I took my second sip of tea. One of the workers, beanpole thin, came to speak to me over the banister.
“Would you give Mr. Wilde a message? Tell him we’ll be back Monday to grind out that stump and get up all these leaves.”
I said I would, and he ambled off. I set the bottle back on the ice chest. Leaving the cast picture and envelope in the rocker I vacated, I followed in Wilde’s footsteps, pausing at the corner. He must have entered through the sliding screen door at the far end, opposite another split in the railing. I headed that way, heard snippets of his conversation, and deduced he spoke with an insurance agent about the claim for the tree.
I descended two steps and stood on a square cement landing, more curious than ever about the man who lived next door. The house was a smaller two-story brick. Overall, the property had a shabby appearance. The grass was several days overdue for a cutting. Rocketing offshoots on the shrubs went untrimmed, and thistles up next to the house sprouted a foot high. A detached garage in matching brick sat at the end of the long, slightly uphill concrete driveway. A mini-metropolis of out-of-control weeds was entrenched in the drive’s expansion gaps. Like soldiers, tall and straight, they drew their battle lines and won the war without bloodshed. The enemy had retreated.
Either the weedy mess, my need to think, or something from childhood drew me over without a modicum of reserve. I bent down so my agile fingers could pick at a cluster of vines. A powdering of dirt came up with it. I tossed the limp vine with its system of frail, tangled roots off to the side, then wrenched out a cheery dandelion. Its long, spiked root snapped off without its pointed tip.
Gina Frawley was like the spiked root, I imagined. I could follow her movements, bold and one-dimensional. She quit the play. By ten Wednesday night, she sat at home with Wilkey Summer. She packed her bags Thursday morning, and she came by Barton’s house on her way out of town. Then she disappeared—snapped off—the rest of her story still buried somewhere.
I was vaguely aware of the growing stain on my finger and thumb, the rattling of Burl Wilde’s sliding door, and his phone ringing again. My concentration shifted to the dizzying and obscure tangle that was Barton Reed’s lies. He knew Gina far better than he let on. The woman coming to his house early in the morning proved that. According to Wilde, Barton had not been home Wednesday night, tending to rewrites. The fact was the new script—minus Gina’s character—sat at Cummings Office Supply, copied, stapled, boxed, and purposely held for a Thursday delivery. A basic question haunted me: Why would anyone need to lie about when a script was rewritten?
I cleared out one of the shallow crevasses, reaching the buffer of lawn separating the house from the driveway. Here, I automatically turned my attention to edging back the overhang of grass, like shaggy bangs, from the drive. I stopped weeding, just shy of my bowed head banging into the garage wall.
I rose to inspect my handiwork and realized the tree guys hadn’t left. One of their idling trucks half-blocked Barton’s drive. A young man with a curly head of windblown hair standing out around his face gave me a peculiar look from the passenger seat. Even from this distance, I could tell he was just as befuddled by my bout of spontaneous weeding as I was by the tangled lies told by Barton.
I gave him a half-hearted smile, flicked my gaze to the left, and moved into the rear yard. A walkway led from the garage’s side door to a small patio and back entrance. As Wilde described, a globed light was suspended high along the door’s framework. I found no personal objects out back. No lawn chairs or grass-stained shoes. Not even a hose. Nothing in the yard. Just a waist-high Rubbermaid trash container stationed beside the garage. Good. I could make use of that. The weedy dregs of my mental deliberations had to go somewhere.
With no broom in evidence either, I returned to the driveway and scooped piles together, being careful not to rake my knuckles across the rough cement. Overloaded with my bundle of wilting castoffs, I tottered off to the backyard receptacle. Ideally, I should have removed the lid before my hands were full. Using both pinkie fingers, all that I could spare for a weak grasp on the handle, I tugged awkwardly. The tug freed the lid, and I lost it all in the same motion. Thumping to the ground, it took a final bounce, marooning itself on its back, like a squirming beetle.
I peered into the depths. The plastic bin’s sole occupant was a rigid rubberized sippy cup for coffee, molded to ride in a car’s beverage holder. As the black mug rocked with my brusque intrusion, I could see that the logo on the attached oval plate sent a group of multicolored coils around the initials TST. Snazzy! I thought. K.C. would like something like this for goodwill gestures with the city’s name stylized on the front. A salesman must’ve come by the theater, caught Barton, and given him this sample and his pitch. Lucy and I try to intercept salesmen before they reach the mayor. K.C.’s an impulse buyer with no equal.
I dropped my handful in. It landed with a weak slap, covering the cup. A few clippings escaped in my tussle with the lid, so I whisked them up and flung them over the side. I held the lid in hand, ready to recap the can, when a voice from the driveway nearly scared the pants off me. My entire body flinched. I pivoted to find a glowering Barton Reed.
“God, you scared me!” My heart thumped, and I could see another embarrassing moment coming my way, trying to account for my compulsive behavior.
“Wrenn, what are you doing? Why are you here?” he demanded.
I stammered ineffectually throughout his forward charge. He snatched the lid from my grasp and looked in the can for his answer. I saw his face change to bewilderment. His eyes swung from me to the driveway, then retraced the route. This was an expression I observed many times on others who try and fail to comprehend my habitual nature to rip weeds up by their roots.
“I know what you’re thinking,” I managed.
“No, I don’t think you do.” He punctuated his words by smashing the lid back into place.
“Let me explain.”
“Okay,” he said, dragging the word out and folding his arms over his chest.
“K.C. sent me out here.”
“Mayor Tallmadge? To pull my weeds? Does this mean I’ve fallen into disfavor?”
I didn’t like his sarcastic tone, nor the smirk that went with it. Overlooking those, I began again, pleasantly, “No, he sent me out here to canvass the neighborhood. You know, the other night, the sinkhole, the accident.”
He followed my gesture toward the stub of a tree. I watched understanding spread over his face, and he calmed. “Oh, yeah, I read about that in the paper.” Finally, a truthful statement, since he hadn’t been home to witness the accident’s aftermath personally.
“That whole thing produced a lot of calls to City Hall. Everyone was upset. So here I am,” I bubbled, “sent by K.C. to the huddled masses and all that. Mr. Wilde and I were just talking about it, but he went in to take a phone call.”
“So with a few moments to yourself, you decided to pull my weeds?”
“Actually, yes,” I confessed, much to his surprise, but it was a fairly accurate summary. “I do this all the time. If I see a weed, I pull it, then it becomes addictive, and I can’t stop. I guess I should thank you for coming home. No telling how long I would’ve kept it up. I hope you don’t mind because I can’t put them back.”
I laughed at the thought. Finally, he did, too. When I saw his shoulders relax, I knew the time had come to weed out his lies.
We moved slowly out to the drive, shoulder to shoulder, hearing the rumble of the trucks, audibly shifting into gear. They backed skillfully down the hill.
“Did play practice go well?” My question was typical of conversations held with him over the past weeks.
“There are a few rough spots still, but it’s coming along. I’m generally pleased overall.”
Nodding toward his neighbor’s house, I said, “I enjoyed meeting Mr. Wilde. He seems to spend a lot of time on his front porch.”
“He does, at that.”
“You know, it put him in position t
o see something that surprised me.” I locked eyes with him. “He saw you let Gina Frawley into your house Thursday morning, right before—as the story goes—she left town.” He swallowed, but didn’t break eye contact. “She’s on the fringe of two criminal investigations in this town: the theft of the Egyptian artifacts, and perhaps you don’t know, but she was seen more than once talking with the man murdered at Rosemont.” With righteousness on my side, I pursued him. “I think you’ve been skirting the issue about how well you know her.”
In the next few seconds, I could see him considering his options. He produced a smile and leaned in. “You won’t tell the mayor on me, will you? I hope it’s not a criminal offense in Havens to have a fling with your supporting cast member.”
This was so cavalierly said, it left me speechless. My thoughts ran instantly to the lovesick, and now betrayed, Wilkey Summer.
“But other than hopping into the sack with her a few times, I pled innocent.” In concert with his words, Barton threw up his hands. The act disavowed any wrongdoing. “I don’t know anything about her connections to the theft or the murder. Actually, I can’t believe it could be true. She came over Thursday to say goodbye, then she took off, just like you said.”
“And you don’t know where she went?”
“We had a purely physical attraction, Wrenn. Almost animalistic.” His lips bent into a crude smile. “We didn’t linger for pillow talk, to share recipes, or discuss the stock market. I hope I’m not embarrassing you.”
“Not at all. I hope I won’t embarrass you when I ask why you keep lying to me.”
Aghast by my effrontery, he took a few steps away, then turned to face me, his back to Wilde’s house. “Lying? About what? About Gina?”
“About other things,” I said, holding my ground. “You said you were home Wednesday night, writing Gina out of the play. Mr. Wilde said you didn’t pull in here until the middle of the night. Early morning, actually.”
“I misspoke. I did the rewrites down at the theater.”
“Until three-thirty in the morning?”
“You’re a writer. You know what it’s like. Once inspired, you just keep going, losing all track of time.”
Cluck, cluck, cluck went my tongue against the roof of my mouth. “Barton, you’re still lying.”
“Wrenn, I hardly think I have to report my every movement to you,” he replied hotly. “What difference does it make?”
I folded my impertinence into momentum, using it to keep my tone steady and light. “You couldn’t have been rewriting Spinsters until three-thirty. That rewrite was already done. It was the blue-page revision, and you’d already delivered it to Cummings on Wednesday, shortly after lunch.”
His eyes shifted. He drew back slightly, but covered his stunned surprise well. I scored a direct hit and kept going.
“There are a lot of inconsistencies here, Barton. For instance, you told the crew on Thursday that Gina quit the play on Wednesday. But you had to know she quit before Wednesday, at least by Tuesday, in order to get the changes over to Cummings when you did. And, another thing, you had the delivery of that revision held until Thursday. Something the delivery kid said you never did. He said you were always in a hurry. Couldn’t get it fast enough.”
“What? Is the delivery kid a cousin, or something? Christ! Small towns. Look, I didn’t need it until Thursday. That’s all,” he said, explaining it away. “And I wasn’t sure I’d be at the theater late Wednesday afternoon to receive it. And you’re right on the money, I knew Gina quit before Wednesday, but she asked me not to say anything right away. Before you pry any further, I don’t know why that was important to her, but I honored her request.”
I knew he could break this off at any time, simply dismissing me, and retreat into the house, but he was intrigued. He had to see where I would go.
Which was this. I’d been right to think their lies connected them somehow. Gina’s claim to be at play practice Wednesday night easily translated into a rendezvous with Barton. Fishing for verification, I said, “So you can give Gina an alibi for Wednesday night. Until when?”
He bit. “I don’t know. Sometime after ten, I think.” His reply was crabby, indignant. “And what are you doing, following me all over town?”
I ignored his question and asked another, this one a derivative of nothing but pure nosiness. “How long has this thing with you and Gina been going on?”
His head jerked up, his cheeks aflame. He jabbed a finger in my face. “Hey! My sex life is none of your business.”
Behind Barton, a shuffling Burl Wilde caught my eye. The expression on his face said he plainly heard Barton’s words. “There you are, Miss Grayson,” he called out. “I’m sorry I took so long.”
Barton’s hand dropped to his side. He spun to see his approaching neighbor. I gave Wilde extra credit for perceptiveness. Not wanting to see things taken from bad to worse, he slipped my picture of Gina and the cast back into the envelope he retrieved from the rocker. I was on the same page. The less Barton knew in that vein, the better.
“I was afraid you’d gone off and forgotten this.” Striding through the grass, Wilde waved the envelope. He spoke a greeting to Barton, who merely grunted his reply.
I held Wilde’s gaze and thanked him ever so sincerely. Taking the envelope, I passed on the promise from the tree service guy to return Monday to complete the job. This opportunity for an exit couldn’t have been scripted any better than if it were written by an accomplished playwright. I wished both men a pleasant evening and hurried down the drive, resisting all urges to stop and pluck a few weeds along the way.
I strode past Barton’s maroon BMW with its Illinois tags, parked in front of my midnight-blue PT. Once settled behind the wheel, I glanced up. Barton was nowhere in sight. Wilde maintained a protective stance at the corner of his porch, watchful over my departure. He waved, and so did I.
I negotiated a tight U-turn and headed home.
Pop Quiz
Fifteen minutes after exiting Winding Trail, I swung into Hancock Lane, thinking I had some game with Barton Reed. I pulled Midnight to a stop, got out, and might have put a little swagger in my step when I went to retrieve the mail. Around the square post supporting the box grew a ragged jumble of weeds and long grass. My fingers were already stained, so I knelt to pinch back what the lawn mower missed and considered Havens’ visiting playwright.
Barton wanted me to believe all his lies were a cover-up for his fling with the skimpily dressed redhead, their relationship all flash and no substance. He made one slip though, saying he and Gina were together until after ten o’clock Wednesday night. Wilkey Summer told me she was home with him by ten. Time is an elusive dimension for many people. That said, I could conclude Barton made an honest mistake. Then I chuckled at the irony of the words Barton and honest in the same sentence.
With a little more prodding, a nudge in the right direction, and things would begin to fall into place. Oddly enough, at that moment, I thought the mailbox post started to sway. Too much prodding and nudging during my second weeding frenzy. I collected a sale catalog and two utility bills and returned to the car.
The PT began its roll forward when my cell rang. I answered to hear Gideon’s voice. “It’s getting late. What are you doing?”
If we pulled off this dinner with Adam Porter, all the credit belonged to Gideon. I was very nearly still wrapped in a towel when Adam arrived. As it was, Gideon held the front door open while I flew down the stairs, freshly scrubbed, my modesty preserved under a smocked sundress in shades of pale rose. It was simple, comfortable, and required no ironing. Needing time for the latter may have pushed the towel up to first billing.
Together, we went out to greet our guest. He climbed out of a four-door sedan. I knew Adam best in polite society, when our paths crossed at Blake Hall or the occasional university function. Here lately, tales of misbehavior were brought home by Gideon. Even Janice Jankowski spoke of the rebellious underling.
The lanky, round-shoul
dered associate professor came around the car, kissed me on the cheek, and shook Gideon’s hand without fervor. His gray shirt and black pants reflected the stress that shrouded his life since Thursday morning. He spoke to Gideon. I studied Adam’s face. It appeared thinner, if that were possible. His complexion was sallow, and his glasses magnified a set of deeply troubled eyes.
The dark-haired Adam pushed eyeglasses up on his nose and gave the property a full inspection, taking in the nearby woods, the curved lane to Mary Hancock’s farmhouse, and the acres of cropland, spreading out on both sides of Somerset Road. “This is wonderful. Really isolated. This is what I need. I know what I’m going to do with my life now, Gideon. I’m going to become a recluse. I think I’m suited for it. You wouldn’t be willing to give up this place?”
Gideon and I exchanged curious glances while Adam craned his neck to see around back of the cottage.
“Not a chance, buddy. You’re going to have to begin life as a recluse somewhere else, I’m afraid.”
“My place on Townsley is too close to the campus.” Adam gave an involuntary shudder. “These days, it’s like being on display, but I suppose that’ll change soon enough.” He was lost in thought for a second, then found his way back. “Anyway, this is a real nice place, here.”
The half-double Adam lived in on Townsley was campus housing, a privilege extended to associate professors in good standing. Those who have confessed to committing fraudulent acts against the institution might well expect to have that privilege revoked.
We guided him alongside the cottage to the back patio, a rectangle of irregular slate tiles. The evening sun appeared caught in the tops of the trees bordering the small yard, causing a trellis of shadows to fall on the patio. A light breeze stirred, mixing the sweet scent of honeysuckle with the delicious aroma of charcoal-seared beef.
Deadly Homecoming at Rosemont Page 21