Bitch Creek (28 page)

“Right,” said Calhoun. “Thanks.”

“I'm not drunk,” said Millie after Kevin had moved away, “if that's what you're thinking.” She was wearing skin-tight blue jeans and a scoop-necked blouse which would inspire any bartender to lean forward on his elbows when she bent to sip from her drink.

“Didn't expect you would be,” he said.

“I got what you wanted. About those deeds.”

“Good. Don't suppose you're hungry?”

“I am. I told Alice to hold a table for us in the dining room.” She smiled. “I don't think we'll have much of a wait.”

Calhoun put a twenty-dollar bill on the bartop. Kevin came to retrieve it. “That cover it?” said Calhoun.

“Eleven and a quarter for the gin and tonics,” he said. “Coke's on the house.”

Calhoun nodded. “Thanks. Keep the change.”

Kevin gave him a quick salute, and they swiveled off their stools. Millie held onto Calhoun's arm as they went into the dining room. A round, thirtyish woman appeared with menus, a nice smile, and a little nametag over her left breast that said
ALICE
. She led them to a table against the wall across the room from the couple at the window. “You okay with your drinks?” she said.

“We're fine,” said Calhoun. “Thanks.”

“Back for your order in a jif,” she said, and moved away.

They looked at the menus. Standard fare—steaks, chops, chicken, seafood, pasta, and the inevitable vegetarian specials. For Calhoun, the choice was easy. On those rare occasions when he ate out, he always had a steak and a baked potato.

When Alice returned, Millie ordered a vegetable-and-tofu stir-fry. Calhoun decided on the porterhouse, medium rare, hold the sour cream on the potato.

Across the room, the elderly couple was arguing in low, tense voices. Millie was staring across at them.

“They're stuck with each other,” said Calhoun, “and they both know it's too late to do anything about it.”

Millie turned and looked at him. “So how's Kate?” she said.

Calhoun shook his head. “Kate and I are a secret, Millie. Jesus.”

“Like hell you are. There isn't a worthwhile secret left in the whole damn state of Maine.”

“Well, we're not advertising it,” he said.

She nodded. “It just makes me sad, seeing folks who've got each other like those two”—she jerked her chin in the direction of the old couple—“not appreciating it. I hope you appreciate it, Stoney.”

“I do,” he said. “What about you?”

“Me?”

“You must have somebody, Millie. Fine-looking woman like you, successful business and all.”

“Oh, I'm a catch, all right.” She smiled and rolled her eyes. “I guess half the guys in York County have taken a swipe at me, one time or another. All the good ones're already married, or . . . or otherwise accounted for. I tell 'em sorry, I'm a lesbian. After a while the word gets around, and now they don't bother me. Of course, now and then one of their wives gives it a shot.” She grinned. “Sometimes the idea makes a lot of sense, but I guess I don't have the genes for it. I was married once. Had to get away from him. That's when I came up here.” She shook her head. “It was a long time ago. The hell with it. I work hard and I exercise hard, and I get through the day, you know?”

“I figured I'd be alone the rest of my life,” said Calhoun. “It's what I thought I wanted. I guess without Kate, that's how it'd be, and I don't think I'd mind.”

“Yeah,” she said, “you'd mind. After a while, it doesn't seem natural.”

Calhoun thought about losing Kate. He knew he could never go back to the way it was before he started loving her. Millie was right. It wouldn't be natural.

The waitress brought their dinners and they ate without talking much. Millie sipped a diet Coke with her meal, and when they finished they ordered coffee.

When the coffee came, Millie reached into her big shoulder bag and pulled out a stenographer's pad. “Okay,” she said. “Maybe I was a little drunk back there. But I'm not now.” She slipped a pair of reading glasses onto her nose. “I spent the morning in the Keatsboro Town Hall. You wanted to know about that property where Lyle McMahan died.”

“Yes,” said Calhoun, “where Lyle was murdered.”

“Anything particular you wanted to know?”

Calhoun shrugged. “Like I told you, I'm just thrashin' around, Millie.”

She cleared her throat. “Well, here's what I got for you. That parcel was originally part of a huge tract that was owned by a timber company. Covered the whole area west and south of Sebago, eight or nine townships now. Several hundred square miles. Granted to them by the state, most likely, though the records don't go back that far. The state, of course, took it from the Indians, but you sure won't find that on any deeds. Anyhow, more than likely they cut it over for ship masts, then for lumber, and then for pulp, and when they wore it out they divided it and put it up for sale. That parcel you're interested in was part of a bigger piece that was bought by someone named Saul Raczwenc in nineteen thirty-six. It was subdivided in thirty-eight, and that seven-hundred-acre piece was bought by Sam and Emily Potter. The town took it in lieu of taxes in nineteen forty-nine.”

“They got burned out in forty-seven,” said Calhoun. “Sam Potter died in the fire.”

Millie nodded. “Yes, I heard that. It's not explained in the official records, of course. Anyway, David Ross, who lives across the street, got himself a bargain. Took it off the town's hands in nineteen fifty-one for the cost of the back taxes. Held onto it until”—she squinted down at the legal pad—“seventy-three.” She looked up at Calhoun and smiled.

“David Ross bought that land?”

Millie nodded.

“Then he sold it?”

“Yes. In seventy-three.”

“Who'd he sell it to?”

“Something called the A & I Development Corporation.”

“Then what?” he said.

“Then nothing. This A & I still owns it.”

“Rip off a piece of paper for me,” said Calhoun. “I want to write this down.”

She tore the top two sheets off the pad and handed them to him. “Already did it for you,” she said. “It's all there, including the names of the lawyers who handled the transactions. I imagine most of them are dead by now.”

“Thanks.” He looked at Millie's neatly printed notes. “So the last time it changed hands was in seventy-three.”

She nodded.

“Any idea who this A & I Development Corporation is?”

She shrugged. “Probably one of those real estate speculating groups. A whole bunch of them sprung up in the seventies when they got the interstate up and running. Lot of folks thought southwestern Maine was going to be the next big vacation destination.” Millie shook her head and smiled. “Of course, they were wrong.”

“Has A & I been trying to sell it, do you know?”

She shrugged. “Couldn't tell you for sure. I mean, you'd think I'd know. Everything in this neck of the woods is multi-listed, so I hear about most of it. But those land-development groups don't usually deal with us little local brokers.”

Calhoun leaned across the table and touched Millie's hand. “Suppose you could do me another favor?”

“Now don't you try to sweet-talk me, Stoney Calhoun.” She squeezed his hand, then let go. “You don't need to, you know. Guess I know what you want.”

“See if you can find out who this A & I is.”

She shrugged. “Sure.” She cocked her head at him. “What do you expect to get out of all this, Stoney?”

“Hell,” he said, “I don't know. Like I said, I'm just doing some snooping. Maybe I'll scare something up.” He squinted at the paper. “Wonder who this Saul Raczwenc was,” he said. He looked up at Millie. “Any of their kin still around?”

She shrugged. “If I'd known you wanted that information, I suppose I could've done some more digging. But I can tell you with certainty that there aren't any Raczwencs living around here now.” Millie sipped her coffee and watched him over the rim of her cup. “You know,” she said, “if you want stories, you ought to talk to Jacob Barnes. He's been here all his life. And he must be pushing eighty. You get him started on the fire of forty-seven, there's no stopping him.”

“And he'll know about Keatsboro?”

“Back when he was a young man, if you believe half of what he says, it was just one big farm area around here. Cows and pigs and apple orchards, mostly. That general store of his was a feed-and-grain place back then, and I guess folks came from all over. He knew everyone and everything. Still does. I bet he can tell you every night Kate has a sleep-over with you, what time she got there and when she left and what you did in between.”

“Jesus, Millie.”

She grinned. “I'm just suggesting maybe you ought to treat her to dinner here at Juniper's some night. It won't shock anybody.”

“It's Walter—her husband—we're concerned about.”

“Folks know that part of it, too, Stoney.” Millie reached across the table and took his hand. “And I'll tell you something else. By this time tomorrow, everyone in York County will know that you and I had a cozy dinner together at Juniper's, and that you like your steak medium-rare, and that we held hands during coffee.”

Calhoun yanked his hand away.

She grinned. “All I'm saying is, maybe you and Kate will be happier if you don't feel like you've got to sneak around.”

“Who said we weren't happy?”

“Are you?”

Calhoun shrugged. “What happened to Lyle's made it hard.”

“Sounds like you better get that resolved, then.”

He nodded. “That's exactly what I'm trying to do.”

When they went outside, the sun had set. The lights from the restaurant bathed the parking area in a dim orange glow, but darkness had gathered under the trees and spread over the fields out back.

Calhoun let Ralph out of the truck. Ralph sniffed Millie's shoes, then trotted off into the shadows, his white legs winking in the semidarkness.

They went to Millie's Cherokee. She unlocked the door, then turned around and leaned back against it. “Thanks for dinner,” she said.

“Thanks for the information,” he said.

She reached up and touched his shoulder. “I can't help wondering what you're doing, Stoney. All this thrashin' around.”

He shook his head. “Just trying to keep busy, I guess.” He bent to her, brushed a quick kiss on her cheek, then stepped back. “Thanks, Millie. Appreciate your help.”

Millie's hand went to her cheek. “That was sweet.” She grinned. “You know, if you're going to start the gossip flying anyway, you might as well make it worthwhile.”

Calhoun smiled, then whistled to Ralph, who came trotting over. “Go on. Get in the car,” he said, and Ralph obeyed. He turned to Millie. “I am grateful for this.” He patted his shirt pocket, where he'd put the folded-up sheet of paper she had given him. “If there's anything I can do for you . . .”

“Let me buy you dinner sometime, Stoney.”

“Sure. I'd like that.”

“You and Kate,” she said.

“You're a good woman, Millie Dobson,” said Calhoun. “Those wives don't know what they're missing.”

She nodded, then turned, opened her car door, and got in. She looked up at him. “I'll see what I can find out about A & I Development.”

He waved at her as she pulled out of the parking lot, and as she turned onto the street, he saw her hand come out of the window and wave back.

It was a little before ten when he pulled in front of his house. The floodlights washed the area in bright light. The surrounding woods were absolutely black.

He hesitated for a moment, reluctant to get out of the truck. Fred Green with his .22 could be lurking in those dark woods, centering him in his sights. Then he shook his head. You can't live that way. It pissed him off, this new feeling of insecurity on his own property.

He climbed out and retrieved the shotgun from behind the seat. “Come on,” he said to Ralph. “Let's get you something to eat.”

Ralph bustled around the yard, lifting his leg several times, sniffing the bushes. If anybody was hiding in the woods, Ralph would know it.

Calhoun fed Ralph and put on a fresh pot of coffee. Then he went into the bedroom and changed into jeans, a dark blue sweatshirt, and sneakers. He found a bottle of Ben's insect repellent in his fishing vest in the living room and stuck it into his pocket, too.

He had a couple hours to kill, so he found the classical music station on his stereo. They were playing Mozart's clarinet concerto.

He sat at his fly-tying bench. Humming tunelessly along with the clarinet, and without thinking much about it, he found himself tying a red-and-white wet fly, a Parmacheene Belle, which had been named after Lake Parmacheene in the northwestern corner of Maine. When he recognized what he had done, Calhoun smiled. Lyle had loved history and had a special fondness for old-fashioned flies, especially those that originated in Maine like the Grey Ghost, the Warden's Worry, and the Nine-Twelve.

Calhoun figured that even when he wasn't aware of thinking about Lyle, part of his mind was doing just that.

Tying flies, like fishing with them, served a double purpose. Both fishing and fly tying gave him something to focus on at one level, while at the same time clearing his mind and allowing it to roam freely, to ponder problems on a different level.

So the front part of Calhoun's brain arranged feathers and bucktail and tinsel, while some darker, deeper part considered why Fred Green had murdered Lyle and now wanted to murder Calhoun himself.

The next time he looked at his watch, it was eleven-thirty. He'd tied nine flies, all of them different. But he had solved no problems.

He pushed back his chair, went to the kitchen, filled a thermos with coffee, and turned off the stereo. He took a heavy army blanket from the bedroom closet, screwed a black baseball cap onto his head, picked up the shotgun, snapped his fingers at Ralph, turned off all the lights, and went outside.