He handed me his drink. I took a sip. It was one of his Zackwackers—basically whatever fresh fruit he had laying around, blendered-up with enough tequila to grow hair on a billiard ball. It was Zack’s drink of choice after “a hard day in the fields” (a.k.a. watering rich second-homers’ perennial beds), especially during “the high summer months” (which started in the middle of March). For years Zack had worked for a large landscape company, planting trees and building stone walls. Then two years ago he’d decided it was time to “be my own man, be Zack.” He’d taken a six-week course in landscape design at Ulster Community College and reinvented himself by printing up business cards reading “Zack Goldman, Earth Art.” Well, it worked. He had more clients than he could handle, usually eco-earnest types from the city who bought second homes and dreamed of ponds, sweeps of grasses, masses of rare flowers—but who, after hearing the price tag, invariably settled for a couple of perennial beds and a dwarf evergreen or two, all of it tarted up come spring with impatiens, petunias, and geraniums.
The drink went down easy—I needed it. “That’s potent stuff.”
“I’m a man with potent appetites. And you’re one hell of a woman.” He leaned over and kissed me. Zack was pretty adorable when he was on his first drink—it was the second and third that were the problems, as he went from endearing to annoying to incoherent to comatose. At least he never got mean.
“How was your day?” I asked, sitting on a stone bench. His property was small, but it was ringed with stone walls and filled with benches, paths, and nooks that Zack had built.
“Darlin’, my day was … spectacular. The earth and I worked together to create beauty. It was hard work, earth work, muscles and sweat.” He looked up at the mountain, his eyes filled with tenderness and tequila. “It was spiritual work, a work of wonder.” I guess he caught my eye-roll because he said, “Janet, sometimes I think you don’t take me seriously.”
“You don’t make it easy.”
Zack was a hunk, no doubt—almost six feet of solid beefy muscle, thinning reddish hair, an open face covered with freckles, green eyes nestled in crow’s-feet. The package was a big part of the attraction for me. That and the fact that the Asshole had been a self-important, condescending pseudo-intellectual who turned every discussion into a game of one-upmanship. So much of what we do in life is a reaction to our previous mistakes—but Zack didn’t feel like an overcorrection. At least not yet.
“My day was good. How was your day?”
I told him about the town meeting, and my suspicion that maybe Vince Hammer was somehow connected to Daphne’s death.
“My old company takes care of Hammer’s place. It’s outside Woodstock, up on Ohayo Mountain. Amazing place, views almost all the way down to the city, they say he spent like ten million building it.”
Suddenly a battered red pickup plastered with bumper sticks—“Pray for Whirled Peas,” “Honk if You Love Silence,” “I’d Rather be Fartin’”—came to a roaring stop in Zack’s drive. I steeled myself as the driver’s door flew open and a giant burst out.
“The Moooose is looooose!” he bellowed, before galumphing across the lawn and chest-butting with Zack.
“Dude!”
“Fucker!”
“Freak!”
“Loser!”
Male bonding is so erudite.
The giant turned to me. “And there’s the Janster! How’s it goin’, hip sister?”
Moose LaRue was Zack’s best friend—a rowdy, six-foot-six fellow landscaper who could “lift a tree ball with a single arm.”
“I’m okay, how are you, Moose?”
“The Moose be groovin’! Hey listen—cool news! I bought a boat!”
“No shit,” Zack said.
“Yeah, so we can go out drinkin’—I mean fishin’—on the river.”
The two of them roared some more.
“Hey listen, Moose, Zack was telling me you take care of Vince Hammer’s place,” I said.
“Yeah. The man is a solid-gold superfreak.”
“You’ve met him?”
“Hell, yeah. He’s one of these rich assholes who has to prove how down-home he is by making nice with his slaves. He’s a total dick. Speaking of dick, he can’t keep it in his pants. It used to be like the Playboy mansion around there.”
“Say more.”
“There was a different babe on his arm every time I saw him. Sometimes one on each arm. Cat liked to party. One day I was there doing cleanup and this chick comes out of the house starkers—the bod, Zack man, the bod. She says she wants to take a swim, then she asks me my name. When I tell her, she says ‘is it true what they say about moose?’ Pretty soon we’re in the pool together and she’s practicing her underwater humming skills.” The boys roared yet again. “Hey, is that a Zackwacker?”
Zack handed him the drink and he downed it in one long swallow.
“But lately there’s been just one lady there. Marcella Sedgwick. She is fierce. Fuckin’ knockout. High-class bitch won’t give me the time of day. She’s cleaned the place up, a lot less partying. I think they’re getting serious. So, amigo, want to go out on the river this weekend?”
“Hell, yes.”
“Moose, if River Landing gets built, is your company going to do the landscaping?” I asked.
“We’ll do the real work, Hammer hired some fancy-ass Italian company to design the ’scape. He walked my boss and a couple of us grunts around the place, wants it to be a ‘work of art’. Give me a fucking break—take away a few bells and whistles and you’ve got another cheesy townhouse development. I’ll tell you another thing—the man is fucking obsessed with that property across the river.”
“Westward Farm?”
“Bingo. He kept pointing it out, was practically salivating, called it ‘the crown jewel of the Hudson’.”
“You want to stay for dinner, Moose?” Zack asked, pulling up a head of red lettuce.
“Not if you’re serving rabbit food. Naw, I gotta split. See you Saturday.”
He galumphed back to his truck and roared away.
“I hope you’re hungry,” Zack said as we headed into the cabin.
“Starving.”
He slipped in a Phish CD, put a pot of water on the stove, and started to chop vegetables.
“Speaking of obsession,” I said, “I’m getting obsessed with Daphne’s death.”
“Do you really want to get involved?”
“I think I already am.”
“I thought your big thing up here was keeping out of other people’s business.”
“I can’t just walk away.”
Sitting there watching Zack cook, listening to the mellow music on a soft evening in the shadow of the mountain, I should have been relaxed—after all, this was just the kind of life I’d moved upstate for. Instead I felt it rising through my chest, up my spine—that seductive mix of adrenaline, apprehension, anticipation.
“Turn off that water,” I said to Zack.
He looked at me, perplexed.
“Just turn it off.”
He did. I got up, took his hand, and hauled him to the bedroom.
I pulled into the Sawyerville lighthouse parking lot and Sputnik and I got out. The pre-dawn air was foggy, gray and thick, with a clammy chill—it was going to be a humid day. It was years since I’d been up at this hour and it felt weird, like everything was suspended. We were the only car in the lot. The lighthouse sat at the end of a long, sandy finger of land that jutted out into the river; the Hudson was tidal, even this far up, and at high tide the trail was wet. We set out, Sputnik in high spirits at our adventure, me a little more wary.
This was one of my favorite walks, through woods dripping with vines, along shoreline beaches, over boardwalks, out into the river. In this dim misty light, though, it was cre
epy—like I was in a horror movie and a mad aunt was going to materialize out of the mist bearing a meat cleaver and a serious grudge. I heard small-animal rustlings in the reeds, the calls of birds waking up, saw a large turtle slip into the water.
We reached the deserted lighthouse, which sat atop a stone base; it was whitewashed brick and except for the light tower looked like a handsome old valley house that had been plunked down in the river. There was a tiny island on the far side; you reached it via a wooden walkway. The island had a large deck and when you were out there, you were really out in the river. The whole place was shrouded in murky fog. Sputnik and I walked around the base of the lighthouse and out to the deck.
“Hello, Janet,” that deep, intense voice echoed out of the mist.
“Esmerelda?”
“’Tis I.”
As I crossed the deck Esmerelda came into focus, sitting on a bench. She was around sixty and her face was framed with an exploding mass of gray hair that looked like a giant fur ball; she had huge dark eyes lined in kohl and a feathery tattoo that fanned across her forehead. She was smoking a thin brown cigarette, and wearing flip-flops, tight black toreador pants, and a very low-cut maroon velvet blouse that revealed the top of the most amazing cleavage I’ve ever seen. Her toenails and fingernails were fiery red, and she was wearing so much dangly jewelry that she sounded like a demented wind chime. Sexy, weary, deep, dissolute, Esmerelda Pillow was a weird fusion of 1950s beatnik and over-the-hill porn star. Sputnik rushed up to her, she leaned away.
“The dog at dawn, satanic and soul-sucking,” she said, narrowing her eyes and appraising him.
“Soul sucking’s not his thing, but he’ll chew on a greenie if you’ve got one.”
She gave me a feral smile, her teeth were large and whitened. “Comrade,” she intoned.
“Do you always get up this early?”
“What makes you think I’ve been to bed?”
I sat on the other end of the bench. I noticed that her pupils were dilated.
“So, Esmerelda, what’s up?”
“Janet, you’re still rushing.” She ran her fingers lightly over the top of her cleavage—clearly she’d been dining out on that rack for decades. Then she turned and looked out to the shrouded river, taking a deep pull on her cigarette, her eyes filled with mystery, wonder, and emotional histrionics. “Feel the dawn.”
“I feel it. It’s clammy. Now what did you want to tell me about Daphne?”
She ground out her cigarette on the bench and looked at me. “I saw the best minds of my generation dragging themselves through the negro streets at dawn looking for an angry fix.”
“I hope they found it.”
“Daphne did.”
“Daphne did what?”
“Literal.”
“Games give me a headache.”
“Let go of your bourgeois affectations.”
“I like my bourgeois affectations. I wish I had a few more of them.”
“Few of us are what we seem.”
Sputnik had disappeared around the side of the lighthouse. I didn’t blame him.
“I’m going to go now,” I said, getting up.
“Daphne liked to ride the horse.”
Suddenly the dilated eyes made sense. I sat back down.
“She had a heroin habit?”
“Pale horse, pale rider. Dark horse, dead rider.”
I wished she’d brought along a translator.
“Are you saying that Daphne was killed by bad heroin?”
“Johnny’s in the basement mixing up the medicine.” Esmerelda reached into her pink leather purse and took out a small round tin. She opened it; it was filled with powdery brown heroin. She dipped the tip of her long right pinky nail into the dope, brought it to her nose and inhaled sharply. Her eyes went to half-lidded and a dreamy little smile curled at the corners of her mouth. She looked at me from far away and drawled, “I’m ready for to fade, into my own parade.”
“Now all we need is seventy-six trombones.”
Sputnik reappeared, proudly carrying a soggy sneaker in his mouth, which he dropped at my feet.
“An offering,” Esmerelda said.
“At least it isn’t a formerly living thing. Was it accidental, the bad heroin? Do you know who gave it to her?”
“He lives on love street, lingers long on love street.”
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
Esmerelda turned away from me, as if she’d lost interest. I guess I didn’t rate high enough on her terminally hip-o-meter.
“Listen, Esmerelda, I need a name, an address, something.”
She lighted another one of her long brown cigarettes and took a deep pull. Then she looked at me with an okay-I’m-going-to-get-real expression. “If you don’t pay the piper, the piper won’t play … but the piper will sing.”
“Are you the piper?”
“There’s an answer in your question.”
“There’s also an answer to my question.”
“Pull those little strings and he’ll dance for her, he’s her puppet.”
A fancy cabin cruiser slid silently out of the mist and up to the deck. It was piloted by a middle-aged black man wearing crisp white slacks, a blue oxford shirt, an ascot, and a captain’s cap. Dude looked like he should be on Nantucket. “My ride is here,” Esmerelda said casually. She got up and nonchalantly stepped onto the boat. “Call me if you want to know more.”
“I don’t have your number.”
“You don’t need it.”
The boat disappeared into the mist.
Sputnik and I were making our way back to shore when, from a thicket of reeds, I heard: “Psst! Psst!” I stopped. “Psst! Come here!” As we got closer to the thicket, two hands appeared and parted the reeds—revealing Mad John.
“She’s a witch!” he hissed.
“Good morning to you, too.”
“She put a curse on me. Then I put one on her.”
“Okay.”
“Want some coffee?”
“Love some.”
He grabbed my arm and pulled me into the middle of the thicket, Sputnik at my heels. The reeds closed behind us and we were chez Mad John. A threadbare oriental rug covered the ground, there was a small camping stove with an old cowboy coffeepot on top, several duffle bags with clothes spilling out of them, and a primitive altar adorned with a Buddha, a Christ, a Frida Kahlo refrigerator magnet, and a half dozen Happy Meals toys.
Mad John sat cross-legged and I joined him. He poured me a cup of coffee in a mug that didn’t look too clean. Oh, what the hell—when in the reeds. I took a sip—a little gritty, but the flavor was intense. A box of supermarket donuts stamped Day Old appeared. I took glazed. Went well with the java. Mad John gave Sputnik sprinkles, then picked vanilla frosted for himself.
He took a big bite and said, “She’ll be back, tonight, in the dark. He’ll let her off the boat, she’ll be carrying two suitcases. Then another boat will pick her up.” There was a blast of birdsong and Mad John leapt to his feet and answered the bird’s cry with a long, melodic whistle. The bird answered, and the two of them carried on an excited conversation before he explained, “That’s Fred. He doesn’t like dogs. I told him not to worry.” Mad John petted Sputnik, who found him very smellworthy.
“What were you saying about Esmerelda?” I asked.
“I know what she has in those suitcases.”
“Heroin?”
Mad John tucked his chin and rolled his eyes—I took this to be an affirmative. “She’s evil.”
“Was she Daphne’s dealer?”
“I don’t know Daphne,” he said quickly, looking away.
“Well, Esmerelda seems to. Do you know where she lives?”
Mad John took m
y hand—his palm was solid callus—and led me through thick underbrush. We came to a small hidden inlet on the riverbank, muddy and overgrown. A tree grew out over the river and a raft was tied to it. It was constructed of old planks of lumber, straw, reeds, driftwood—and looked about as seaworthy as a pet rock. Mad John grabbed the rope and pulled the raft close to shore. He stepped on board. “Come on.”
“I’m not so sure about this.”
Sputnik was—he leapt onto the raft, his tail going a mile a minute.
Mad John jumped up and down to show me how sturdy his craft was. What the hell, I knew how to swim. I stepped on board, the raft wobbled but felt pretty solid.
Mad John untied the rope, picked up an oar, and pushed us off. The sun was peeking over the Taconics, giving the dawn mist a pearly glow. When we were about fifteen feet from shore, Mad John steered us south and we headed downriver. This was a whole new perspective on the river, it was like being in a watery green dream or maybe one of those lurid old technicolor movies—the bank a vivid riot of trees, reeds, vines, all of it accompanied by birdsong and enveloped in the iridescent mist.
“We can’t stay out long, gotta get back before the sun rises, gotta stay secret,” Mad John said. He was a deft raftsman, an athletic little guy, all muscle and sinew. Almost sexy in a weird way—if he spent a week in one of those Romanian baths where stout women scrub you so clean your skin bleeds.
We came to a lawn fronting a small 1950s house and he paddled hard to get us across the open space and back into the sheltering gnarl. Sputnik was in dog heaven, racing from one side of the raft to the other, ears cocked, nose twitching, eyes scanning. The sky was growing lighter. We came to a small peninsula. Sitting at the end of it was a ragtag ramshackle house that looked like it took a wrong turn on its way to Appalachia.
The muddy riverbank in front of the house was home to a half-submerged supermarket cart, the lawn littered with car parts and rotting furniture. Mad John grabbed hold of a low-lying branch. “That’s where you’ll find her,” he whispered.
“Esmerelda lives here?”
“Sometimes.” He looked over to the east. “We gotta get back.”
To the Manor Dead Page 6