Woulds

by J. L. Wilson

  That gave me three copies of the information. I zipped Will’s original memory stick into the inner pocket of my purse and considered my next move. I needed to find out what happened last night. Who would know?

  I considered and discarded the idea of trying to find Will’s roommates and talk to them. The story of the shooting was probably all over town by now. Maybe Marianne. No, wait. Rob. I could talk to Rob. He was at the factory last night.

  “That’s it.” I went to the bedroom to check on the resident escapees. I opened the door and peeked inside. They were curled around each other, tucked into a compact ball on my pillow. Small puckers in my chenille bedspread showed me where tiny cat claws dug in and pulled. “Okay, guys. You’re on your own.”

  Cayenne opened one eye, regarded me with a sigh and closed it again. His sister purred. I closed the door softly and headed out.

  It promised to be another warm day, with dampness in the air accenting the dense odor of flowers and trees. Fat white clouds lazily perambulated across the pale blue sky and for an instant I was suffused with happy warmth, enjoying the pristine day.

  Then I remembered.

  I drove east then south for a block or two, driving past Rob and Marianne’s house on Forest View Drive. I glimpsed Marianne’s sedan in the open garage but Rob’s green pickup wasn’t there. I drove through town, checked Fitz’s headquarters on Prince Street, and even drove past a couple of bars, trying to spy Rob’s truck.

  I finally gave up on town and headed onto the river road. If Rob wasn’t at his cabin, I could continue on and go to the factory in York. Maybe he was there. The road followed the river with all its twists and turns. On my right side was a ditch with the river ten or twenty feet below. On my left was often woodland, sometimes farmland, and sometimes swamp, depending on the terrain.

  About three miles north I crossed over a bridge and now the river was on my left with swampland on my right. Twisted tree trunks stuck out of the muck, evidence of last year’s heavy flooding which pushed the river right up to the roadside.

  I slowed along a tricky series of S-curves, grimacing when I saw the mangled remains of a coon on the side of the road, only identifiable by the black mask around what remained of its face. Road kill was a common occurrence on any highway, but this piece of county blacktop always seemed to have more than its fair share.

  The turnoff for Rob’s cabin was on the right, paved for about a hundred yards before changing to gravel. A farm in the distance was like something from a Grant Wood painting with its white farmhouse and bright red barn. In my opinion, this was the prettiest time of the year in the Midwest. A haze of green hovered over the fields, but there were still dark ribbons showing through the sprouting seedlings. The corn was only a few inches high and the soybeans were still nubbins. This gave the viewer a chance to see the curves and contours of the hills and the intricate details of the plantings, whereas later in the season, when everything grew in, all you’d see was the crops themselves. The fields were broken up by greening meadows where cows grazed, black and white dots on the horizon.

  I slowed to go over rutted railroad tracks then I was back on a twisting bit of road, heavily shadowed by trees on either side, the river on my left in the distance. The road climbed steeply here with a hairpin curve at the top where I made the left turn into Rob’s lane. The cabin was situated on a bluff over the river with verdant green woodland all around it. I drove the short distance to the house, but I didn’t see a pickup truck in the drive.

  I parked near the garage and got out, taking the path around the enclosed porch on the side of the house. Rob sometimes parked his truck in town or here at the cabin and took his boat to and fro. I walked past the supports for his redwood deck, going downhill until the deck loomed above me. I walked along the cleared slope of grass leading to the bank near the river where I spied the dock and his boat tied up there.

  “Well, shit. I guess I have to go to the factory.” I didn’t have that much time. Of course, from the factory I could take the highway home, which would be faster. I started to walk back uphill when I glimpsed something dark in the shrubbery down the hill on my right.

  I moved a few steps but lost sight of it. I moved again and there it was, a jacket or a lump of clothing. I hesitated. If it wasn’t moving and it was an animal, it was probably ill or hurt. I considered checking it, but time was wasting and to be honest, I wasn’t sure I could face another dose of animal misery after seeing what was in Will’s files.

  I’d tell Rob about it, I decided. Let him deal with it. I hurried past the deck supports, grabbing hold of one to give me momentum up the hill.

  I froze. The wood felt cold and wet and it was discolored, darkly soaked with what looked like blood.

  I sprang back, eyeing my hand while I laughed shakily. There were no telltale red splotches, only flecks of paint or grease. I scrubbed my palm on my denim capris and kept going, sliding on the grass which was soggy and torn up a bit. My sneakers couldn’t get much traction on the trampled turf. Rob must have dropped something heavy there, or maybe dragged something because a distinct trail led along the underside of the porch to the drop-off to the river.

  Well, whatever. I shook my head at my own nervousness. I peered once again at the shrubbery but couldn’t see the dark lump anymore. Maybe it was an animal and maybe it moved.

  “Not my problem,” I said, coming around the end of the deck. I paused to peer over my shoulder at the river and the dark shape under the bushes . . .

  . . . and screamed when someone grabbed my arm.

  Chapter 7

  “Let go of me!” I pulled back and promptly slipped when my grabber released his hold.

  John Smalley reached me in time, preventing me from falling. “Sorry, Tucker. I didn’t mean to startle you. I wasn’t sure who it was. I’m looking for Rob.”

  I tried to get a breath around the shocked cacophony of my heart, which was going a mile a minute. “I didn’t hear your car.”

  “I left my car and boat at the public launch and came up the path. I was going to do some fishing today. Is Rob around?”

  The boat ramp was downriver from Rob’s cabin, a few hundred yards as the crow flew or a half-mile by road. “I haven’t seen him. Maybe he’s at the factory.”

  “Why would he be there today? Office staff doesn’t work there on weekends.” John peered past me to the cabin. “Must be important for you to drive here.” His gaze returned to me, his dark eyes inquisitive.

  My brother always said the best way to tell a lie was to twist the truth. I decided to follow his advice because he’d been a proficient liar, God rest his devious soul. “I was trying to find out what happened at the factory last night. You know, about the shooting.”

  “Shooting?”

  I resumed walking up the hill to my car and John fell into place beside me. “Yeah, there was a shooting at the factory last night. I figured Rob might know something. PJ was at the bar last night and he took off after he talked to Rob.”

  “That’s crazy. Why would anyone break in? Was it trespassing? Theft?”

  “That’s why I’m trying to find Rob.” I managed a shaky laugh. “I suppose I’m a nosy old busybody, but I was curious.” I paused in the drive and checked my watch. “I need to get back to town now and open the Acorn. Rob must be at the factory.”

  John held my car door open for me while I slipped behind the wheel. “You said you had a friend who worked there. Does this have anything to do with it?”

  I bit my lip to keep from revealing my surprise. “I didn’t say anything like that, did I?”

  “I guess I assumed it. Is everything okay?”

  “I suppose.” I tugged the door closed and decided to lay the groundwork for my later illness. “I’m not feeling good today. I have a headache that won’t quit.”

  “It could be an aftereffect from that punch you took,” John said sympathetically. “You really should go to the doctor. You might have a concussion.”

  He seemed so wor
ried I felt guilty for planting the idea in his head. “I’m sure it’s nothing. Probably allergies or something.” I sniffed mightily and dabbed at my right eye. “If you see Rob, tell him I was being a nosy neighbor.”

  “Will do. And if I hear anything of interest, I’ll make sure to let you know. After all, we have to make sure our bartenders know all the good gossip in town.”

  I nodded agreement before backing up carefully in Rob’s narrow drive, almost running into the big rhododendron near the porch. It took me two or three twists and turns, but no way was I going to back my car onto the road with its blind turn. When I was finally pointed at the road, I checked my rear view mirror and saw John stride off toward the trees, but not on the path leading to the river and the boat launch. He went around the deck the same way I did.

  What was he doing? He paused at the spot where I stopped to examine the damp deck post. Then he straightened and turned. I waved and pulled onto the road.

  Go left, to the factory? Even while I considered it, I knew I wouldn’t go there. There was no way I could pull off a casual, “Hey, Rob, how’s it going?” by showing up at the factory on a Sunday afternoon. I shook my head and turned right, heading back to town. I was lucky John chalked up my inquisitiveness to inherent nosiness. Otherwise my clumsy attempts at detecting might be suspicious.

  Something John said resonated with me while I navigated the twisting road. He was right. Bartenders were truly at the hub of gossip in town. That gave me another idea. I might stop in and visit a few fellow bartenders and see if anybody knew what happened. I needed to do something, damn it. Anything.

  I spent the next hour dropping in at the three different bars in Barnsdale which opened on Sunday at noon. The ‘doings at the Yoke’ were a hot topic among the regulars. Most of the stories I gathered were the same. Someone vandalized one of the factory buildings, destroying property and opening the doors so the chickens could escape. Night workers called the police and the Sheriff arrived, his office having jurisdiction because York was too small to have a police force of its own. Two factory workers were injured in the resulting confusion and one person was shot, but no one was quite sure who it was or why.

  I did learn one surprising tidbit of information at the last place I stopped. “Richard Fitz is in town,” Lee Knight mentioned. Lee owned Knight’s Title and Abstract Company, which handled most of the real estate transactions in town. He and some cronies were in the Huntsman’s Grill, having a few drinks after a round of golf.

  “I heard he was coming later in the week,” I commented. “For the town picnic.”

  Lee toyed with his mixed drink, twirling the swizzle stick around in the glass. “I saw him and PJ at PJ’s house. They were standing in the drive when we came up the fifteenth fairway to the green. I’d recognize Richard anywhere, that arrogant son of a bitch.”

  I sat up straighter in surprise. Lee was normally a laid-back kind of guy who didn’t have an enemy in the world. “I don’t think I’ve ever met him.”

  “No loss for you.” Lee’s mouth twisted sourly, distorting his thin face. “From what I could see, PJ wasn’t too happy to have big brother in town.” Lee’s thin brown hair lay in damp waves on his high forehead, feathering over the tan line where his hat had rested. “Richard has a way of managing things which can sometimes be tough to handle.”

  “Really?” I sipped my tonic water, stealing a glance at my watch. I needed to get going but this was juicy gossip. “I didn’t know that.”

  “Yeah. I did some legal work for them a long, long time ago.” Lee scowled at the bar counter, a deep flush mottling his cheeks. “Richard always adheres to the letter of the law, but just barely.” He started to say something more, then he stopped, shaking his head slightly.

  “Do you think he came here because of what happened at the factory?”

  “You mean the shooting?” Lee didn’t wait for my reply. “Yeah, I doubt Richard would let PJ handle something like that.”

  “Like what?”

  “Lawsuits. Let’s face it, if somebody was injured and lived, they’ll probably figure a way to file a lawsuit. Everybody files lawsuits nowadays. And if somebody was shot and died, the next of kin will probably file a lawsuit.”

  Next of kin? Was I Will’s next of kin? For an instant I contemplated a wrongful death lawsuit against the Fitz family. I probably wouldn’t win but the thought of being a thorn in PJ’s side was delightful.

  Unmindful of my notion, Lee continued. “And Richard probably needs to talk to PJ about the salmonella lawsuit.”

  “Is one going to be filed?” A lawsuit was threatened, but I didn’t realize one was imminent.

  “Already filed.” Lee leaned closer. “I was at the courthouse filing the title deed for Rob Huntington’s property and I overheard.”

  “Rob? What property?”

  Lee straightened. “If Rob doesn’t want folks to know . . . .” He shrugged.

  “I’m surprised, that’s all. Rob hasn’t mentioned anything.” I touched my black eye. “I’ve seen him a lot lately.”

  Lee’s pale green eyes narrowed in thought then he appeared to come to some decision. “I guess it’s not surprising he and Guy got into a fight, what with Guy buying up Rob’s river land. Of course, if he didn’t do it, Rob would be belly-up with debt.”

  “From what?” I slid off the barstool. “Rob sold the hardware store and probably got good money for it. Did he do some bad stock investing or something? He loves that old cabin of his. No way would he sell it.”

  “I’m not sure. All I know is from what Guy said, Rob needed the money.” Lee frowned. “No, I take that back. From what Guy said, Marianne needed the money. I guess I assumed it meant Rob needed the money.” Lee turned to his right when one of his friends nudged him.

  I put my money on the counter. “Poor Rob must be desperate if he’s selling off his cabin.” I felt a pang of sympathy for him.

  “He’s still got it for thirty days. I filed the paperwork but unless Guy comes in and signs it, nothing will be processed.” Lee returned his attention to his golfing buddies, our conversation forgotten.

  I waved goodbye to the bartender and left, emerging into brilliant mid-day sunlight. I considered Lee’s information while I drove the six blocks to the pub and found a spot in our crowded parking lot, testament to the lure of the Sunday brunch at the Parlor. What could Rob possibly have done which would cause him to sell the cabin and its land? He loved that place. If he was gambling or drinking, I would know about it. Any kind of bad gossip eventually found its way to my ears, but I hadn’t heard a word about Rob except for his occasional bouts of alcoholic over-indulgence.

  I went inside to start my opening routine. Alan, bless his heart, left me a sandwich which I munched while I worked and mulled over everything that happened. By the time I opened for business, I’d run through all possibilities in my head but I was still stumped.

  Why did Rob need money? I flipped on the Open sign, unlocked the door, and began my usual routine of doling out beer, my mind half focused on my customers and the rest of it focused on everything else, on Will, Rob, animal cruelty, lawsuits. They all ran together in my brain like a revolving door, cycling and circling endlessly.

  At four in the afternoon, Alan came in and took a seat at the far end of the bar, the side nearest the back door. “Parlor’s closed,” he said when I paused near him. “I called Miller. He’ll come in at five to relieve you. I said you got a bitch of a headache from the hit you took.”

  “I do have a headache.” I clamped my lips tight for a second to hold in the grief which threatened to tumble out. “Every time I think about what happened, I think I might explode.”

  “Don’t think about it. At least not for now. Give me a pint of the Reverend’s Revenge.” He nodded at the beer taps. “I’ll stick with you until Miller comes in. We can leave together and nobody will be the wiser. You can come over to my house and Owen will meet us there.”

  I drew a glass of the dark amber lager a
nd set it in front of him. As I did, the front door opened and PJ entered with another man, both talking so heatedly they barely noticed where they walked. The man with him had to be Richard Fitz. He wore light colored khaki slacks, a navy blue golf shirt, and loafers. He reminded me of Guy Gibson with his expensive sartorial taste. Fitz’s hair was mostly steel gray, swept back from his round, tanned face. His eyebrows were dark lines across his forehead and underneath his dark eyes flickered here and there, missing nothing. Where PJ was rotund and soft, Richard was stocky and hard, muscled and fit.

  “Well, well,” Alan said. “The King returns.”

  “You know him?” I turned slightly so I could keep the two men in sight while appearing to be busy washing glasses.

  “Yep.” Alan sipped his beer, his eyes fixed on the arrivals. “He’s a few years older than us. He was a senior in high school when we were freshmen.” Alan’s face seemed to stiffen, his expressive brown eyes cold. “I haven’t seen him in years. I heard he finally married but there aren’t any kids.” Alan’s smile was bitter. “I’d be surprised if there were.”

  I tidied up the counter, nodding to a new customer who took a stool three seats from Alan. “Really? Why?”

  “He’s gay.”

  I almost fell off the Puller’s Platform. “Seriously?”

  “He’s not out of the closet but he’s gay.” Alan lifted his glass. “I know.” His eyes met mine and I saw a deep abiding hatred glow in their brown depths. “His wife is a socialite in Chicago. They’re seldom seen together.”

  “So I guess that means PJ really will inherit, if Richard has no children.” I went to fill some orders but was soon back with Alan. “Why do you think he’s in town?” I peered over my shoulder at the corner of the room where PJ and Richard lounged, sipping drinks the waitress brought them. They ignored the crowded room, intent on their conversation. I noticed the other patrons in the bar shoot glances their way and a couple of people nodded at Richard, who nodded in return.

  “It doesn’t matter about the children,” Alan said. “Old Henry divvied up his assets so each kid got a share.”