Bloodline (14 page)

T
his was getting awfully complicated, and I hadn't even started.

I was sitting at the table with my notes and my morning coffee. Outside it was overcast and gray. The same inside, where the beer of the night before was ringing in my head, which already had been buzzing. I scratched my unshaven chin and went down the list.

I had Genest at the high school, who didn't think I should do the story. Missy Hewett in Portland, who had opened her door for me but hardly her soul. Tracy Crown, who was about as helpful as Missy Hewett, only closer. Her dad, who wanted a grandchild and whose contribution to my cause was an offer to foot the bill.

But I couldn't leave out Belinda and the Bimbettes, who might steer me to people but couldn't make them talk. Kenny probably could, but somehow I didn't think he was itching to do me a favor. Unless the itch was on his trigger finger.

Last but not least, there was Inspector Poole of Scotland Yard, sifting through my background like a raccoon pawing through garbage. And wait until he got to the good stuff.

The fact was, I had been shot at before. More than once.

It had been sixty miles west of Prosperity, in Androscoggin, my previous home and place of employment. An old woman in Androscoggin had thought I was trying to destroy her husband and had blown a hole in my bedroom wall. From the inside.

Then one of my friends and colleagues on the little paper there had turned out to be someone else entirely. That “someone else” had tried to shoot me but had missed. And in my spare time, I'd been beaten, threatened, harassed, and hounded.

Lots for me and Poole to talk about.

I figured if he'd called the
Times
, he would have called Androscoggin. And the next step would be to call me.

At that moment, as if on cue, the phone rang.

I got up and went to the counter and brought my coffee with me, ready to talk until Poole's little notebook was full and he was scribbling on his pants leg.

“Yeah,” I said, a little blustery for his benefit.

“Hello.”

It was a woman's voice, young and hesitant.

“I'd like to speak to Mr. Jack McMorrow.”

“This is Jack.”

“Mr. McMorrow, this is Missy Hewett. Melissa Hewett. You came to Portland to see me?”

“I remember, Missy. How are you?”

“Well, been better, I guess. I was wondering if we could talk. I mean, not over the phone.”

“Yeah, sure. I can come down there. Meet for coffee or something.”

“Yeah,” Missy said. She hesitated for a moment. “Yeah, okay. I hate to have you come all this way, but it is kind of important. It's about your story.”

“All right. Is there something wrong? You don't sound quite right.”

“Oh, no,” she said. “I mean, yes, I'm okay. Just a lot of things going on in my head. So, like, when do you think you could come?”

“I'm flexible. When do you want me to come?”

“Well, I've got classes this afternoon. A big lecture tonight. Physiology. How 'bout tomorrow afternoon. My last class is at three, gets out at four-twenty. How 'bout around four-thirty?”

“Okay. Where?”

“Well, you remember where I live?”

“Yup.”

“Well, at the corner of the street—Forest Avenue, I mean—if you take a left, there's a doughnut shop just up the street, toward downtown. How 'bout there?”

“Fine. But listen, Missy, could you give me any idea what this is about?”

She didn't answer for a moment.

“Well, I don't—I'm not sure how to say it, but, you should know this hasn't been easy.”

“What hasn't?”

“Giving up the baby. Ya know? It's pretty hard when it comes down to it. And I just thought, I don't know, if I was talking to you, they'd maybe listen to me. 'Cause it wouldn't just be me by myself.”

“Who?”

“About my baby, I mean,” Missy said, her voice tiny and weak. “When I ask if I can have her back.”

“You've changed your mind?”

“Yeah. I mean, I don't know. I think so. I think I want her with me. I could do it. I know this girl, she's in one of my classes, she's got a kid. Why can't I have mine?”

“So who's—”

“Hey, I gotta go. There's some guy who's waiting for the phone and he's practically climbing in here with me.”

“Tomorrow?”

“Yup.”

“Take care of yourself.”

“Oh, yeah.”

There was a click, then the dial tone.

“Whoa,” I said out loud.

So Missy wanted her daughter back. Her hard resolve had melted for some reason. Was it talking to this other girl who seemed to be able to swing both having a baby and a future? And what were the terms of the adoption? Was it one of those open agreements where the natural mother had months to change her mind? Did she have a lawyer? Who was the “they” she had to convince? Did she go through an agency? Which one?

I put the water on for another cup of coffee, and while I waited for it to boil, I made notes of the conversation. Tried to get every word, hers and mine. When I'd done that, I went and stood at the window. Paced a little. Went back to my notes. Over to the stove. Back to the window. This story had just come alive and my whole body was tense, tingling. I felt like I'd just come alive, too.

The water boiled. As I turned off the burner, there was the sound of tires on the gravel out front. I went to the new window and looked out. Came back to the stove and took out another cup. When the knock came at the door, I answered it.

“Hey, come on in,” I said. “Can I get you a cup of coffee?”

“Sure,” Poole said. “Black's fine.”

He was wearing a short khaki jacket instead of the sport coat, but he'd still put on a tie. It made him look like a chemistry teacher or somebody who sold mobile homes. No matter what he did, Poole wouldn't look like a cop.

I leaned against the kitchen table, while he took his coffee and stood by the window to the deck, ten feet away. He remarked again on Millie's sculpture and asked me if people bought her work. When I said I assumed so, he just shook his head.

Fools and their money.

“So I've been looking into your incident,” Poole said.

“I heard,” I said.

“I figured you would. The press sticks together, right?”

“I don't know. I think maybe they were hoping to find out I was in some kind of serious trouble.”

“So they could write a story about it,” Poole said.

“Something to break up the day.”

He sipped his coffee and looked out the window. I looked, too, and saw purple finches and goldfinches in the milkweed at the edge of the yard. If I'd been outside, I would have been able to hear their ticks and warbles. Inside, the silence was getting heavy.

Poole cleared his throat.

“Yeah, well, I hope you know it's nothing personal,” he said, still looking away. “Just routine investigation. In my business, and yours, I guess, things often aren't what they seem.”

“Never, you mean.”

Poole looked at me.

“Never what they seem, I mean,” I said.

“Yeah, you're probably right. So you understand. I know all about Kenny and that crowd. I don't know much about you.”

“A little more than you did a couple of days ago.”

“A little more.”

“What else do you want to know?”

Poole walked toward me and put his coffee cup down on the table. It was empty. Did I detect a caffeine problem?

Two could play this game.

“More coffee?” I said.

“Sure,” he said.

Refilled, he moved back to the window.

“I did some checking on your background, as you know. Talked to some people who think you fell off the edge of the world or something.”

“Their worlds are kind of small.”

“Yeah, well, I also talked to a couple of people in Androscoggin, where you worked.”

“Uh-huh.”

“And I've gotta tell you, Mr. McMorrow—for a newsman, you sure lead an exciting life.”

“Those people in New York wouldn't think so.”

“I don't know. How many people died in Androscoggin while you were there?”

“Two, if you mean in an untimely way.”

“Well, that was quite a case,” Poole said. “I read about it, but I didn't remember your name from the stories.”

“Celebrity is fleeting.”

“And you don't mind that.”

“I'm not looking for speaking engagements, if that's what you mean.”

I poured him another cup.

“So what exactly brought you over to Waldo County, Mr. McMorrow?” Poole asked.

“What brought me here? Oh, I don't know. Let me think for a sec. Get my story right. I don't want you tripping me up.”

He looked at me blankly.

“Just kidding. Let's see. Well, first of all, things went to hell in Androscoggin. The scum-sucking bottom-feeder who bought the paper wanted a shopper kind of thing. You know. All ads. Some canned feature crap. It wasn't for me, and besides, working there was pretty tough after everything that happened.”

“I can see how it would be.”

“Hard to report the news when you are the news. So I had a friend in New York who knew the woman who owns this place. The artist whose work you so admire. She was looking for somebody to live here and I needed a place to live. And some peace and quiet.”

“Where's the artist lady?”

“Santa Fe. New Mexico.”

“But she doesn't come here?”

“Just in the summers, and not for the last two. She's sort of an old hippie, I guess you'd say. I guess there was sort of a hippie community here twenty years ago. That's when she came here.”

“Yeah, there used to be a whole bunch of 'em,” Poole said. “When we were kids, we used to sneak through the woods and watch the girls skinny-dipping in Unity Pond.”

I smiled.

“And they're all gone?”

“Not all,” he said. “But now they're older. Kids of their own. It isn't like it was back then.”

“No fun to sneak through the woods to watch somebody's grandmother.”

“Don't suppose,” Poole said.

He put his cup down, empty again. The guy was a caffeine freak in sheep's clothing.

“So if you don't mind, tell me again how you met up with Kenny and those guys,” he said, smiling. “And start right at the beginning.”

So I did. Dave at the magazine leads to Janice at the high school. Janice at the high school leads to the girls in the parking lot. The girls lead to Missy Hewett and Tracy Crown. The girls in the parking lot also lead to Kenny and the boys. Kenny and the boys lead to Investigator Poole of the Waldo County Sheriff's Department. The hip bone's connected to the thighbone.

“And here we are,” I said. “One big happy family.”

Poole allowed a flicker of a grin.

“So you drove all the way to Portland to talk to this girl at the college?”

“Oh, yeah. It's either that or stay home and make the whole thing up.”

“Which you don't do?”

“Not if I can help it.”

“She talked to you?”

“Some. She took a little while to get used to the idea. Kind of a personal thing, you know? But there's a knack to getting people to talk, don't you think? Some people have it and some people don't. You must have to have it to do your job.”

“You too,” Poole said.

“You know, we have a lot in common.”

“Except you don't fly-fish.”

“And you're fishing right now.”

“Maybe,” he said, flickering the smile again. “Maybe not.”

I put my cup in the sink and leaned back against the counter.

“I know you think I'm some sort of drug dealer or something,” I said.

Poole shrugged.

“I don't think things. I rule things out.”

“So how do I get you to rule that out? I am what I seem. Really, I am. A newspaper guy who took a detour. The only drugs I do come in sixteen-ounce cans. And I don't sell them to minors. The fact that I was shot at says more about the maniacs around here than about me. I mean, I don't know why they shot at me. You know this kid. Does he do that to everybody who rubs him the wrong way?”

“Kenny's an outlaw,” Poole said. “From a long line of outlaws. He's got two older brothers, one in the correctional center in Windham. He broke into something like seventeen camps a couple of winters ago. Got three or four years out of it. Because of his priors.”

“What'd the other brother do?”

“He killed a guy. A disagreement over a drug deal. They were selling coke. Pretty big-time.”

“How'd he kill him?”

“Drove by his trailer and shot him with a shotgun. Through a window.”

It was my turn to smile.

“Looking up to your big brother,” I said. “That's nice. And they say the family is a dying institution.”

15