by Nero Blanc
But when he was leaving her driveway, the dosage of sugar and cream-drenched coffee had made Rosco’s stomach start to dance. He realized he’d need a meal before heading home, and what better way to pick up a few Taneysville tidbits? Food and information were often served right alongside one another in small-town America. However, he nixed the idea of stopping for a sandwich at Hoffmeyer’s store. The elder Milt was unlikely to supply much more than May had, and since Milt Sr. had never laid eyes on him, Rosco felt it best to remain anonymous as far as the store was concerned. A lack of discernible connections or history was always handy in situations like this; it would give him a chance to invent an identity other than ex-cop turned PI. Because if outsiders, wealthy or not, were unpopular in Taneysville, private investigators were probably viewed as something the cat might drag in—on an off night.
A neon sign reading EDDIE’S ELBOW ROOM was approaching quickly—a hundred yards ahead of him on the left. Rosco had noticed Eddie’s on his way into town a couple of hours earlier. From the outside it had appeared to be simply a roadside tavern, and he held little hope that the establishment served anything more than potato chips, beers, and shots. Hopefully a jar of hard-boiled eggs or a bowl of salted peanuts would be included in the standard bar fare. Almost anything without sugar would do.
Considering it was midday, Eddie’s seem reasonably busy. Seven pickup trucks were spread across the gravel parking area, giving Rosco hope that there might be some form of food available after all.
He parked his Jeep in Eddie’s lot and glanced down the line of vehicles. Despite the fact that the trucks were all somewhat late models, the New England winters and salted roads had left ugly marks on every one of them. Rusted-out fenders and peeling paint spots were the norm. Rosco and his Jeep fought the same losing battle against the elements each and every year. He dreaded the idea of parting with his cherished car, but guessed the time of reckoning was not far off. The Jeep, with its pitted red paint, fit right in with the pickup trucks. Rosco reached under his seat and retrieved a Boston Red Sox hat. He dropped it on his head, stepped from the Jeep, and ambled into Eddie’s.
Seven pickup trucks in the lot translated to eight customers scattered around the room: all male, two at the bar, three at a table near what Rosco surmised was a kitchen door, and three more perched at a table closer to the bar. A large man behind the bar was handing two bottles of Budweiser to an attractive thirties-something waitress with dark hair. As Rosco entered, all conversation stopped and every pair of eyes wandered in his direction.
The glances didn’t seem overtly hostile; they were more of a suspicious, who’s-this-guy nature. Rosco took a seat at the bar, leaving an empty stool between himself and the two other patrons. As he did, a large man seated at one of the tables stood, exited, and returned less than fifteen seconds later.
“That Jeep yours?” he said to Rosco as he reentered.
“Yep.”
Without saying another word the man rejoined his two friends at the table.
Rosco turned his attention to the bartender. “Can I get some lunch at the bar? Or should I sit at a table?”
“The bar’s fine.” He handed Rosco a menu. “Something to drink?”
Rosco immediately recognized a very slight Greek accent—not nearly as heavy as his own mother’s, but enough to suggest the man hadn’t been born in the States.
“Just a cup of black coffee,” Rosco answered in Greek, “if that’s okay. You’re not Eddie, by any chance, are you?”
A broad smile crossed the bartender’s face. “I am,” he said, also in Greek. Then in English he added, “You have a good accent, but you weren’t born in Greece.”
Rosco returned the smile. “No. But my mother was.”
“Mainland?”
“Náxos.”
Eddie let out a boisterous laugh. “And how many times a day does your mother say she wishes she had never left the island of Náxos?”
Rosco laughed. “Ten? Twenty?”
“My wife, too.” He tilted his head to indicate the woman waiting tables, as she stepped into the kitchen.
“She’s from Náxos?”
Eddie shook his head. “No. She’s from Tínos. But these island women are all the same: ‘Nothing … nothing is as good as the island.’”
“Sounds familiar.”
“You ever been there?”
“Never.”
“Well … you must go before you die. You’ll begin to understand.”
“Damn,” the man to Rosco’s left interrupted, “I needed a guy like you on my work site. I couldn’t understand what my crew was talking about half the time.”
Rosco turned. “Your crew is Greek?”
“Yeah … well, was … When I had one … Hell, I guess you get what you pay for, right?”
Both Rosco and Eddie gave him a pointed stare and he began to backtrack. “I mean they were good workers and all … It’s just that … there was a language problem … you know? I don’t speak Greek.”
“But they spoke English?”
“Yeah … but only when they wanted to.”
“So you were the foreman at the old Quigley place?” Rosco asked.
“Foreman … contractor … Wait a minute. How do you—?” He leaned back, his gaze resting on Rosco’s face. “Hey, I know … you’re a building inspector, aren’t you? That’s what you’re doing up here …” His eyes narrowed. “… Newcastle ISD’s sending out a new inspector? What’s goin’ on? What the hell happened to Parker?”
Without missing a beat, Rosco said, “Parker took a job up in Boston. Inspectional Services Department put me on the case. What’s your name again?”
“Reilly. Sean Reilly.”
Rosco pulled his pad from his jacket and flipped through a few pages until he found one chock a block with scribblings. “Right … Reilly … You’re the guy I’m supposed to talk to.”
“Ah, come on, Parker was up at that site a week and a half ago. Gave everything the go-ahead.”
Rosco shrugged. “Hey, I’m playing catch-up here, what can I say? The guy left us with a real mess of paperwork. Nothing’s in order … And you know ISD. Gotta have everything in order.” Rosco looked at Eddie and said, in Greek, “Can I get a grilled cheese with that coffee?”
“You got it.”
Eddie turned, filled a coffee mug, then placed it on the bar in front of Rosco.
He took a sip and focused on Sean. “I understand the cops have closed down your site? Someone was murdered—”
Sean raised his hands. “Whoa, hold on there. All that happened was … What’d you say your name was?”
Rosco took another sip of coffee. “Parker … Same as the last guy.”
“Well, hell, that makes things easy.”
“I thought it would.”
“Wait—Parker? Didn’t I overhear you telling Eddie you were Greek?”
“On my mother’s side, sure … What can I say? The country’s a melting pot.”
Sean seemed to relax a little with this information. “Look, my guys just found a pile of bones when they were diggin’ with the backhoe. That’s all there was to it. Nobody was murdered.”
“Did you get to see them? Before the cops got there? The bones, I mean.”
“What cops? Just some local yokel … Yeah, I saw them.”
“Parker” nodded in sympathy. “Rumor in Newcastle is someone dumped that body there. Maybe mob connected—”
“No way. The remains belonged to a woman. You didn’t read that? The mob doesn’t go after babes. But hell, I wouldn’t care if it was Amelia Earhart. I just want to get back to work.”
Rosco nodded again. “I’m sure you do … But as the new man on the job, Mr. Reilly, I’m going to have to take a look at what you’ve got going on there—”
“You guys can’t just waltz onto a site unannounced. You gotta make an appointment.”
Rosco took a sip of his coffee. “That’s where you’re wrong, Mr. Reilly. Your code book should provide all t
he necessary information as to the jurisdiction of the Inspectional Services Department. We can—and do—perform unscheduled spot checks … But that’s besides the point. You see, Parker—that’s my predecessor, the other Parker—didn’t leave any contact numbers for you, or for the current property owner, for that matter … meaning that I was forced to drive out here and look for you. We can do this spot check tomorrow or the next day … whatever works for you …” Rosco took another sip of coffee. “Hey, look, Reilly, I’m on your side. I just need to get brought up to speed … Paperwork’s a hassle, but it’s gotta be done. I’m sure your Mr. Gordon will understand.”
Sean only groaned.
“I’m going to have to talk with Gordon, too,” Rosco added. “The sooner you can get finished up, the happier we’ll all be, right? You want to get back on the job. ISD wants the same thing. Live and let live, and move on, right?”
“You’re a hell of a lot friendlier than the last Parker.” Sean pulled a business card from his wallet and jotted a phone number on the back. “That has my information on it: cell phone, the works. And that’s Mr. Gordon’s private line on the back. Don’t tell him I gave it to you, okay?”
“You bet.”
Sean finished his beer, tossed a five-dollar bill on the bar, looked at the man beside him, and said, “Come on, Rick, I want to get back to Boston before we hit rush hour.”
After they departed, Rosco was left alone at the bar—but not for long. A burly man with a large mustache slid onto the stool next to him. He was the same person who’d stepped outside when Rosco had entered and queried him on his Jeep. He extended his hand toward “Parker” in what would normally appear to be a friendly gesture, but which Rosco gauged to be intrinsically hostile.
“The name’s Gunston. Big Otto Gunston. I’m pretty much it when it comes to electrical contracting in Taneysville.”
Rosco shook the proffered hand. Big Otto’s grip was intended to cause pain and it did. Rosco ignored the ache in his fingers and said, “Bill Parker.”
“Right. Excuse me for eavesdropping,” Otto said, still keeping his grip tight, “but I hear that you’re the new building inspector for these parts?”
“One of them.”
“Well, I only care about the one that’ll be handling Taneysville.” He released Rosco’s now-throbbing hand. “How come you’re not driving a county car?”
Rosco let out a phony groan. “That was another thing my predecessor screwed up. Guess he liked to ride the brakes or something. Car’s in the shop now. New shoes. Be ready next week sometime. In the meantime, I’m on my own … Not that that baby needs any added mileage.”
Otto looked at Eddie as he placed Rosco’s sandwich in front of him. “This man’s meal’s on me, Eddie.”
Rosco wondered if the purchase of a two-dollar-and-sixty-five-cent grilled cheese sandwich constituted a large bribe in Otto’s mind. He was tempted to ask him if his generous offer included the coffee, but instead simply said, “Thanks.”
“Not a problem. That’s how I work. You ask anyone in Taneysville about Big Otto. I take care of the building inspectors, and they look out for me … You like moose hunting?”
“Moose? Not my thing. Sorry.”
“I take a few of the boys up north every fall. Keep it in mind. You missed this year’s trip, but, hell, maybe next year. There’s always room for another gun. They’re good hunting—moose.”
Rosco wondered if he should repeat Not my thing, but opted to leave it alone. “I didn’t notice that you had anything on my checklist when I left Newcastle this morning. Do you have some work I need to be … inspecting?”
“Nah … Of course, nobody here …” Gunston swung his meaty arm to indicate the remaining five customers; “That is, all of us have been locked out of that job at the old Quigley place. Brought in a bunch of foreigners to do the work.”
Eddie cleared his throat. “Just so you know, Mr. Parker: someone took the initiative to call immigration services—no one has any idea who that might have been.” He gave Big Otto a disingenuous smile. “Agents went out, or should I say ‘raided’ the site. Everyone’s paperwork was in order.”
Rosco shrugged. “Not much you can do about a nonlocal crew. Contractors want to go out of town for their workers—that’s their prerogative.”
Gunston’s face muscles began to tighten and his skin turned even ruddier. “Well, that’s where you’re wrong, Parker. We’re Americans—you and me. I don’t care who your mother was—or your pop, neither.” He pointed at Eddie. “And you, too, Apollo. You’ve got your citizenship. You’re one hundred percent, all-American prime beef.” He spun his heavy frame back toward Rosco. “We’ve got people who need jobs right here in Taneysville, Parker. The way I see it, if you’re from Maine, New Hampshire, Rhode Island—you’re a foreigner. If we don’t stop these Russkies, they’ll drive us all out!”
Rosco set the remainder of his sandwich on the plate. “Wait a second. What ‘Russkies’? I thought Reilly said his crew was Greek.”
“Greeks, Vermonters, Russkies, they’re all in it together. That Gordon? He’s one of them.”
“Gordon? The property owner?”
“Yeah, Gordon. You think that’s his real name? Forget it. It’s Peskov, or Pinchov, or something like that. I do my homework. I suggest you do, too. They had a whole thing on Gordon in the Boston paper a few years back …”
Rosco shrugged. “I must have missed it. But I guess people are allowed to change their names if they want.”
Big Otto’s face was now beet red. “Listen, Parker, you’ve got to understand something. There’s no room for people like that Russkie in Taneysville. You ask around. Start with the people at the church if you want. If we can’t get any support from people like you—our county employees—we’re going to have to take things into our own hands. That site has to be shut down!”
“As far as I can see, it has been.”
Otto stopped. He seemed to be considering the comment. Finally he said, “Yeah, right, but that’s only temporary. They’ve got to get some locals working up there or they’re going to be shut down for good.”
Rosco took another bite of his grilled cheese. “Man, finding that skeleton must have been something else … I sure wish I’d seen it. Any idea who she coulda been?”
Gunston only shook his head.
“Just bones,” Rosco continued. “No way to identify the remains … That’s what the newspapers said …”
Otto tossed some money on the bar. “Gotta run, Eddie.” He then turned to the two men he’d left at the table. “See you guys at my place tomorrow? The BU pregame starts at twelve-thirty.”
“Thanks for the sandwich,” Rosco said, but Big Otto walked out without acknowledging the remark.
CHAPTER 16
Surrounded by reference materials—foreign language dictionaries, a “red letter” edition of Shakespeare, and a quirky assortment of antiquated books on gardening, “home cookery,” and barn building—Belle penciled in possible solutions to her newest crossword puzzle. To say that she constructed the cryptics that appeared in the Evening Crier “the old-fashioned way” would have been an understatement. Belle Graham took as much pleasure in linguistic conundrums as her many fans did.
In addition, she set strict rules for herself: No two-letter solutions, a perfectly symmetrical appearance, and always, always a theme that worked its way both across and down. Belle believed her puzzles should be both fun and educational. What was the point in filling in letters if you didn’t feel you’d discovered something new?
“Arrrgh,” she muttered to herself. “No go …” She erased letters from the grid she’d drawn, then counted on her fingers, shook her head, and said, “Darn … ten letters …” She needed an uneven amount of letters for the thematic solutions to a crossword dedicated to the six wives of Henry VIII. “Unless I could make Anne Boleyn ‘Nan’—which was the name by which she was familiarly known …”
Kit’s sudden barking and a heavy footfall on t
he front steps removed this query from immediate attention. Belle cast aside her work and walked through the house to open the door just as the mailman prepared to slide the day’s deliveries through the slot.
“Hiya, Belle. Nice weather we’re having. Cold, though …”
“It’s only October, Artie. It’ll get a heck of a lot colder before it gets any warmer.”
“Almanac says we’re in for a doozy of a winter.”
“It wouldn’t surprise me.”
Kit danced around the legs of her mistress and the mail carrier while this familiar exchange took place. No matter the season, Artie enjoyed citing that well-known source for all atmospheric predictions, The Old Farmer’s Almanac.
“Enjoy it while you can. That’s what I always say.” He bent down to give Kit a friendly pat. “Nicest dog on my beat … Some of them … you’d be surprised … growl, bare their teeth, fur all ruffled and mean looking … Don’t know why people keep animals like that. I mean, pets should be something you can pet, right?”
“I guess folks think they need protection—”
Artie interrupted. He was a man who liked to talk, and he was trapped in an often uncommunicative job. “Well, if anyone needed protection I’d imagine it’d be you … especially after that kook targeted you and started sending those—”
“That was ages ago, Artie—”
“Only a year, by my reckoning … Besides, you never heard of copycat crimes? Happens all the time. I’m sure your hubby can tell you all about ’em.”
Belle smiled and took the mail he handed her. “I’ll keep your advice in mind.”
“If I was you, I wouldn’t be so quick and easy opening my door.”
“But then we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”
Artie’s face fell. “Gonna be a doozy of a winter,” he finally repeated.
Belle turned toward the door. “Let’s hope for the best.”