3 - Buffalo Mountain: Ike Schwartz Mystery 3

by Frederick Ramsay

  “Okay, you know where everything is. Help yourself. You might have to pump some kero though. Couple of city folk were in here a while ago and drained the barrel. I asked them what they wanted with that much. I mean if they was camping…they weren’t from around here so I figured they were campers or rented one of them retreat cabins over on the state road. But even then they didn’t need that much. Well, you know them city people. Got no more sense than bunny rabbits.”

  Steve filled a bag with baked beans, corn, Spam, and peach halves. Sonny had been right, the barrel stood dead empty. He started to work the pump.

  “Funny thing about them men. I figured they’d head back down the road to wherever they were staying but they didn’t. They took off up the hill toward your place. I reckon they got lost. They’ll be helloing back down here in a minute or two.”

  Steve filled his kerosene can, gathered his bags of canned goods, and took them to the counter. He laid ten twenty-dollar bills on the counter.

  “This will catch me up with Goad and then some. You mark it down in the book—two hundred dollars. Then minus out all what I owe.”

  A dark sedan roared past the store, downhill.

  “I told you they’d come by here. Shoot, they must be in a big time hurry.”

  Steve looked out the window as the car flashed by. In the dark and poor light he could not see much. He did notice that the license plate was not Virginia or North Carolina. If he didn’t know better, he’d swear they were DC plates. He froze for an instant, then rushed to the door and looked up the hill. His house would be just around the bend. He couldn’t see the house, but he did see the pillar of fire rising above treetops just where his house should be. A sudden flash and a shower of sparks leapt a hundred feet or so straight up, like Fourth of July fireworks. Steve left his groceries and kerosene on the counter and drove away—downhill.

  Chapter 19

  Early the next morning, Ike found Ruth sitting in a rocking chair in the living room. She had a blanket across her knees and a book in her lap. “Sleep well?”

  “No, as a matter of fact, I did not.”

  “You’re worried about the CIA connection, about Charlie. Listen, I was up half the night thinking about that and I—”

  “That’s not what kept me up. This is.” She held a book out to him. “It’s a Bible. Your mother gave me a Bible. She said I should read the book that’s named after me.”

  “The Book of Ruth? I rather think it’s the other way around.”

  “You don’t think the compilers of the Bible had me in mind?”

  “Possible, but not likely. Of course prophecy was a much more powerful gift then than it is now so…who knows?”

  “I’ve been reading it, last night and again this morning. Not just the Ruth bit—but parts of the rest of it—strange book. You know all about the Book of Ruth, I guess?”

  He nodded.

  “So you know that Ruth married a man named Boaz and one of their descendents was King David, of David and Goliath fame.” She frowned and closed the book. “I’ve never read any of it—the Bible, I mean—never felt the need. I come from a long line of committed secular humanists. Do you think she sensed that? Is that why she gave it to me?” Ruth shook her head—in annoyance or puzzlement, he couldn’t be sure. “Or is it because she’s dying? That’s it, don’t you think? You know that would put a special valence on it.”

  “Put a special what on it?”

  “You said prophecy just now. People approaching death see things, know things, allow impulses they would normally suppress to surface, and then they say and do things that sometimes border on the prophetic—you understand?”

  Ike nodded again. He wasn’t sure he did, but Ruth had the bit between her teeth and he thought it best to let her finish her thought. She sat for a long moment staring at the fireplace.

  “Ashes,” she murmured. “Heat’s gone from them. Cold as death. They serve no useful purpose other than to remind us of yesterday’s fire.” She studied him for a long moment, as if she were seeing him for the first time. She stood, stepped across the room, bent, and kissed him on the lips, hard. She looked at him fiercely with a pair of no-nonsense eyes.

  “Ike, the last thing she said to me was, ‘Don’t you think David is a nice name?’”

  ***

  The sun shone in a cloudless sky. The temperature rose to the mid-forties and winter temporarily deserted the Shenandoah Valley. It would return, certainly, but not with the uncharacteristic vengeance it had displayed during the previous two days. Whaite’s car, his beautiful show car, managed to survive ice and snow with no apparent damage. Now, as he drove south to Buffalo Mountain, its paint job received regular and massive applications of muddy, salty water. The road’s shoulders still had piles of melting snow left by the plows. They formed weirs that held small ponds of dirty slush. He had to drive through them, sending geysers of water up under the body, across the road, and over the shoulder. Approaching cars showered his when they careened into several inches of similarly trapped road water. His windshield wipers began to streak. Adding washer fluid helped, but only slightly.

  He pulled around behind Goad’s store and, again, parked out of sight. Inside, Goad stood behind the counter staring at his ledger and punching numbers into a small calculator.

  “Wait a minute, ‘Whaite a Minute,’” he said without looking up. “I’ve got to add up an account. Steve, the guy you were asking about, came in here last night and paid his back bill. Then Sonny said he acted like he’d seen a ghost and high-tailed it out the door. Left all his things right there on the counter, too. Turns out his house caught fire. He was standing right where you are when he seen it go up.”

  “Caught fire? His house?”

  “Yep, went up like a wild fire in dry timber. Whoosh! The whole place is nothing but ashes and bits of plumbing sticking up here and there.”

  “This happened last night?”

  “About midnight. Sonny said Steve took one look and took off downhill, like the witches was after him, and he ain’t been back. You’d think he’d come back to look, salvage what he could, but he ain’t. Well, maybe he’ll be in later to pick up his stuff.” Goad licked the end of his pencil, made an entry and closed the ledger. “I saw that car you’re driving. Is the Sheriff’s Department up in Picketsville looking to draw attention to itself?”

  “No, it’s mine, Wick. Not wise to bring a patrol car out of our jurisdiction and my truck is busted.”

  “Well, it’s something. Don’t see many lipstick Chevelles anymore.”

  Whaite offered his card. “If Bolt does come in, give me a call, will you? I need to talk to him.”

  Goad pocketed the card. Whaite knew he might call or he might not. Mountain loyalties were stratified and Whaite had been away too long and was law enforcement now. He could only hope. “You weren’t here last night when he came in?”

  “Me? No sirree, I was out playing poker. I went on my weekly sojourn to lighten the pocketbook of one Donnie Oldham. Now there’s a coincidence for you, Mister Deputy. Here old Steve pays me off and last night, so did Donnie—pretty near a thousand dollars—cash money. I proceeded to relieve the boy of another two hundred ’fore he quit. He thinks I cheat.”

  “Do you?”

  “Not with him. He’s the worst poker player on the East Coast, reckless. I don’t need to.”

  “What’s he like, besides being a bad poker player?”

  “He’s an idiot. Got this hot temper and always starting in on people. In the good weather he dresses up like some mountain man. He’s like one of them whatcha-call-ums, a reenacter, you know? Bib overalls, wide brimmed black hat, bushy beard—the whole bit—and toting a pistol in his pocket. Like I said, he’s an idiot.”

  Whaite thanked him, reminded him about calling, and drove up to Bolt’s house, or what was left of it. Where there had been a single line of tire tracks before, there were multiple sets now. The fire engines, which evidently arrived too late to do any good, had nearly bl
otted out the others. He thought he saw a tire print or two that were neither Bolt’s VW nor the fire truck. Someone else had been to the house after Whaite left and before the fire company arrived. That could mean the house was torched. There’d been no smoke from the chimney the day before. That meant the space heater was not operating, so how else could the fire have started?

  He needed to find Steve Bolt.

  ***

  Ike and Ruth left the farm late. Abe insisted on making a huge country breakfast. She just picked at her food. She could not say goodbye to Ike’s mother who, Abe reported, still slept and he didn’t want to disturb her. He promised to tell her everything Ruth said. She poked her nose out the door, shivered, and allowed herself to be togged out in a parka, a pair of boots, and wool gloves from the back closet. Her coat now lay in her lap and a plastic bag held the remainder of her things, including the Bible.

  “It’s late, I’m sorry,” Ike said over the noise of the engine, which always sounded like a surplus tank until its motor warmed up.

  “It’s okay, I called and had Agnes rearrange my schedule.”

  “How is Agnes these days?”

  “Much the same. She is a sterling personal secretary—”

  “Administrative assistant.”

  “Right, administrative assistant. She is efficient, honest, cares about me. You would be wise to mend your fences with her. I know for a fact that if she takes it into her head to make your life miserable, she can and will.”

  “What I can’t understand is what did I do to earn her enmity? I’m polite. I don’t take her paper clips without asking and I never, ever, ask her to fetch me coffee. That pretty much defines the sensitive man, I think.”

  “She’s afraid of you, if you must know.”

  “Afraid? Of me? Why?”

  “The same reason I am. You are a dangerous man, Schwartz.”

  “I missed something here. When did I become a danger to you and Agnes?”

  “Agnes sees you as a threat to me because she cares about me, so the danger transfers to her.”

  “I’m lost. Start again.”

  “No, you’ll have to figure it out on your own.”

  Ike sighed and shook his head. “Lunch then. I’m meeting Weitz. Join us.” He pulled up to the front entrance of Callend College. She turned to him. He did not like the expression on her face and was sure he did not want to hear what would come next.

  “No, not today, Ike. And about tonight, your protecting me and all that—look, I appreciate it but I need some alone time. Don’t worry, I’ll have the college cops camp out on my porch until this thing blows over or the bad guys kill me. But I don’t want to see you for a while.”

  “The first part’s okay. I didn’t sleep that well last night either. I kept running what happened back then over and over in my mind. I’d pushed it all away but around four in the morning, I remembered. I couldn’t have seen what happened from where I was sitting, but I was sure I saw what happened. I am sure Charlie is clean. And if he isn’t, well…”

  “Well what?”

  “There’s nothing I can do to stop him, anyway. The best protection in that case is to give the appearance the thought never crossed our minds. But that doesn’t mean we can’t see—”

  “No, no. The two aren’t connected.” Ruth gazed out the passenger side window. Her brow furrowed, mouth drawn tight. She exhaled—not a sigh—a soft whoosh. “To tell you the truth, your mother spooked me a little. I need to make some decisions and I need to do it alone.”

  “Decisions?”

  “Don’t push, Ike.”

  “We’re still fine?”

  “We’re good. That’s not the problem. It’s about yesterday’s fire, and flannel nightgowns, and if I don’t get out of this rattletrap right this minute, you are going to see me cry and I’ll be damned if I’m going to let you do that—not today, anyway.”

  Chapter 20

  Essie Falco hung up the phone and wig-wagged at Ike as he came through the door. She leaned across the booking desk, which put a significant strain on the top buttons of her blouse, and handed him a stack of pink message slips and a note stating that Sam had called in sick. She resumed her seat and straightened her uniform. Ike had watched that scenario dozens of times and had finally concluded the blouse must zip up the back and the front was sewn shut. The buttons were just for show. He raised an eyebrow.

  “I already called Billy and he’s okay about working a double. He said he needed Sam to owe him one.”

  “Did she say what her problem was?”

  “No, sir, she didn’t, but if I was to guess…”

  “Is this a woman’s intuition thing, Essie? Because if it is—”

  “Ike, have I ever been wrong on things like this?”

  “Probably, but I can’t remember. So your guess is…?”

  “It’s man trouble. I bet you a jelly-filled doughnut that FBI guy who, as you know, I never did trust in the first place, has dumped her.”

  “Why would he do that?”

  “Ike, he’s a FBI. They can’t get all tied down with no country police. It had to happen sooner or later. Give her a day or two and she’ll see it’s for the best.”

  “You think?”

  “Bet on it.”

  “A jelly-filled, you said.”

  “One jelly-filled against whatever doughnut you prefer.”

  “You’re on.” They shook hands and tapped knuckles to seal the deal.

  “You call her and see if I’m not right.”

  Ike did not call. Whether Essie had it right or not, he didn’t want Sam disturbed just yet. Ruth would have castigated him for not caring, but he figured if Sam was really sick, she’d want to be left alone. He would, and if it was man trouble, as Essie supposed, he would be the last person in the world she needed to talk to.

  He proceeded to work his way through the stack of call slips. Half he dealt with by dropping them in the trash. The remainder he sorted by urgency—his, not the caller’s—and began returning the calls. He saved the mayor for last. A robbery at the college that summer, and the attendant publicity with its television and news media, had briefly catapulted Picketsville into national prominence. Before that, it had languished as a small town bypassed by Interstate 81 and remarkable only for its rustic charm, a few local characters, and Callend College. The latter had entered the twenty-first century as possibly the only, or certainly, one of the very few, all women’s colleges still extant. How much longer that status would endure comprised the bulk of the conversations engaged in by the locals at the Crossroads Diner and the faculty in their musty halls of academe up on the hill. In the meantime, the town had attracted all sorts of land speculators, deal makers, and some shady types Ike hoped would soon slither out the way they came in.

  The mayor had issues. He had them with the members of the Town Council, he had them with the county, the Commonwealth, and most particularly, he had them with Ike.

  “Ike, doggone it, you know how this town works. You can’t go ally—alnate—”

  “Alienating?”

  “Making enemies of council members. Brent Wilcox said he visited your shop last week and you weren’t…um…receptive to his—”

  “Meddling in the affairs of the Sheriff’s Office. You’re absolutely right, Tom, and if you had the gumption eating grits every morning since you were weaned from your mother’s tit is supposed to give you, you’d tell that twerp to take a hike.”

  “Now, Ike, don’t you start in on me. I been your biggest supporter and fan—yes sir, fan—but I have a town to run here and whether you’ve noticed it or not, things are changing. We have to go with the times. Wilcox has big ideas and sees the future, like.”

  “He’s an over-educated stuffed shirt, Tom. His ideas are as modern as hula hoops—you remember them, don’t you? And if you let him and his sycophant buddies up on the hill have their way, Picketsville is going to turn into a phony tourist town whose chief attraction will be an outlet mall done up to look lik
e Tara.”

  “Look like who? Look here, Ike—”

  “The plantation in Gone with the Wind. No, I won’t look. Tom, this town has to grow and change but it needs its own vision and a plan, not some cookie cutter idea imported from a New York land speculator.”

  “New York? What’s that about New York?”

  “It’s where he came from, and what he did, among other things, before he decided to move south and civilize us.”

  “How’d you know that?”

  “I run your police department, remember? It’s my job to check out suspicious characters.”

  “Well now, I don’t think suspicious—”

  “Some advice from someone who knew you when…don’t get into this guy’s pocket and, more importantly, don’t let him get into yours. He’s bad news, and it’s only a matter of time until he will crash and burn, and when he does, he’ll take all sorts of folk down with him.”

  “Ike, you’re over the line on this.”

  “Tom, remember you heard it here first.” Ike hung up before the mayor said something they’d both regret later.

  He told Essie to tell the mayor, if he called back, to say that he, Ike, would be out of the office. He looked at his watch. He had fifteen minutes to meet Weitz for lunch. He heaved himself up from his desk chair, which squealed in protest. He reminded himself for the one hundredth time to fix it, signed out, and left.

  Frank Chitwood owned Chez François, Picketsville’s other restaurant. It attempted French cuisine which the locals referred to as Frank’s Southern Fried Frog’s Legs. Weitz met him in the foyer and they took a table in the rear.

  “I would stick to the roast beef, if I were you,” Ike said and pulled his red checked napkin into his lap. “I read the book you sent over, thanks. Buffalo Mountain must have been an interesting place before the war.”

  “No snails?”

  “If you feel brave, go for it.”

  “I’ll stay with the beef. Or is it boeuf? The mountain? Yes, it was. What I discovered, Sheriff, and should have known from my other studies, but somehow missed, is that stereotypes derive from reality. The idea of feuding hillbillies with their jugs of moonshine, shotgun justice, and the whole costumery come from a people who were at one time, more or less, exactly as they are depicted in the cartoons.”