Live Free or Die

by Jessie Crockett

  I don’t even think of myself as a good listener, but when people see me standing behind that window, they see an audience for the story of their lives. They don’t hand it out all in one day, but over the years a picture of each of them builds up. I don’t mind, really, it’s just the reputation of being a gossip is irksome considering I never wanted to know any of it to begin with.

  “She seems like she’s right in the thick of things. Since you’re the head of the information bureau, is there anyone who should be informed of the victim’s death?” Hugh asked.

  “Good Lord,” I said. “I’ve got to call Augusta.”

  Two

  “Whadaya think, Gwen?” asked Winston Turcotte the next morning, leaning on the post office counter as he sorted his junk mail. “Is this one of them cases of spontaneous human combustion like you see on the TV? Or is it related to all the other fires?”

  “All that television watching is melting your brain,” I said. Winston’s discovered a whole new world since he got Clara to loosen up the purse strings and they installed a satellite dish.

  “Of course the fires are related.” Clive Merrill tugged on a fishing lure dangling from his favorite hat. “We all know it’s them Silver kids.”

  “DaSilva kids,” I said, “and no, we don’t know it’s them. You can’t accuse people for no reason. Even Ray knows better than that.” Ray Twombley, the Police Chief, is not known for his mental abilities. He sticks out his tongue when he ties his shoes.

  “Ethel was hollering at them boys yesterday.” Winston lobbed a balled-up piece of mail toward the recycling bin and missed. “They’d picked up Jasper and were lugging him off someplace. I don’t know what she thought they wanted with her damn cat, but she was all het up.”

  “Voodoo sacrifice.” Clive leaned in, eyes bulging with the excitement. “If that ain’t what they were up to, I’ll eat my hat.” Clive touched his lucky fishing hat. Lures hung from every square inch of the green canvas. I’d never seen him anywhere without it perched up on top of his egg-shaped head except at a fire scene. Even then, I wouldn’t be surprised to discover he had just stuck a fire helmet on top of it. I would have given a lot to watch him try to choke the thing down.

  “They’re Catholic,” I said. “I’m pretty sure Catholics don’t practice voodoo.”

  “Some of ‘em do. That was on television, too. One of them haunting shows in New Orleans. Some big black woman with a head scarf was selling rosaries and little bags of dried chicken feet and parsley with a curse written on a recipe card stuck to the outside,” Clive said.

  “Sounds like something from Gwen’s kitchen.” Winston laughed. “She’s been known to near poison people with her chicken soup.”

  “How’d you know they’re Catholic?” asked Clive.

  “Luisa was in the post office last week asking if there was a Catholic church nearby,” I said. “She wanted to attend mass with her kids.”

  “Ah ha.” Clive’s lures jangled as he nodded. “She or one of her kids has something to confess.”

  “Taking your family to church isn’t a crime,” I said, “or the admission of one. She seems nice.”

  “Nice or not, there were no fires to speak of around here until they showed up,” Clive said. “Well, except chimney fires.”

  “And that brush fire you let get outta control last year,” Winston said. “And the year before. And I think the year before that. Who keeps authorizing your burn permits, Clive?”

  “He snuck a pad of them off Harold’s desk when he thought no one was looking.” I said. “Come to think of it, maybe he’s been setting the fires.”

  “I bet you’re right,” Winston said.

  “You keep throwing accusations like that around,” said Clive, “and I’ll tell Clara where you’ve been spending Wednesday nights.”

  “Where have you been spending your Wednesday nights?” I peered at Winston. His wife Clara is known for her jealous streak. I’ve no idea why since Winston never turns a lustful eye toward anything besides homemade dessert.

  “Would ya look at the time,” Winston said. “I’ve gotta get over to the dump and open up ‘fore angry taxpayers start rattling the gates.” I watched Winston as he hitched up his belt and hurried out the door. I wondered why he hadn’t answered my question.

  Ray was late coming in, but knowing him, he had spent the morning at the general store repeating gruesome aspects of the fire to anyone who would listen. Gossip goes down best with a tasty doughnut. On her good days, Dinah’s doughnuts are worth the calories. On a bad day, you could use them to fill gaps in a stone wall. Her raised doughnuts were responsible for at least ten of the extra twenty pounds I’m lugging around.

  “What brings you by this morning, Ray? Police business or just the mail?”

  “I want to talk to you about that state investigator, Lou something.”

  “His name is Hugh. What about him?”

  “Just because we’ve got to put up with him doesn’t mean you have to make him feel too welcome.”

  “What does that mean?” I asked. “Too welcome? Like buying him a fruit basket?”

  “No, like making his job easier for him.”

  “How would I do that?”

  “I just don’t want you to offer help to the wrong guy.” He leaned on the counter and winked.

  “Are you implying that you’re Mr. Right?” My social calendar may have been as empty as the church on Super Bowl Sunday, but if I ever chose to date again I wouldn’t be searching for someone whose biggest mental challenge each day is verifying that his socks match.

  “Let’s just say,” Ray leaned in close enough for me to smell his doughnut breath, “I can make sure that you never need to take another sobriety test like the one last year.”

  “I swerved to avoid hitting a deer.” I slapped the counter with my mug, splashing coffee everywhere. “That’s why I’d gone over the yellow line, and you know it.” He’d been hiding behind a clump of hemlocks with his radar gun. Drunks are bigger game than speeders so he made me walk the white line while patting my head and rubbing my belly. The episode occurred on the main drag out of town and caused a lot of rubbernecking. To this day there are people in town who pull over to let me pass when they see me in their rearview mirrors.

  “This is my first chance at solving a real case like one on TV.” Ray fingered his gun holster.

  “This isn’t about your fantasy life.” It was difficult to imagine Ray solving anything more challenging than a crossword puzzle on a children’s menu at a chain restaurant. “Beulah died last night.”

  “Come on, help me out for old time’s sake.” Ray winked again.

  “Our old times involve you storing your leech collection in my wading pool and giving me chicken pox on purpose.” Ray and I’d known each other since the first grade. The only time he had ever been nice to me was the summer he discovered girls. He kept stopping by my house to ask me to go fishing just to catch a glimpse of my older sister Augusta.

  “You hear things all day at the post office. I’m just asking you to keep your ears open, and if anyone seems to know anything, you could pass the information along to me instead of that other guy."

  "You want me to eavesdrop on my customers?" I wiped up the coffee with the tail of my denim shirt.

  "Don't get all worked up,” Ray said. “I thought you'd be flattered. Think of it as being deputized."

  "Deputized? Why don't you flatter Winston? Or Dinah? They hear all sorts of things at the dump and the store."

  "Well, I figured that they’re always busy at work and wouldn't have the time you do to chat people up."

  "Are you saying,” I said, “that I’m not as busy as the guy who watches people sort their trash into the correct bins?"

  "There you go getting huffy, as usual. I just meant that you can stand around talking with people, and no one will think anything of it."

  "For someone who wants a favor, you sure are going about it the wrong way.” I slammed the window shut.
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  “Think about what I said,” Ray called through the closed window. “Remember, I can administer as many sobriety tests as I like.”

  I slipped out the back door and hurried toward the general store. Dinah makes great Italian sandwiches, and arguments always make me run for comfort food. Besides, I was expecting Augusta to swoosh into town around lunchtime, and she wouldn’t be willing to eat anything I cooked.

  Like most towns around us, Winslow Falls is an architectural free-for-all. Protective covenants go against New Hampshire’s “Live Free or Die” motto. There is no bad part of the village. Conversely, there is no part considered exclusive either.

  I skittered down the icy sidewalk past the Marshalls’ small tan trailer. A tiny deck clung to the front of it more by wishful thinking than sound construction techniques. On it a ripped black trash bag, raided by wildlife the night before, squatted beside a turkey fryer and a rusted washing machine. The machine had been left on the curb months ago by the neighbor down the street. Six Marshall family members had swooped down on it with hopes of never setting foot in the Suds Your Duds Laundromat ever again. They got the thing as far as the deck before they thought to check if it would fit through the door.

  Next door to the Marshalls is Freda Jerold’s Victorian. She paints it in a new color scheme every five years. No one else paints anything other than their nails any more frequently than every ten. Two years ago, she had it redone in a hot pink with turquoise trim and orange shutters. Her own front stoop is bare except for a welcome mat and a cast iron boot scraper shaped like a sheep. Most people say that Freda has flair. My son Josh says she must have a family history of mental illness.

  A bacon fog hung in the air as I pushed open the door of the general store. Winston straddled the stool closest to the TV, his cracked leather belt losing a tug-of-war match with gravity. He propped both elbows on the counter, coarse-knuckled hands wrapped around a burger squirting ketchup like a punctured artery. Clive perched his flat behind on a stool in the middle, not missing a thing. Ray was down at the far end talking with Hugh. He must have been in some kind of a hurry to get to Dinah’s before me.

  “Are ya here for lunch?” Winston glanced up from his burger. “I thought you musta caught a stomach bug the way you were carrying on last night.” Little bits of ketchup clung to his gray stubble.

  “Don’t pay him any attention, Gwen.” Dinah wiped her plump, red hands on a dishtowel and tossed it onto her broad shoulder. “What’ll you have?”

  “Two Italian sandwiches with hots and oil,” I said. “Has anyone heard how Harold’s doing?”

  “I rung up Bernadette this morning,” Winston said. “Looks like he’ll prob’ly need his tubes cleared out with one of them balloon contraptions.” Winston eyed a blob of fat that dripped from his burger and splattered a spot about where his own heart lay. He paused, then gulped down another greasy mouthful.

  “Of course he will.” Dinah thumped a plate of fish and chips in front of Clive. “That man eats his weight in doughnuts every week.”

  “I hope he enjoyed it while it lasted,” I said. “Bernadette won’t let him get away with that anymore.”

  “Harold’s not the only one overeating. Two sandwiches? You’re never gonna catch a new man that way.” Clive wagged a French fry at me before cramming it into his mouth.

  “I’m expecting my sister today, and I thought that we would call on Dinah to cater our lunch. Not that my private life or the size of my backside is any of your business.” The villager geezers started harping on my non-existent love life a couple of years after my husband Peter died. Usually, it didn’t get a rise out of me, but I felt a hot flush creeping up my cheeks as I sneaked a peek in Hugh’s direction.

  “Augusta’s here?” Clive pulled an inhaler from a fishing vest pocket and took a deep drag. Ray cupped his hand in front of his mouth and checked his breath. Winston reached for a napkin and dabbed at the grease spot on his shirt. Augusta has that effect on most men.

  “She will be. She’s the executrix for Beulah’s estate,” I said. The bells jingled again, and as if on cue, Augusta stepped through the door.

  “There you are, Gwen.” Augusta swept across the floor and enfolded me in a perfumed embrace. She deposited a lipstick smear on each of my cheeks before turning her attention to the rest of the room. “I went to the house, but you weren’t there, and now I can see why you would have preferred to stop in here. Do any of these fine-looking gentlemen belong to you, or is it an open field?” Augusta asked, pulling off a glove and smoothing her streaming blond hair. She’s always gotten right to the point. Women in my family are known for speaking their minds, but from the time that Augusta could string a sentence together she was schooling her elders in forthrightness.

  “Winston’s still spoken for by his lovely wife Clara. Ray’s been purchased and returned to the store by three different wives, and Clive’s still new in the box. I’m not in the market, so feel free to help yourself,” I said.

  Where she had come from I had no idea. She’s moved house so often she stopped bothering to get a phone installed, relying on her cell phone instead. Augusta usually changes her order three times in a restaurant before settling on something. As for her different men, I’d given up trying to keep them straight years ago. My sister has sexual attention deficit disorder.

  Some people had been surprised when Beulah appointed Augusta as the executrix of her estate, but I wasn’t one of them. Augusta was always Beulah’s favorite. I think she admired Augusta’s life even if she didn’t understand it or think it was right. The last I knew, Beulah had left her little Cape Cod house to my sister in her will.

  If Augusta was in mourning she was hiding it well. Her blue eyes sparkled. Her perfect porcelain nose wasn’t red or raw. Her outfit did little to suggest she was feeling heavy hearted. It was, however, perfect for traveling by plane. With the way her green dress clung to her curves, airport security wouldn’t have needed an x-ray machine to spot any guns or explosives hidden under there. As a matter of fact, her most frequently used weapons bobbed front and center like a pair of creamy buoys above the deep vee of her neckline.

  Dinah keeps charcoal briquettes on hand year round for the times the power goes out and someone wants to cook supper on the grill. Augusta appeared out of place standing there next to them. I imagined that I fit right in, slightly dusty and suitable for everyday use.

  Clive seemed to agree and jumped off his stool. He brushed some crumbs off the seat with his fishing hat, nodded his head in her direction, and gestured she should sit. Clive Merrill wouldn’t hold a door open for his own elderly mother if she was holding the Christ Child in one hand and the cure for AIDS in the other. Winston choked so hard on his coffee you would have thought the cup was full of fish bones. Augusta noticed none of this as she shimmied over and flashed Clive a smile. He quivered and stood in attendance slightly behind her.

  “I don’t know what I’d do to thank the man who fetched me a strong cup of coffee.” Augusta slowly draped one long leg over the other and moved her hemline out of the realm of public decency. She swiveled her head and laid waste all the men in the store with her high beam smile. Winston and Clive dove for the coffee station at the same time. Clive emerged triumphant, being five years younger and not encumbered by a belly the size of a laundry basket.

  “Now where might a girl find some sugar?” she leaned so far toward Clive that her buoys threatened to drift out into the open ocean. If I were her, I would have put a napkin over the darn things to soak up the drool that trickled out of the corners of Clive’s narrow mouth.

  “Why don’t you just stick your finger in that coffee and stir. I’m sure that would sweeten it up just right.” Ray swaggered up and placed a hairy hand on her arm. She spun her stool toward him. Clive grabbed his plate and slunk down the counter toward Hugh.

  “You always were just the cleverest thing,” Augusta said. Winston started choking again. Dinah slapped him on the back. I was rapidly losing my appetite.<
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  I glanced back down the counter, and Hugh waved me over with his notebook in his hand. I wondered if he’d Super Glued it to himself by accident.

  “I thought you said you had no suspects in the arsons,” said Hugh.

  “I remember,” I answered. “What’s the problem?”

  “This gentleman says there are a bunch of suspects,” Hugh said, “strong suspects. Why would you tell me otherwise?” Clive shook his head, making the fishing lures on his hat dance a jig.

  “I didn’t,” I said. “You asked if there was anyone I thought was a suspect. You didn’t ask what Clive thought.”

  “That’s shaving things close.” Hugh said, his massive hand wrapped around a silver pen.

  “Let me guess.” I glanced at Clive, who was rooting around in his left nostril with a ratty blue handkerchief. “He mentioned the DaSilva kids.”

  “Of course I did.” Clive inspected his handkerchief. “You should have too. Who else could it be?”

  “Good question,” I said. “I didn’t mention them because I don’t believe they were involved.”

  “That oldest one was seen lurking around the museum just before the fire call came in.” Clive stuffed his handkerchief into his back pocket.

  “I saw you coming out of the museum earlier that evening, too,” I said. “Does that mean you set the fire?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” Clive said. “I’m a firefighter.”

  “So am I,” I said, “but Hugh put me on the suspect list last night, too. Isn’t that right, Hugh?” He flipped back through his notebook to verify our conversation.

  “Yes,” he said. “I did ask about a motive. It seemed prudent after you mentioned the curdled milk.”