by John Clayton
Since the food had initiated an informal break, I sat down next to Stuart at the small table with the books. The sandwich was a biscuit with apple bits embedded in the dough, enclosing a thin slab of Smithfield ham slathered with butter—I’d come a mile and put up with any dragon for a piece—the sweetness of the apples and butter mixed with the salt and tang of the ham and it just slid down joyously. I was eating slowly, sitting next to Stuart who was eating even more deliberately than I was. He was flipping through the pages of another book from his pile, being careful not to use his right hand, which had held the biscuit, so as not to get any butter on an official library book.
From my catty-cornered view of the book, I could see a picture of the Ebenton manor house, my sometime home. Without even asking, I reached down and flipped the book over to the front: Antebellum Houses of Mason County, published in 1907.
“Where’d this come from?” I asked Stuart.
“Mister Weevil,” he answered with his usual directness.
Weevil must have found it and, being Weevil, given it to Stuart to return to the library for him. I couldn’t imagine Weevil reading it.
I turned the book around so that I could see the two-page spread of the house. On the left page there was a picture of the façade, and a description, and on the right, under a few smaller pictures, there were plans for each floor. And there, on the first-floor plan of the manor house was the secret compartment, including the dimensions. A little arrow pointing to the location next to the fireplace. I scanned the text, which explained that a lot of the old houses had these little secret compartments in which to hide valuables. In some, abolitionists had hidden runaway slaves, and during the War Between the States, most everybody had hidden their silver in them, that is everybody but Uncle George Ebenton, who had wrapped his in a rug and buried it in a cornfield. There was no mention of hiding dead Confederate soldiers, but that didn’t matter. In an instant I was up running over to where Henry was standing next to the door, turning his head from side as he studied the model of the steeple.
“Anybody could have put the jewels there,” I shouted. “Look! It’s in the library.”
Henry took the book, read the same section I had, and agreed that it was true. He handed the book back to me, but Stuart was there to intercept it with a paper towel, carefully wiping away the crumbs that I had scattered on the pages.
I was jumping up and down but Henry just looked back at the statue, “There’s just two things. One, if it could be anybody in Mason County, that covers a lot of folks so you still got a lot of narrowing to do. And the other thing is that nobody in Mason County ever reads anything that they can’t get in the checkout line at the supermarket.” That was the standard joke in the area, but probably true nonetheless.
I started to point out that some of the commuters probably read books, but then my contact with the commuters had been restricted to selling them restructured tractor parts or second rate antiques; I didn’t know for a fact that they ever read anything else either.
“I’ve got to find Sheriff Overhouse and tell him,” I said, as I took the book back from Stuart, who had already wrapped it in a plastic bag ready for me.
“Here, move this piece over here and move that one up there and then see what it looks like,” I said to Henry as I started to head toward the door.
Henry turned his head over to the left side, holding his hands out to frame the image. “I don’t think so,” he said.
“But I’m right. It’ll work better,” I insisted, turning back.
“OK, if you say so,” Henry grinned. He generally let me have my way on aesthetic questions, even when he disagreed. “After all,” he added with the hint of a pout, “I’m just playing poor Henry Adams to your Monsieur Saint-Gaudens.”
That, too, was a standard joke, only this time restricted to Henry and myself. The other Henry Adams had been a fin-de-siècle writer who had engaged the sculptor Saint-Gaudens to create an enigmatic statue of the Earth Mother, or Saint Mary, or perhaps some other powerfully brooding female figure, for the family burial plot in Rock Creek Cemetery in Washington. Even as a joke, being a surrogate Saint-Gaudens for this Henry Adams gave me, sometimes, an exaggerated sense of my skill as a designer.
I started to turn toward the door, but stopped again and looked up at the steeple one more time. “You know,” I said, “it’s too bad we can’t make it closer to full size. Then we could arrange the parts like we’re going to do for the real one. But there’s no time for that now.”
I turned and splashed out into the rain, calling back as I went to thank Stuart for the book.
***
I was almost whistling as I turned into the driveway to change into city clothes before the trip to town to explain it all to the sheriff. But it turned out I didn’t have to go. Sheriff Overhouse’s police cruiser was sitting in the driveway along with two other cars: a small gray Toyota and a silver Mercedes belonging to the Pickerills. The sheriff was standing on the front porch knocking on my door, while somebody I didn’t know was poking around over near the barn.
I leapt out of my van and bounded up onto the porch, exclaiming, “Anybody could have done it! Look, there’s a book at the library that tells you all about the secret compartment!” I unwrapped Stuart’s book and held it out toward him.
“Far-fetched excuses won’t work this time.” It was J. August Pickerill, himself, stomping up the steps, his little frame jumping around like a cuckoo bird bouncing out of a clock.
Maurice helped Cassandra out of the passenger side allowing her to saunter around to the front of the car, looking either bored or confused—I couldn’t tell which. Her tight black pants set off a lavender pink and green tee shirt. While the shirt was probably designed for wearing wet, it really didn’t do too well in the cold drenching rain. So Maurice gallantly draped his own golf jacket around her shoulders. The Dobermans in the front seat looked on with interest but were quiet. J. Augustus must have already given them their orders.
“I’ve had it with you, Mrs. Abernathy. We’ve got to get the jewelry back. The insurance company is questioning the value and if I can’t get the right value…well,” he stammered, “we’ll be saddled with a loss because of your stubbornness. Everybody in the county knows you did it.”
Cassie was standing on the porch now, chewing gum, as Maurice stepped back and leaned on the fender of the car.
Mr. Pickerill called across the yard, causing a young man, whom I hadn’t noticed before, to turn from hunting around the barn and trot in our direction. “Come here, Peter, and meet the thief.”
Mr. Pickerill turned back to me. “This is Peter Torgesen, our new insurance adjuster. Greystone Insurance finally decided to get a professional in, after they did nothing for a year but not approve our settlement. Peter’ll tell you about how they’re going to turn the screws until you give us the jewels, and then that’s the last we’ll see of you for at least ten years.”
Peter extended his hand and smiled the smile of innocence, enhanced by perfect white teeth. He was about six feet tall, maybe twenty-five, with wavy blond hair, blue eyes, a square jaw, and hips that were half as wide as his shoulders, that latter being encased in an open neck polo shirt in spite of the weather.
“Hi, I represent A-One Adjusters. We’re settling this claim for the Greystone Group.” He looked me straight in the face, and then lowered his eyes. “And it’s not quite as bad as Mr. Pickerill says, but we really are interested in finding out what happened. Any help you can give us would be very much appreciated.”
He was still looking at the ground, apologetic, so I thrust the book down in front of his eyes and pointed. “Look, as I was explaining to the sheriff, this library book shows all the houses in the county and it describes the secret compartment at the old manor house. Anybody could have done it.”
“Anybody wasn’t alone in my house,” Mr. Pickerill growled, ignoring Peter.
“Clarence P. Yancy was alone in the house. He only said it was me because you br
ibed him by buying that property next to your damned pig farm.” I was pretty hot by now.
“Why do I have to listen to this?” Pickerill asked, aiming the question at the sheriff, and then looked back at me. “That was a normal business transaction to put some money to work. But I don’t suppose you Abernathys know about honest economic effort. From now on, you can deal with Mr. Torgesen and Sheriff Overhouse. I’ve had enough.” He spun on his heel and stomped off the porch in the direction of the Mercedes.
Maurice quickly went to the ready beside the back door on Cassandra’s side as she lollopped along after her husband.
J. Augustus stopped suddenly, turned, and shouted back, “Who else had the motive of a philandering husband and free run of my bedroom while I was gone? Clarence Yancy said you made yourself feel at home in my house while you were supposed to be decorating the rec room.”
Damn Old Oilhead! He’d gone even farther now, but after you’ve dumped a guy what could you do? I could steal his little books again and publish them. But while that might give me some satisfaction and annoy a few husbands, around here it would more likely make Old Oilhead a cult hero, and I’d just look like a jealous bitch.
***
I looked up at the sheriff who averted his eyes while twisting his hat into a baton-shaped roll as the Mercedes sloshed out toward the road, I pushed the book in front of the sheriff’s nose and said, “Weevil found this and gave it to Stuart to return. That means somebody had it checked out, or more probably stole it, from the library.”
The sheriff took the book and ran his hand over the worn cover. “That could ‘a been anytime in the last two decades and it doesn’t mean that it was used by someone to find that secret compartment in Mason County. You know what they say.”
“The residents of Mason Count never read anything they can’t buy at the checkout at the grocery store,” I chanted.
Young Peter laughed but the sheriff looked even gruffer and redder. “Besides bringing Mr. Torgesen over to talk, I came to tell you that unless I can find an alternative—the jewels or an explanation of where they are—in the next week, I’m going to have to raise the charge—and the bond. Mr. Pickerill is bringing in all of his money and influence. You got to admit Mr. Pickerill’s right that you’re really the only person in Mason County who had all of the motive, means, and opportunity.” He handed the book back to me.
***
Leaving Peter with me on the porch, Sheriff Overhouse headed out to the cruiser, saying he had to go make some speeding arrests because the county coffers were getting dangerously low. Ever since the commuters got one seat on the Mason County Board of Supervisors, he always laughed when he said it—like it was a joke.
Peter looked up from the floor and smiled. “Is that your work out in the barn?” he asked.
“Mostly,” I answered.
“Could we go over there and take a look?”
“Are you interested in tractor art?” I asked.
“I’m a painter. I only do insurance to keep clothes on my back.”
He stopped by his car to pull out a camera and then went over to look at the sofa, which we had painstakingly removed from the basement of the manor house. “Would you mind?” he asked, motioning up with the camera, anticipating a yes.
“OK with me,” I said, “but be careful. It may be jinxed.” And as he walked around the sofa, snapping pictures, I explained that it had crashed down, causing the face of the chimney to collapse and expose the jewels and body.
“You know, it’s really a quintessential postmodern work,” he said as he finished the circuit.
“What does that mean?” Kicking myself for not agreeing that I had intended to create a postmodern work, and then asking him to explain why he thought it was quintessential.
“It’s everyday things in an unbalanced and odd, but at the same time very ho-hum, juxtaposition,” he said, waving his free arm in a wide circle.
“It’s unbalanced?” I asked twisting my head. Well, maybe a little.
“From here, it looks like one end of the sofa is about to leap into the road out front, while the other end makes a protracted detour through Hell.” A startling pronouncement, but he smiled with those big white teeth as he said it, and plopped down on the one of the side-by-side tractor seats. “Comfortable too.” Wiggling a bit. “Look, my mother runs a small gallery in Washington. Ina Torgesen she calls it—after herself, of course. When I get back, I’ll drop the pictures on her desk. She might be interested in a little show. Not at the big season, but maybe a week or two in July.”
I sat down next to Peter and managed to mumble, “That would be nice,” without inquiring any more about postmodernism.
“About this jewelry theft,” he continued without missing a beat. “Anything you could tell me would be helpful.”
So I recounted everything that had happened after the chimney fell down, including my meeting with Emily Patowski but leaving out Jack Senior’s car and later my nighttime visit to Old Oilhead’s.
“And you have no idea who did it,” he stated, and I agreed. In fact, he seemed so relaxed that I ventured to ask why they hadn’t settled with Mr. Pickerill. That would certainly get him off my back.
“Would you pay out one and a half million dollars just like that?” he asked.
“Do you think he’s pulling an insurance scam?” I asked.
“No, but there’s an odd thing or two—besides the bracelet being found in your chimney. Damage, for instance. The burglar must have been either totally inept or in a real hurry, to make such a mess of the side of the safe. It was almost like he was trying to destroy it, but doing it so you couldn’t see because the damage was hidden by the nightstand.”
Now, I hadn’t seen the safe because it had been impounded after the theft but that was a revelation. And it was odd. I explained that I’d have cut right through with the fewest possible cuts. Then I asked Peter if he thought that Mr. Pickerill had done it himself.
“Well, it’s hard to say,” Peter answered, looking thoughtfully at his feet. “He really seems to want the jewels back for that dizzy thing he married.” He raised his eyes, gave a knowing grin, and snuggled in his seat a bit more. “He doesn’t seem at all interested in the money. That’s why he insisted on giving the reward. I think he’d make a deal to get them back.”
“Do you mean that the person who stole them can get the reward?”
“The reward was offered by Mr. Pickerill and we’ll do our best to see that he spends it well. The most we can promise is that if the jewels are returned, we’ll take that into consideration, probably seeking very reduced charges. It’s a shame to let this unpleasantness get in the way of real work like your postmodern sofas.” He patted the frame of the sofa right next to my knee. I was about to suggest that he might look at a couple of half-finished things out in the yard, when the phone rang and my fantasy was changed into a trot across the barn to the extension.
***
“This is Lucille Adams. You got to get over here right away,” the voice screamed.
Henry had turned the steeple over on his head, I thought. “Don’t panic,” I said as calmly as I could. “What happened?” Information I’d need if I had to call for a doctor or an ambulance.
“What happened?” the voice wailed. “Henry followed your instructions to make a bigger steeple, that’s what happened. First, he used that big twelve-foot I-beam that we were saving for the new shed. That was all right because we weren’t going to use it until next year. But then, he took the drive shaft out of our tractor because he said it was the only thing that fit right where he wanted it. Right after the rain stops, he’s got to harrow ‘cause I’ve got to get in my late garden. You get your white ass over here right now and tell him to put that drive shaft back where he got it.”
“I’ll be there as soon as I can,” I said. Well, what else was I going to say?
***
Of course, I wasn’t going to tell Henry to cut the drive shaft loose from wherever he had welde
d it. Not unless it looked really bad. But one of the perks of being in the junk tractor business was that I had lots of spare parts. Pushed by a small suggestion on my part, Peter helped shift through a pile in the back of the barn until I found a shaft that might work. I knew it would work with a little gerrymandering, but with a little luck it would fit as it was. We tossed it in the back of the van and I asked Peter if he wanted to come along to get a real flavor for the nuts and bolts of postmodern tractor art.
He grinned, saluted, and skipped around to the passenger side with his pectorals undulating under his damp polo shirt.
***
Henry was up on a ladder near the top of the steeple, welding on a gear wheel that vaguely resembled a gargoyle. I looked for Stuart, who should have been holding the base of the ladder and keeping the hoses from getting tangled. But he wasn’t there, and Henry had managed to get one of the hoses wrapped around his leg in an awkward position. As I got into the barn, I could see Stuart up above the steeple, his legs hooked around a barn rafter, hanging down while holding the to-be-welded metal in place.
Henry was violating every safety rule he had preached at me.
I ran to the hose and started to untangle it, telling Henry to lift his left leg so I could slip the oxygen hose underneath. Peter had the acetylene line and we rolled one over the other several times, taking the kinks out and lifting them clear from Henry’s leg, our hands crossing and uncrossing, in close, and then more than close, proximity. I was about to scream at Stuart for letting Henry do something stupid like this, but then I felt Peter’s hand against mine and I forgot what I was going to say. Which I guess was just as well, because you really shouldn’t complain about a workman in his own shop.