Murder Scene

by Richard Montanari

  In the one good photograph her mother was leaning slightly forward, her emerald eyes sparkling in the candlelight, a sly smile on her lips, a secret knowledge passing between herself and her daughter.

  On the day they left New York, as they crossed the bridge, Detta looked into the side mirror, saw the buildings recede in the distance like a faded postcard, and wondered then, as now, if she’d ever see the city again. She doubted it. It wasn’t as if Mom was in a cemetery there, a place they were abandoning. Her mother was, at that moment, in a small copper urn in her father’s room.

  Dr Levinsohn had told her all about grief, grown-up grief, about how it doesn’t ever really leave, doesn’t dissolve or disappear, how it just sits there waiting for you to deal with it. Dr Levinsohn made a lot of suggestions about how to begin the process, but Detta had taken none of them.

  One of the ideas was to make a collage of photographs. Anthony Torres had checked that one off the list.

  The second one was to write a letter to her mother. Detta had started a few of them, then given them up. As it had always been since she was small, whenever faced with the task or the desire to do something creative, her first and only instinct was to draw. She couldn’t paint or write or sculpt or compose music. She drew. Maybe again one day, but not today.

  For now she had her pills. And right now, that’s all that mattered. She had her Xanax and Lexapro and Lunesta, and she had forty-one Valium she had managed to score before leaving the city. She dreaded the day when she ran out of Valium, but for now, the comforting rattle of the amber vial was good.

  She took a Xanax and a Valium, washed them down with a warm Diet Coke, closed her eyes and waited for the feeling. She then split a second Valium, hesitated for a few moments, then took it. She rattled the pill vial. Still had plenty left. It was amazing how comforting that sound was, how terrible was the sound when there was only one left, the tiny click of a single little pill bouncing around a plastic cylinder.

  She sat up in bed, looked out over the balcony, at the thick woods behind the inn. The trees were almost filled with leaves. She could only see a little ways into the forest. There were parts of Central Park that were pretty heavily wooded, but this was different. In the city you knew that if you just went a few blocks in any direction you would be back among the buildings, back to civilization. Here it looked as if the forest could swallow you whole, that there was nothing on the other side of it.

  As the Valium kicked in, the view took on a soft focus. It suddenly looked like all the forests of all the stories: Hansel and Gretel, Little Red Riding Hood, Beauty and the Beast.

  As she took the second half of her second Valium she thought about walking down the hallway, taking the elevator to the first floor, out of the building and across the field. She thought about walking into the forest and never again walking out.

  She wondered what was hiding out there.

  30

  The man standing just outside the back door was Will’s height, but much broader through the chest. He had a chin beard of deep walnut, flecked with gray. Will made him to be in his late thirties or early forties, but he might have been older. He was stout, but not overweight. He wore a black broad-brimmed hat, silvered with dust.

  ‘Hello,’ the man said. He stepped off the porch. Will followed him outside.

  ‘Hello to you.’

  ‘Seems I alarmed you some. My apologies for that.’

  ‘Not at all.’

  ‘Reuben Yoder,’ the man said, extending a hand.

  ‘Will Hardy.’

  ‘I heard that someone might be reopening the Hall. The idea filled me with delight. Might that someone be you?’

  ‘I’m not sure about that,’ Will said. He glanced at his watch. ‘But about two hours ago the place became officially mine.’

  ‘Quite the news around here.’

  Will hadn’t thought about this, but he imagined that the man was right. It was a small town, and something like Godwin Hall was a significant part of its history.

  Reuben took a few steps back, looked up. ‘The roof still looks good to these eyes.’

  Will joined him on the walk. It occurred to him that he hadn’t even looked at the roof.

  ‘Does it?’

  ‘When we put up the new, the old roof was in bad shape. Maybe not repaired since the 1960s. There were a few patches, but they were tar paper.’

  ‘You put on this roof?’

  ‘My brothers and I. I think my father might have had a hand or two in that one.’

  ‘I have to say that the exterior doesn’t look too bad, considering that it’s been unoccupied for twenty-five years.’

  ‘It has not gone completely untended.’

  ‘How so?’ Will asked.

  ‘There’s a local group here, part of the Abbeville Historical Society. They’ve provided a small yearly fund for basic maintenance and repair and such. For the exterior only, mind you. Helps to keep the place presentable for the folks who come to town for the festivals.’

  ‘Do you do work for them?’

  ‘I do.’ He pointed to the brickwork. ‘Did some tuck pointing here a few years ago. If I say so myself, you can’t tell the new from the old.’

  It was true. Will couldn’t see any difference. Then again, he wouldn’t know a tuck point from a toast point. If he had any intentions of living here, and working here, that would have to change.

  Back at the front of the house, Will again noticed the flagstone on the right side of the porch. ‘Do you know what that is?’ he asked.

  ‘That was the original well. It used to be open, but a long time ago a boy fell down there and drowned.’

  ‘Oh my.’

  ‘He was an Amish boy. Daniel Troyer.’

  You don’t want to end up like Daniel Troyer.

  Will thought: Had he read about this? He made a mental note to look at the material he’d downloaded from the internet on Godwin Hall.

  ‘Want to come inside?’ Will asked.

  ‘If you’ll have me.’

  As they walked around to the back Will noticed Reuben giving the place the careful once over. He nodded a few times, apparently in approval.

  ‘I haven’t been inside for a few years,’ Reuben said. ‘More than a few now.’

  Just a few feet inside the door Reuben bounced lightly on his feet.

  ‘These floors are still beautiful.’

  ‘What kind of wood is it?’ Will asked.

  ‘Chestnut,’ Reuben said. ‘At one time it was the most plentiful material available in these parts.’ He pointed at the breakfront with his pipe stem. ‘If you’re ever of a mind to sell that, I know a few people who would give you a price. Dates to the early 1800s if I’m not mistaken.’

  ‘I’ll keep that in mind.’

  After a quick tour of the first and second floors, they once again stood in the dining room.

  ‘I’d say you have yourself a pretty solid building,’ Reuben said.

  ‘Good to know.’

  ‘Needs some work, of course, if you’re thinking of moving in. More so if you’re going to go for an occupancy permit for guests. If you get to that point, I’ve got a hard-working crew. We have worked by the hour, but it’s mostly by the job, and then most of the time it’s barter.’

  ‘Barter as in trade?’

  ‘The very kind.’

  Will had no idea what he might have to trade. He imagined that the calls for a clinical psychologist in this town were few and far between.

  ‘I’ll keep you in mind if and when,’ Will said.

  ‘That’s all I can ask.’

  They walked across the front porch, down the steps. There was a woman standing on the sidewalk, just in front of an older model, idling Ford. She was Amish, and wore a plain blue dress, fastened at the waist with safety pins, a long gray apron and a dark bonnet.

  ‘Will Hardy, this is my fair wife, Miriam.’

  ‘Nice to meet you,’ Will said.

  ‘And you,’ she said. ‘Are you going
to reopen the Hall?’

  ‘I’m not sure,’ Will said.

  ‘If you do, will you be offering food?’

  Will had never considered this for a moment. It suddenly occurred to him that bed and breakfast meant just that – breakfast.

  ‘I’m not sure about that either.’

  ‘Do you cook?’

  ‘Does a microwave count as cooking?’

  ‘It does not.’

  ‘Then the answer is no. I wouldn’t know where to start.’

  Miriam smiled. ‘There will be no shortage of offers from this village. Mine among them.’

  At this moment the car idling at the curb backfired. Will realized there was a man behind the wheel. The car was a late nineties Taurus, its fenders dented, its exhaust brewing smoke like a coal plant.

  Behind the car was hitched a utility trailer, itself having seen much better days. If the vehicle and trailer were banged up, the man behind the wheel was the original model.

  More than a few pounds above his fighting weight, sorely in need of a shave, he was himself smoking a rather foul-smelling cigar. He was reading what looked like an old science fiction pulp paperback.

  ‘That’s Rascal,’ Reuben said. He lowered his voice. ‘His real name is Bertram Shames, but apparently he was quite the ladies’ man in his earlier years. Personally, I’m not seeing that, but we humor him nonetheless.’

  ‘So, he’s a friend of yours?’

  ‘Give or take some. Mostly give. He drives us around sometime, hauls things with that hitch. There’s a lot of folks in his business around here.’

  Now it made sense. Will had seen notices for Amish cabs and taxis at the Historical Society.

  ‘What sort of vehicle do you drive?’ Reuben asked.

  Will pointed to the Sprinter at the back of the driveway.

  ‘Very nice.’

  Miriam, perhaps sensing a long conversation of men talk, crossed the sidewalk, slid into the back seat.

  ‘I think I’m going to need a good bit of help here, Reuben. But I’m not sure what I would have to barter with.’

  Reuben nodded at the Sprinter. ‘I’m thinking you could fit quite a bit in the back of that truck on our behalf. I’m also thinking it’s a lot more comfortable than Rascal’s jalopy.’

  Will was starting to get it. ‘Okay, then.’

  Reuben reached into the pocket of his jacket, produced a business card. It read Hale Hardware.

  ‘Hale is just up the street, right on the town square,’ Reuben said. ‘Been there more than a hundred years.’

  ‘This is your store?’

  ‘No, sir. I just work there now and again. If we don’t have it we can get it. If we can’t get it, you might not need it.’

  ‘Sounds like a slogan.’

  Reuben smiled. ‘As you’ll see, there’s no room on the sign for it. It’s a small store.’

  Will put the card in his shirt pocket. He extended his hand. Reuben Yoder followed suit.

  ‘I think we can conduct some commerce, Reuben.’

  ‘God has a plan.’

  Will waved at Miriam. She smiled and waved, then went right back to her knitting.

  As Will was preparing to leave for the day, there was a knock at the front door. When he answered he found a teenage girl standing on the porch. She identified herself as Cassie. It took a moment, but Will remembered. She was the cub reporter for The Villager. Eli’s granddaughter.

  Cassandra Mills was no older than seventeen, a smiley redhead with green eyes and a mouthful of braces.

  After getting the details out of the way – Will’s age, profession, brief history, current status – she asked a few questions about Godwin Hall, and his plans for it. He noticed that Cassandra repeatedly called it ‘The Hall’, which Will had begun to notice was common practice in Abbeville, although Cassandra Mills was by far the youngest person to do so.

  At the end of the interview she held up her phone and asked if she could take a few pictures. Will had not been prepared for a photo shoot, but he did a quick reconnaissance of his hair and clothing, stood on the entrance steps to Godwin Hall and let the cub reporter have at it.

  Thirty minutes after she’d arrived, she was gone, story and photos in hand.

  Will locked the back door at Godwin Hall, walked toward the town square. He stopped in front of Hale Hardware, but did not go inside. The storefront was a throwback, as were most of the businesses on the square.

  When he returned to Red Oak the lobby was bustling. A tour bus was idling in the parking lot.

  Will took the steps to the second floor. As he fished out his electronic door key he noticed the room service tray on the floor just outside Detta’s room. Her door was ajar. Will stepped down the hallway, gently knocked on the door jamb. No response.

  Will eased open the door. His daughter was under the covers, fast asleep, the blackout curtains closed.

  He wanted to wake her up, to share his day with her. He wanted to tell her about Godwin Hall, its many rooms and its fascinating clutter, about how he’d felt walking around this living chapter of their family’s past. He wanted to tell her about his new friends, Reuben and Miriam Yoder, about Eli. He wanted to tell her about a rather slovenly character named Bertram ‘Rascal’ Shames, and his Amish taxi service, about how they might be on the brink of entering that very business.

  He did not.

  He stood there for a long time.

  31

  Chevy Deacon emerged from the main building at Aqualine. A medium-size manufacturing plant on Route 87, Aqualine made water filtration and desalination equipment, as well as flood water and waste water systems.

  Chevy crossed the lot, talking to one of his co-workers. He got into his vehicle, started it, pulled onto the access road heading north.

  Ivy had decided to put eyes on him for a while to see his after-work habits, but especially to see if there was any behavior consistent with someone who had just committed a serious crime.

  Chevy got onto Route 87 and drove east for a few miles, passing through Burton and the La Due Public Hunting area. Ivy kept a safe distance, holding three or four cars behind him.

  He was driving a white F-150 with the red and white bar lights on the cab. Ivy knew him well enough to know that he was not going to talk to her voluntarily, so she had a Plan B.

  She made the call on the way.

  When Chevy reached Middlefield, he headed south a few blocks on 608, and turned into the parking lot at a freestanding hovel of a building tucked into a mostly industrial and light commercial district. The place was Yellen’s Crab Shack, a shot and beer emporium that had not offered anything resembling a crab in more than twenty years.

  Chevy Deacon parked, exited his truck, crossed the lot, entered the establishment. Forty minutes later he emerged.

  Ivy Holgrave got out of her vehicle and crossed the parking lot to meet him.

  Chevy Deacon was in his mid-thirties. On this day he wore a dirty ball cap, scuffed Red Wing boots, and the dark blue overall uniform of Aqualine employees. His oily brown hair hung to his shoulders.

  As Chevy dug for his car keys in one of the pockets he noticed Ivy approaching him.

  ‘Jesus Christ. Now what?’

  ‘Just want to talk to you for a few minutes,’ Ivy said.

  ‘About what?’

  ‘I’m getting to that, Chevy. Could you take your hand out of your pocket for me, please?’

  Chevy took the keys from his pocket, slipped the thick key ring over the middle knuckle of his right hand. It was a classic lowlife bar fight move, a sucker punch tactic.

  ‘Thanks,’ Ivy said ‘What I’d like to—’

  ‘I don’t have to tell you a fucking thing.’

  He was slurring his words, and had the false bravado of a midday drunk. A few people walking to their cars heard the F-word and decided to watch the goings-on.

  ‘That’s absolutely true right there,’ Ivy said. ‘But it will be in your best interest to do so. It would help me mightily.�
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  ‘Why the fuck would I want to do that?’

  ‘Let’s just call it civic duty.’

  Chevy Deacon snorted. ‘I look civic-minded to you?’

  ‘Appearances can be deceiving. Just need to ask a few—’

  ‘I know where you live.’

  And there it was. A direct threat. Whatever happened from here on in, in any legal sense, would be predicated by that statement.

  ‘And I know an old woman who would cut you a third asshole with a steel .44 if you set one foot there. Stop by anytime. Monday is meat loaf.’

  The man looked at her, trying to process this. Instead he smiled a nervous smile, trying to hang onto some tough-guy cool in front of the onlookers. He shook his head, started walking across the lot, toward his vehicle.

  ‘Need you to stop right there, Chevy.’

  He did not stop. When he rounded the back end of the Yukon parked next to him, he saw that there was a man sitting in the back of his truck.

  ‘Well, well. Who do we have here?’ Ivy asked.

  ‘What the fuck is this? Get the fuck off my truck.’

  ‘Step on out of there, please, sir,’ Ivy said.

  The man kept his hands in plain sight, slid off the truck bed. He was in his forties, small and round and bald. He wore a grimy quilted vest over an equally dirty blue chambray shirt.

  ‘Let me see some ID,’ Ivy said.

  The man slowly reached for his wallet. He took it out, opened it, handed Ivy his license.

  Ivy scanned it. ‘Casper G. Walls. I know you.’

  ‘Yes, ma’am.’

  ‘Refresh my memory. Where from?’

  ‘Two years ago. Over in Carlton.’

  ‘That’s right. You were part of Junior Luton’s crew.’

  Casper shifted his weight from one foot to the other. ‘I don’t run with that bunch anymore.’

  ‘Good to hear,’ Ivy said. ‘How do you know Mr Deacon?’