corners now that the referendum is over. The casino’s not happening but we still need to figure out how to keep the town going. Patronski says that Tom’s coming to town to share some ideas. Maybe get involved in a big way. And maybe, just maybe, there’s more to his return than a desire to sustain growth. Well, the growth of the town, anyway. He might be interested in cultivating other things. So, just how long is your list, Lili, my dear?”

  My poker face failed me. Tom Ford, back in town? In the flesh? What kind of flesh he inhabited had been such a part of my mental meanderings for so long that the thought of finding out started an internal war. Our connection had been so odd that I’d let him become A Possibility, and now I was caught between conflicting desires. I yearned to know what he looked like. But while the reality might satisfy or it might disappoint, it would surely wipe out the tantalizing fantasies.

  And then what would happen to the forward march of my attraction to Berge Hartounian Hovanian?

  By the second round, Nora, Elizabeth, and Melissa had folded. Susan stood behind me, then moved to the same position behind Karen’s chair, her face revealing nothing.

  “Well, let’s play poker here,” I said, donning my innocent smile. “I’m going to raise fifty cents.”

  Karen nodded and frowned. “Showdown. But not until I raise you a quarter.”

  Maybe she had a royal flush, but I wasn’t giving up now. We both pushed our chips to the nice little pile in the center of the table.

  Win or lose, the idea that I had options was intriguing. I might not be in control of the outcome, but I certainly wouldn’t be bored. I was holding three kings, and that was bound to play out in some very interesting ways.