Mia washed her hands and said, “Is this okay, then?”
“It’s great,” I said. There was something about her look that just … got to me.
Couldn’t explain it.
“Do you need to go back to work?”
She shook her head. “Nope. My shift is done, thank God.”
I sat down on the near stool. Mia stood on the other side of the kitchen counter next to the three extra stools.
“This is going to sound odd, but please listen. Look at all this food.” I waved my hand around the full plates. “There’s no way I can eat all this. I won’t even be able to finish the leftovers. Please join me.”
Her eyes were warm but suspicious. “I don’t think so.”
I put a blue cloth napkin on my lap. “Mia, I’m a few days out of the hospital. Lots of people know me here in Tyler. I’m a magazine writer, and I have nothing untoward in mind. In fact, I’m so weak, I can’t even think of anything untoward. It’d be a shame to let all this food go to waste.”
I could sense her hesitation, and added, “And your time here, well, it’ll be reflected in a tip. Does that sound fair?”
A quick nod. “Yeah, it does sound fair. And Christ …”
She picked up a knife and fork and I asked, “What’s that?”
Mia started working on a scallop. “This’ll be the first time I get to eat one of the meals I serve to all those rich people that stay across the street.”
After a few awkward moments, my meal and my guest both settled down. I was hungry, but not compared to Mia, who looked absolutely starved. As she ate I learned she was an only child, came from a very small town up north called Wentworth, and had graduated from the University of New Hampshire in Durham more than three years ago with a B.A. in Journalism. Her parents had moved south outside of Porter, looking for work: Dad was a construction contractor, and Mom kept the books and did some hairdressing on the side. Still, even with her college degree, Mia couldn’t afford to work full time as a journalist.
“Don’t get me wrong,” Mia said. “The professors—all former reporters themselves—did great, and I learned a lot working on the student newspaper. I managed to get a summer internship at the paper up in Dover, but … look at me. I’m no reporter. I’m a waitress here and at another place, barely making enough not to starve, all the while my student loan debt keeps on climbing up and up.”
“Sounds rough.”
“Yeah, good word, rough. You see, as much as I learned about being a newspaper reporter, what I really should have learned is that I was getting trained for a dying industry. It’s like being an apprentice at a buggy whip factory back when Ford was setting up his first assembly line. My aunt, she used to be a reporter here thirty, forty years ago, and back then, there were lots of papers competing in this part of the state, weeklies, semiweeklies, dailies. Lots of pressure to get the news. Now? One Texas-based outfit owns all the local newspapers, so there’s no real competition.”
Mia paused, shook her head. “I do what I can. I’ve done freelance, I’ve done some web stuff, but most of them want stories for free. Ugh. Like it’s gonna give me exposure and I should be grateful for that.”
“And the waitressing?”
Another pause. “Up at the Lafayette House it’s okay. Make good tips because of the rich folks who stay there. But the other job, up in Porter. A fish shack that, for some reason, a bunch of grumpy retired cops hang out at, and the three commissioners that supposedly oversee the Porter cops. Bigger bunch of clueless jerks you’ve never seen, and they tip like shit.”
We ate some more and she said, “What’s your story?”
“Magazine columnist. Used to work for the Department of Defense. Had some surgery recently. Trying to bounce back.”
Mia nodded, looked around my house. “Cool place. Up in the dining room at the Lafayette House, you can see the top of your place. Nice and remote. And old. Am I right?”
“Built in the mid-1800s. Almost as old as I am.”
She laughed. “You’re not that old—but maybe old enough.”
A flash then, of déjà vu, and in that moment, this young lady reminded me of my Cissy Manning. Not that they looked alike: Cissy was taller, skin more pale, and she had thick red hair. No, it was her attitude, the way of carrying herself and her lack of shyness when talking to someone she had just met. That had been my Cissy, back at the Pentagon, a strong woman who could talk to anyone without any fear.
“Hey, I’m curious about something,” Mia said. “Where did you go to college?”
“Indiana University, in Bloomington.”
“How long after graduation did you wait before getting a full-time job, you know, a real job with the start of a career and benefits.”
“About a month.”
Mia’s eyes widened with amazement. “Lucky you.”
I took a sip of water, thinking of that short career, and the dead bodies of friends and a loved one left behind and forgotten. “Yeah, lucky me.”
She wouldn’t let me help her with the dishes, and when she was finished with them she packed up enough leftovers for me to have a second meal. I walked her back to my door and she checked her watch. “Good. Enough time to get up to Porter and start another shift, and then try to write something freelance for the Porter Herald.”
Mia put her coat on, smiled. “Hey, at least I’m having a better day than some other people around here.”
“Like who?” I asked.
“When I walked over there was this couple in a car, talking to each other—okay, maybe yelling. They didn’t look very happy. At least the woman didn’t.”
“Did she have gray hair in a thick braid, a knit cap on her head?”
Mia and I were at the door. “She sure did.”
“And the man in the car with her … short white beard, tweed cap?”
Mia nodded. “That’s them. What are they, friends of yours?”
“No,” I said, opening the door for her. “Not friends.”
CHAPTER FOUR
After the generous meal supplied by Felix and the Lafayette House, I felt full and almost content as I slowly took my time going back upstairs. Each step hurt, of course, but not as much as before, which I took as a good sign. In my bedroom, the disheveled bed seemed to mock me. I was brought up to always make your bed in the morning, and there was just something creepy about crawling into a sloppy bed.
I sat on the edge of the bed, careful to avoid resting on my drainage tubes, and picked up the remote to navigate the television’s complicated on-demand menu and find the fourth episode of Band of Brothers. I managed to stay awake to the very end.
Late afternoon I was up again, but definitely not about, staring out the window at the cruel sea. But it didn’t look too cruel at this moment, just a dark gray swelling movement, with lobster pots visible and the sharp rocks of the Isles of Shoals.
A knock at the door caused me to say a few naughty words in the direction of the islands, and then a woman’s voice called out: “You decent up there?”
To which I yelled back, “Not hardly!”
I was rewarded with a laugh and there were footsteps on the stairs, and into my bedroom came Detective Sergeant Diane Woods of the Tyler Police Department. She was wearing black sneakers, black slacks, a waist-length brown leather jacket, and a red blouse. Her brown hair was cut in a bobbed style that went out of fashion years ago—which I’ve never had the heart to tell her—and she looked pretty good, with the recent scars and bruises on her face finally fading away.
“This is a treat,” I said.
“You bet it is,” she said.
“No, I mean it. I know you’re up to your ears in the Maggie Branch killing.”
“Yeah,” Diane nodded. “A real freaking mess. But I got some free time and Paula rang me up, asked if I’d come over and give you a hand with your drains.”
“You’re kidding me.”
“Nope,” she said.
She walked over, held out two rough and stro
ng hands. “Come along, tiger. Let’s get this job done.”
I worked with Diane, getting up on the floor, and she walked me to the bathroom. I said, “It might be bloody.”
“What, you don’t think I’ve seen blood before?”
As with Felix, Diane got the job done with little fuss or muss, and she said, “Looks like your output is decreasing. A good sign?”
“Very good sign,” I said. “Means in a couple of days I’ll get these drains removed, and I won’t feel like Dr. Frankenstein’s practice creation before he figured everything out.”
I eased back into my bed and Diane brought in the chair from my office. She kicked off her sneakers and stretched out her legs, putting her feet on my bed.
“What’s the latest?” I said.
She ran her hands through her thick brown hair. “What we got is that somebody met up with Maggie Tyler Branch sometime after five P.M. two days ago. We know the time because a half hour earlier, she had left Hannaford’s with some groceries. She was due to have a late dinner with a neighbor at eight P.M., and when she didn’t show up, the neighbor drove over and found her.”
“Where?”
“In the barn where she kept her antiques. She has a little office in the back with a rolltop desk, some wooden filing cabinets, and one of those old-fashioned swivel chairs. That’s where she was found.”
“Paula said she was killed with a shotgun.”
Diane sighed. “Very messy, very bloody, and … very unnecessary. What’s the point? She was an old woman, no threat to anyone. And if you’re going to rob the place, why not just bop her on the back of her head, or tie her up? What’s the point of blowing off her head?”
“Maybe the thief or thieves didn’t want to be recognized.”
“Maybe …”
“And no one heard anything?”
“You’ve been there before, right? I recall you did a column for Shoreline about her.”
“Two,” I said.
“Must have missed one, then,” she said. “Her place was probably the most remote piece of property left in Tyler, with brush and trees around it. One shotgun blast … we can see why nobody heard anything. Or saw anything.”
“Anything of value stolen?”
“What, you planning on writing a magazine column about this?”
“Not anytime soon,” I said. “But humor me, Diane. I’m stuck in this house, I’m tired of reading, tired of watching television.”
“Looking for stimulation, then?”
“Looking for adult conversation.”
She laughed, folded her hands in her lap. “Nice to be called an adult. Well, the place was tossed, like they were looking for something. But there were small vaults that had gold jewelry in them, and those weren’t touched. And some cash.”
“Any valuable, antique silver?” I said, remembering Felix.
“Not that I’m aware of,” she said. “You have any particular interest, Lewis? You have anything that you were having Maggie check out?”
“No,” I said, being honest. “I didn’t have anything there for her to check out.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Paula thinks maybe it was a robbery,” I said, changing the subject. “Maybe something to get money for heroin, since her place was so close to the Interstate.”
“Mmm, maybe,” she said, her voice skeptical. “I can tell you that the surveillance tapes from the tollbooths leading off the Interstate are being reviewed, but people who steal to get a fix, they’re in a hurry, they’re trembling, they don’t have time to check out an antiques shop and fumble around. No, they like quick and easy hits. Convenience stores, liquor outlets, places like that.”
“So what’s the theory?”
She smiled. “You know our methods, Watson. Collect the evidence, see where it takes us, and leave the theorizing for later. And I’m afraid later has just arrived.”
Diane got up and came over and gave me a kiss to the cheek. I said, “How goes the wedding plans?”
“Oh, it’s on all right. This June. The social event of the year. Kara and I can hardly wait.” Diane pulled away and said, “How are you?”
“You know what I look like, Holmes. Any other questions?”
“Your nighttime visitor?”
I paused, thinking of what I could say to her.
“Lewis. The truth.”
“Came by last night.”
“How do you know?”
“Heard the door open and close. Heard footsteps.”
“Why don’t you have Felix sleep on your couch?”
“He’s already done that a couple of times, to no effect. Hey, I have an idea. Why don’t you sleep on my couch?”
Diane smiled one more time as she walked out of my bedroom.
“Don’t tempt me.”
Paula called at about five o’clock. She was desperately trying to finish a piece before she had to go to a selectman’s meeting at six. I told her to do her job and do her best to get the Pulitzer Prize committee’s attention. She laughed and said she might try sending the committee a photo of her in a new bikini, and would I be interested in helping her? I said yes.
Felix stopped by an hour later, as promised, carrying dinner and an on old cane. “Dinner is fettuccine Alfredo with lobster, and a salad,” he said, passing over a plastic bag. “Pretty warm so you should go right for it.”
“Thanks,” I said, putting it on the kitchen counter. “That I will.”
“And here’s Uncle Paulie’s cane,” he said, handing that over as well. The cane was dark brown, with a metal tip and a knobbed end that was carved in the shape of a wolf’s head.
I held it with both hands. It felt heavy, solid. “Nice to see Uncle Paulie was discreet in making a fashion statement.”
“Uncle Paulie’s statements were usually more direct and didn’t involve fashion sense.”
“Thanks,” I said, trying the cane out for size as I went down one length of the living room and then back.
Felix gave a slow-motion clap and said, “Work it, boy, work it. Show us what you got.”
“Thanks, old bean,” I said.
Felix nodded. “There’s a cool secret with the cane. You want me to show you?”
I hefted its weight again. “Nah,” I said. “Let me figure it out. Gives me something to look forward to.”
He checked his watch. “Sorry, friend, have to leave.”
“And where are you off to in such a hurry?”
“Lowell,” he said.
“Massachusetts?” I asked, surprised. Poor Lowell, a former mill town that had been struggling to recover for decades, had the unfortunate distinction of being a hub in this part of the world for cheap drugs and other nefarious dealings.
“No, silly boy,” he said. “Lowell, Alaska. What do you think?”
“What the hell are you going to be doing in Lowell?”
He smiled, but it wasn’t one of those cheery smiles that makes one think of sunshine and lemonade and listening to the Red Sox on my rear deck. It was a smile of a man going to a place where he’s well prepared and well armed, and has no qualms in doing what has to be done.
“Research,” he said.
“Okay, you got me there. What kind of research?”
“Finding out why a Toyota Corolla with Massachusetts license plates was seen departing the residence of Maggie Tyler Branch on the night of her murder.”
“Felix …”
“Yep, that’s my name, don’t wear it out.”
“The police have been chasing down leads, and last I heard there were no witnesses at the time of the murder, and definitely no sign of anyone leaving Maggie’s place that night. Not to mention a Toyota Corolla.”
“Did I mention a Toyota Corolla? Funny, I thought I didn’t.”
“You don’t have to worry,” I said. “Your dastardly secrets are mostly safe with me. Just be careful, and …”
“Yes?”
“Let me know what you find out. With all of this healing, I’m ge
tting bored out of my mind.”
“Will do.”
One of my many faults is that I get impatient whenever friends or strangers come to me and are desperate to tell me about their dreams. “You see, it was my house, but it wasn’t really my house, it had a secret basement, and the property went down to the river, but in my dream, the river was an ocean and we never got down there as we should, and there was buffalo grazing on the front lawn and then the dump trucks arrived …”
And that’s when I usually nod politely and make an excuse to leave the room.
But tonight the dreams came back, and I woke up, trembling. It was like before. I was with Cissy, pretty fuzzy but … it wasn’t a dream. Like before, it was as if deep in my memory cells, a bit of videotape was replayed, and I was there. I swear to God, I was there, not only experiencing what I was experiencing with Cissy—and God, it was so good just to taste her, just to be with her—but also becoming the man I had been back then, young and cocky and full of confidence, sure that I was the person I was meant to be, in confidential service to my country, with the woman I was meant to love and be with for the rest of my life.
“Cissy,” I whispered when I woke up, sheets tangled around me, heart racing, wondering why in God’s name I was dreaming about those long ago days. Why? Was it the surgery that brought my past into rough view? Was my body—now cut free of tumors once again—conspiring with my mind to bring up a mirror to the past, forcing me to look, forcing me to flinch at the good and bad, forcing me to account for what I had become? Or delayed aftereffects from the strong painkiller I had taken days earlier?
And what had I become? For a number of years I had thought about being in government service, working quietly and behind the scenes, against what I thought was an implacable foe … and I was fortunate enough to find a woman to join me in that life, and the dreams we had …
Now I was alone. A magazine writer with too many scars and bad memories, with a woman now, Paula, but for how long? For how long about anything?
I had that strange mixture of dread, sadness, and melancholy, for having briefly revisited who I had once been in the past, and facing who I really was now.
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