“Well, I’ll say this, Ruby. It’s colorful.” A laugh sneaked out. “Looks like you two had a good time drawing it.”
“Mr. Clay has something cooking up here,” she said, tapping her temple.
To myself, I grumbled, “I just wish I knew what it was.” I didn’t bother her with the maddening details associated with an unattended cell phone and unanswered voicemail messages. Making contact was easier when he had access to the house. I could just go out there and find him. Now, he wore me down, like a mother whose baby has his days and nights mixed up.
I cocked my head in surprise at the name posted to the paved road dividing Clay’s property from the farm acreage. I ran my finger along the black crayon while Ruby made pecking motions, extinguishing her cigarette. “Ohio Second Infantry Road?” I queried.
That encouraged her to recite a page from Rosemont history. From the first sentence, she held my rapt attention.
“When Trey and David were growing up, this road was always called Ohio Second Infantry Road. Zebediah Rosemont named it that after the Civil War. He came home a hero from that war—a colonel—and the people around Havens let the Rosemonts, especially Zebediah, do pretty much whatever they wanted. Old Zeb had plans to increase the family wealth with farming. And this road,” she emphasized, pointing a gnarly finger at the words, “went right through Rosemont land. Back then, when that happened, the owner named the road. The first road sign—the old wooden one Zeb put up—is somewhere in the carriage house, or it used to be. The regiment he commanded was the Ohio Second Infantry. He put that name on the farm lane, so if any of his men passed this way, they knew a fellow infantryman lived just up the road. It runs in my mind Trey’s father and grandfather were approached over the years by various street superintendents to change the name to just Infantry Road. The Rosemonts always refused. They said it symbolized family legacy brought down through the years. Mr. Clay says a new sign went up after Miss Caroline’s death. I guess the city finally got its way,” she said, shaking her gray head. I knew she only learned of this abbreviation of family history when Clay told her this morning.
Ten minutes later, Ruby and I found ourselves parked on the tag-end of a cleared strip, just off Ohio Second Infantry Road. Midnight’s front bumper was eased in as far as a felled tree would permit. Rosemont Woods lay beyond. We got out and closed the doors softly. All sound was absorbed by the woodsy cushion around us, except for Rosemont ghosts calling to me—Zeb’s, in particular.
Thoughts were taking hazy form inside my head. I felt nearly drunk with an idea. This was a highbred state far better than the alcohol-induced one Bully Baines brought on last night with chocolate martinis. I owed my editor a third installment, and the history behind this road might complete that assignment.
Thinking the tumbled tree was a message from the writing gods, I stepped out of the woods.
The width of the road was little more than one lane. Ruby and I walked its length just as I wore down shoe leather walking Piedmont Alley. A tangle of soaring trees and broken-down fencing kept us company on one side in sharp contrast with the sun-drenched, gated-community of feed corn rolling out to the horizon on the other. With each step, something ran up out of the cracked asphalt and through the soles of my feet.
I asked Ruby to tell Zeb’s story again.
On our return trip, we were met with a utility van and a monstrous bucket truck moving south on Infantry. The trucks slowed, then stopped. I read Tri-State Telephone in black block letters under the open passenger window. The man inside leaned his head out. His face was red and puffy. “You ladies got car problems?”
This was a reasonable conclusion and a gentlemanly inquiry. Their passage up Infantry took them past Midnight, angled off a road out in the middle of nowhere, a place two women would not ordinarily choose to stop.
“The car’s fine,” I said. “Thanks for asking.”
“Just wondering ’cause we saw the police tape at the entrance. Something must have happened in that big house.” He pushed out his lower lip. “Or on the grounds, I suppose.”
Some thirty minutes ago, from Midnight’s front seat, as I drove down Hattersfield, Ruby and I stared at the same yellow tape. At the time, I wondered if the tape would come down soon, like the tape barring Gideon access to his office had.
Before I knew it, Ruby brought up the murder. Its mention brought the two men out of the van. The driver came around to the wooded side of the road. The orange safety vest he wore seemed dwarfed in its efforts to cover his protruding belly.
The bucket truck’s engine shut down, and a younger guy climbed out. “What’s up?” he said, joining us.
“Pay attention. You’ll hear,” the driver said in a tone I considered a bit snippy.
“We were just talking about the murder,” Ruby said. She spoke directly to the newcomer. Good for her.
“I’m Wrenn, and this is Ruby, by the way.” I figured first names were good enough since they wore their first names on the short sleeves of their gray uniform shirts.
The driver raised a hand. “I’m Gil. This here’s Goose and Glenn.”
“Goose is short for Goosen,” the puffy-faced man explained.
Glenn, on the other hand, was seriously good-looking. He was well-groomed, well-proportioned, and monumentally out-of-place on a line crew. He should be doing commercials for the telephone company, not climbing their poles.
He stared at me with such recognition, I had to ask, “Have we met?”
Gil butted in. “We call him Hollywood. He’s a lady’s man, just working with us while he’s waiting for his big break. He’s not going to get it here in Havens.” He and Goose guffawed at the joke, small as it was.
Glenn appeared bashful and embarrassed, but accepting of the comment as good-natured ribbing, which it was not. Quite simply, Gil rode roughshod over Glenn and enjoyed it.
“Did we go to high school together?” I suggested, but knew we hadn’t, his face would not be that easy to forget.
“I’ve seen you on TV.” He reversed the tables, and two jaws dropped. His coworkers’.
“You watch the council meetings,” I said incredulously.
“Sometimes. I figure you need to keep up on what’s going on.” For the benefit of those less civically minded among us, he went on. “This is Wrenn Grayson. She’s the city recorder.” He flashed me a quick look, asking if he got the title right.
I smiled. It was a rarity to be spotlighted for that portion of my job rather than my supporting role as the mayor’s assistant.
“Who got killed?” Gil asked, obviously not civically minded. “I didn’t know anyone lived here. ’Cause, you see, they don’t have phone service.”
“Trey Rosemont. A friend of mine,” Ruby said. Several loose strands of pewter hair swirled in the breeze above her head amidst a chorus of startled and mumbled sympathies. “It happened sometime around two o’clock Wednesday night, well, early Thursday morning.”
“The night it stormed?” Goose jumped to say.
“Yes,” I said. The three men passed looks. “What?”
“We were out here just before the storm broke.”
“Here?” I pointed like a birddog to the ground.
“No. Out by the drive,” Gil said. “A service call came in. A squirrel got fried. We had to replace a part.”
I pictured the pole six or eight feet away from Clay’s gravel driveway.
“What time was that?” I asked.
“We got the call log in the van,” Gil said, backhanding Goose, his way of telling him to retrieve the information.
While Goose climbed back into the front seat, I probed for more information. Had they seen or heard anything, either along the road or back on the estate. Did anyone drive in or out? They saw nothing, heard nothing, remembered nothing, and logged out at 2:15. The timing fit. The rain started coming down about that time. Trey’s car was already parked on the grounds by then, keeping the earth under it dry.
“Could I leave you my business c
ard in case something comes to mind?” There were nods all around. “I’ll go get them. They’re back in the car.”
“Hey, Hollywood,” Gil snapped, “where’s your manners? Go with the lady so she doesn’t have to come all the way back.”
“Sure. Happy to.”
We three set out. The afternoon sun sent our shadows into the woods.
“Do you really want to go to Hollywood?” I asked conversationally. Secretly, I thought, one more vanishing actor or one more ill-humored cop might just put me over the edge.
“No, that’s just those guys talking.” Then he changed the subject to pursue the murder again. “This is pretty strange work for the city recorder, isn’t it?”
“Well, I could give you the I’m-a-public-servant speech. It’s a catchall for the odd jobs one gets assigned, but the truth is, the new owner of the place and I discovered the body.”
His expression shifted to shock at my grisly find. The man who watched council meetings on TV obviously missed reading Friday’s newspaper, where my picture was front and center.
I opened the door to the back seat while Ruby split off for the other side of the car. She reached through the open window for her cigarettes on the seat. I rummaged for business cards in my wallet and handed Glenn three. He read the top one and looked up. A moment of hesitation crossed his face.
“Glenn? Something?” I thought and hoped he remembered another detail from the other night. He gave his head a miniscule shake, but remained rooted in place. The smell of burning tobacco filled my nostrils. “Are you sure?” I pushed.
He found my eyes, opened his mouth to speak, when just then, Gil called him back.
“Gotta go. Nice to meet you both,” he said quickly, saluting with the cards.
I watched him jog back. “Do you think he knows something he’s not telling?”
“I think he was about to ask you out.”
I spun to Ruby. “Really? You think that was it?”
“He’s mighty handsome. What would you have said, Miss Wrenn?” Now, she pushed for an answer.
“You know about Gideon. I would have let Glenn down easy.” Ruby and Gideon had never been introduced so I invited her to stop by the park Sunday, since she lived so close, and meet him.
Winding Trail
I slowed to a stop in the swell of Winding Trail’s first curve. From my vantage point, I could see tree service workers taking down the red maple damaged two nights ago when a pickup barreled into it. The accident was caused by a traitorous streetlight, a gaping sinkhole, and an ill-timed rainstorm. Most of the tree work appeared done. The trunk was all that remained.
A whirring sound came from a chipper hitched to the back of an extra-large truck. It switched to a high-pitched whine as one of the workers fed in a manageable branch. Two others loaded a larger one into the bed of a second vehicle. Both truck beds were covered with an expanse of canvas laid over an arching framework, resembling covered wagons from pioneer days. It looked like it had been an all-day affair.
Winding Trail is situated in the Northwoods Subdivision, more northwest than north, actually. The area was built out seventy-five years ago. The homes are very respectable with large front yards. They roll straight out to the road without benefit of sidewalks or curbs, giving it a rural feel.
I left Midnight two houses away from all the activity and crossed a street littered with sawdust, wood chips, and perfectly good leaves. A warren of reflective wooden barriers with blinking yellow lights encircled a six-foot jagged crater in the street. Apparently, the mystery of the sinking asphalt plug had yet to be resolved. I gave the yawning hole a wide berth and pinned the Glickstein envelope under my arm. The envelope made a convenient carryall for Lucy’s summary of property owners’ names and addresses on Winding Trail, a pen for notes, and a dozen of the mayor’s business cards.
Determined to do K.C. proud, I made the rounds, up one side and down the other. The reviews were mixed: not unexpected, not unreasonable. This was a neighborhood that suffered injury and loss of sleep. They had few wants: a new light bulb, already installed, and a patch for the street that didn’t fall out from under their cars. That would come later.
Lucy noted that K.C. spoke with Keith Stokes by telephone Friday morning. He had the misfortune of smacking into the tree. Results of the collision were still quite evident on his face when he let me in: two black eyes, swollen nose, a minor cut. His wife was home. We chatted about neighborhood concerns and things in general. I thought they were very gracious, considering.
Three houses later, I came upon Burl Wilde. He sat on his wraparound porch, watching the workmen dismantle his tree and watching me go door to door. He followed my passage up his asphalt drive, dotted with auburn-colored leaves. The chipper had been shut down, and the quiet was profound. His two-story home was sided and one of the nicest on the block. I knew the absence of the full red maple would take some getting used to. I stepped up to the porch, passing through a break in the white spindled railing. The planked flooring was solid under my feet as I crossed to the man ensconced in a high-back rocker with a smooth, steady motion.
In his late sixties, Wilde’s face was full, his eyebrows wiry. Gray showed around the ears. He was barrel-chested; and, across it, he’d buttoned a colonial blue cotton shirt to overlap dungarees.
I extended my hand, introducing myself, and gave him my well-practiced spiel.
“I thought it was something like that,” he responded genially. “Sit down. Take a load off.”
I walked past him to a second rocker, painted white with a caned seat and back. I noticed a chest-style cooler on wheels between the chairs. He used it as a table for a bottle of green tea and a folded kitchen towel. Several empty bottles were lined up alongside the cooler.
“Looks like you came out to spend the day, Mr. Wilde.”
“It beats what’s on cable,” he replied, jaunty.
I settled into the rocker, laying the envelope in my lap, and gratefully accepted his offer of a green tea. With interest, I followed his routine to retrieve it. He handed me his still-chilled bottle and picked up the towel. Swinging the hinged lid my way, he pulled out a bottle wet with small chips of melting ice. He returned his tabletop to horizontal and used the towel to dry the bottle. Then he twisted off the cap and dropped it in his shirt pocket with a dull chink. It found a home there with several others. We exchanged bottles, took gulping swigs, set the bottles on the cooler, and looked out to the street.
“It’s a shame about the tree,” I said, pushing the rocker into motion.
“Yeah, I’m sorry to see it come down. Me and that tree go way back.”
“Did the street superintendent talk with you?” I asked, the subject matter being the sinkhole.
“Yeah. He stopped by Friday. He’s got a new plan. They’re going to start work the middle of next week. Should be done by the weekend.”
I found myself looking next door, one more house to go before I could finally call it a day.
“He’s not home,” Wilde said, snagging my attention back.
I gave him a sheepish apology, then asked if he had any comments I could relay to Mayor Tallmadge.
“No need. I’m sure you got an earful from everyone else on the block. There’s nothing I could add to that.”
“Are you sure Mr. Chambers isn’t home? He’s my last stop.”
Lucy’s list identified Wilde’s neighbor as Jon Chambers.
“Fairly sure. He’s in China for six months.” His twinkling eyes coaxed a smile to my face. They told his story. They were a playful brown and flecked with intelligence, gentleness, and contentment. “A realty company rented it to a fellow, though. He’s a playwright or director. Something like that. Nice enough fellow. From Chicago.”
My rocker ground to a halt. “Reed? Barton Reed.”
“That’s him.”
“The guy who directing the play downtown?”
“You know him?”
“Yes, but I didn’t know he was living here. Di
d he pitch in with everyone the night of the accident?”
“He wasn’t home. Missed the whole thing.”
For a full three seconds, my lower jaw hung loose while I went another lap with Barton’s lies. “Wasn’t home? Are you sure?”
“Absolutely,” he answered, then told me of Barton’s custom to leave his car in the drive, enter the back door, and flip on the outside light. “When I closed up after the eleven o’clock news, the driveway was empty. It was still empty when I came racing out after Stokes plowed into my tree just after two.” He took a sip of tea. “No, Barton didn’t come dragging in until three-thirty or four. Something like that. No point in my trying to go back to sleep after all the excitement, so I fired up the coffeemaker and fried some bacon and eggs. Heard him come in. I looked out and saw the light was on. The street was cleared of emergency vehicles by then. The barricades were up and blinking.”
By this point in his story, I reached the conclusion Barton was an accomplished liar—an actor in his own right.
“Funny thing is,” Wilde chuckled, rocking forward, “he probably didn’t get any more sleep than I did. I predicted the street crews would be here before nine, so I filled my cooler and was just wheeling it out when I heard someone pounding on his door. She seemed an impatient little honey. She toned it down and rang the bell when she saw me. He finally came down to let her in. She wasn’t there long. Couple of minutes. Something like that.”
Gaping at him, I asked, “What did she look like?”
“Red hair to match her temper. She was—”
He stopped when my index finger went up. I fished in my envelope for Gina Frawley’s picture. I held it out and pointed. “Is this her?”
Now it was his turn to stare, first at the picture, then at me. He knew there was more, and I knew it was better than cable.
The spell was broken by a ringing phone somewhere in the recesses of the house.
“Excuse me,” he said, pushing out of the chair. “I’ve been waiting on this call.” He padded off on moccasin slippers, following the porch around the corner and out of sight. Several rings later, the telephone was silenced.
Deadly Homecoming at Rosemont Page 20