Cloudland (28 page)

My chest tightened. I felt momentary disequilibrium and had to brace my hand against the wall. “Do you know if he’s okay?”

“He’s driving himself home. The state police advised him to go to the ER at Fletcher Allen, but he refused to and took responsibility for himself. I’m sorry to be calling you with all of this, especially because I don’t have much information. But I thought you’d want to know.”

I told her I appreciated it, promised to let her know when I found out more, and said good-bye.

I put the phone down, feeling bewildered. I wondered if Anthony’s trip to Burlington had something to do with what he’d wanted to discuss with me. I hardly imagined I’d be able to reach him on his mobile phone but he surprised me by picking up, sounding very groggy.

“I just heard what happened to you,” I said. “The Burlington police called Nan O’Brien. Are you okay?”

“I don’t honestly know.” Anthony sounded strangely breathless. “I stopped to take a leak. One of the urinals was overflowing. The tiles were slippery. I slipped and fell backwards. I woke up on the floor. I feel strange right now, Catherine, dizzy. I probably shouldn’t be on the phone.”

“You also shouldn’t be driving!”

“I’m only ten minutes from home. Fiona is there, waiting. I’ll be okay.” There was a pause.

“Why were you going to Burlington?”

“I was on my way to see the coroner. I have something I need to talk to you about. But I’m feeling … I should really get off the phone. When can we talk?”

“I’ll be here.”

He clicked off without saying good-bye.

What was going on? Had I only spoken to him the night Matthew visited I would now know why Anthony had been on his way to see the coroner. I strongly considered calling Fiona and insisting that she drive Anthony to the hospital, but then stopped short, knowing she was quite capable of taking matters into her own hands.

*   *   *

Wade’s office, normally as quiet as a catacomb, was filled with ornery taxpayers, Paul included, waiting on line for scheduled appointments with the tax assessors. Wade was answering the phone, directing traffic into the office where the tax assessors were conducting hearings. Even though Paul was standing close to his desk, the two men were barely acknowledging each other. When Paul finally went in for his meeting I noted to Wade that there seemed to be a hostile atmosphere between them.

Looking around to make sure what he said was in confidence, Wade whispered emphatically, “I’m in a very difficult position here.”

I pointed out the obvious, that we all have to pay our taxes.

“I know, but he’s not worried about himself per se. It’s about those who just can’t afford it, the increase itself.” Indicating the room full of fidgeting, dyspeptic-looking people, Wade lowered his voice and whispered, “Many of these folks just don’t have the resources.” He reminded me that if an owner gets behind on taxes for two years, their home and land go up for tax sale to the highest bidder, who theoretically has the right to purchase the property for a fraction of its value by covering the owed taxes. “It’s a sorry situation all around.” He squinted at me. “Did you hear about Anthony?”

“Yeah. How did
you
hear?”

“I was in the corner store when Fiona breezed in looking for hydrogen peroxide and shit like that … for his wounds.”

“So I guess she didn’t take him to the hospital.”

“She told me he’s been refusing to go.”

“So typical for a doctor.”

Neither of us spoke for a moment and then Wade looked at me askance. “So what can I do for you?”

“Am I not allowed to visit?” I heard myself say, still preoccupied with the news of Anthony’s mishap.

He smirked. “Yeah, but what’s on
your
mind?”

I asked if he had time to go to Joanie’s for lunch. Wade looked at his watch and then the room full of waiting people and said it might be difficult to just leave.

At that moment, Paul emerged from his meeting with the tax assessors, flushed and fuming. Glancing at him, Wade exclaimed, “Oh, God, maybe I
should
leave.”

As Paul was heading toward us, I said to Wade, “I’ll invite him?”

“No!” he whispered fiercely.

But it was too late. “Come on to lunch with us, Paul. You can bend my ear all you want.”

Wade looked exasperated.

“I don’t need a sounding board,” Paul said. “I need action.”

“Oh puuuhleeeease!” said Wade.

“I hate these tax people,” Paul said. “They’re a bunch of idiots, except Barry Dean, who was a partner in a good Boston tax firm. Maybe I should move to
Boston
to get away from morons like them!”

“You don’t think there are tax assessors in Boston?” Wade threw back at him. “In fact I’m sure taxes are a lot higher there.”

“Well, at least they get some municipal services. Sewage and electricity and cable TV.” He turned to look at the petitioners waiting their turn and then said confidentially, “These people are strapped with higher tax and they’re getting nothing for it. Except possible bankruptcy. It’s not their fault the state has no money.”

Wade went into the records room where his part-time assistant was doing some research and announced that we were going to lunch. Wedged between them, I walked the short distance down the road and across the parking lot with the drive-up banking kiosk to Joanie’s Café. To my great surprise, I discovered the café was under new ownership and was now called Midge’s.

Gaping at the new bold-lettered sign, I said, “When did this happen?”

“Where the dickens have you been?” Wade said.

“Living inside my own head, clearly.”

“You do read the paper, don’t you?” Paul wondered.

Wade opened the door and held it for us. As we walked in Paul said to me, “Guess why the ownership has changed?”

Before anybody could answer we heard a sneering voice say, “Joanie became a tax refugee and moved to New Hampshuh.” It was Sheila, everybody’s favorite smart-assed blond waitress, referring to the fact that there is no state income tax in New Hampshire.

“At least some things stayed the same around here,” I told her. “Like you.” Then to Paul, “But there’s your answer. Move to New Hampshire.”

“No way in hell. I hate New Hampshire politics. I guess I’m not leaving my house until they carry me out.”

“You folks need to chill and sit down,” Sheila said.

“So how come you ended up staying on if Joanie got out of Dodge?” Wade asked as we followed her to a table that stuck out from the wall like a vinyl ellipse, one of the restaurant’s new refurbishments.

“Because people
like
me,” Sheila said with a disagreeable tone as she dropped three plastic menus on the table.

Under its new ownership, the café had been given a makeover of chintz curtains, new tables that were affixed to the wall, and shiny black-and-white linoleum floor tiles. A stainless-steel hood had been installed above the griddle, which was definitely an improvement over the previous nonvented incarnation that had given the café its characteristic burnt-bacon smell. The menu was only slightly different, gentrified, so that staples such as chicken salad and bacon sandwiches became chicken salad, cilantro, and pancetta sandwiches (or, alternately, wraps). Paul and I each ordered one, he asked for a vanilla milkshake, and Wade decided to have an omelette
au
Vermont chèvre. Once Sheila took our order, I said to Paul, “Imagine how much tax you’d pay if we all lived in Sweden.”

“Can we move on?” Wade said to both of us. “I think we’ve worn through this discussion.”

“Fine!” Paul said irritably, fanning himself with the menu.

Spying him, Sheila came over and snatched it out of his hands. “It’s brand-new. I don’t want you bending it.”

“Listen to you,” Wade said.

And then I told them, “Okay, guys, I got you here for a reason.”

They both looked at me, a bit startled.

“Why did you have to call Breck and tell her about Matthew’s visit?” Paul and Wade traded a glance and then looked at me again. “She just assumed that I was going to keep from telling her, myself. If I don’t hide it from you, why should I hide it from her?”

Paul, who normally could be defensive and ornery, said, “You’re right. I’m sorry. It was wrong of us.”

“What you really mean to say is that it’s none of your business.”

“That’s true.” He gestured to Wade, who said, “We’re out of order, agreed.” As though needing an activity to ground his momentary discomfort, Wade grabbed my menu and his and called to Sheila, “Since you’ve appointed yourself as the menu police, why don’t you take these, too.”

Sheila smirked and made a beeline to our table. “Suit yourself, honey,” she said, and walked away.

I addressed them both. “I will say that nothing happened between Matthew and me. And nothing is going to happen.”

Wade reminded me, “Like Paul said before, we all promised to look after one another.” The two men exchanged yet another meaningful glance.

“What’s going on?” I asked them.

But they held back.

I was about to accuse them of harboring something when Sheila arrived with our plates of food. Once she set everything down, she turned to me, hands jammed on her hips. “Okay, gotta tell you something, Miss Catherine,” she said. I braced myself for sarcasm, but then she surprised me. “Something’s been bugging me for days.”

I turned my palms to the ceiling, as if to say, “What could it possibly be?”

“Okay, so as we all know, I have a reputation as the biggest mouth this side of the Connecticut River. Keep that in mind. So just as I was getting off work the other day, I had myself an interesting visitor who was asking me lots of questions. Like how long I’ve known
you
. Like what do I
know
about you. Like do I know if
you
have any boyfriends. But hey, I didn’t give him diddly.”

“Who was it?” I asked, wondering if it might have been Matthew.

“That detective from down Springfield way.”

“Prozzo?” I exclaimed, aghast.

Paul and Wade had fallen suspiciously quiet. “Prozzo,” Wade said at last in a snide whisper.

A pall was cast over the table. We all sat there staring at one another, none of us eating. Without a further word Sheila began walking briskly toward the back of the restaurant and the clamoring kitchen.

Paul pressed both his hands on the table, as though he wanted to rise out of his chair. Then he looked at Wade. “Now we have to tell her.”

“Tell me what?”

“Why we called Breck … because Prozzo came to see
us,
too. Asking questions about you, but mostly questions about Matthew Blake.”

“About Matthew?”

Looking apologetic, Wade said, “And just so you know, I told him everything I knew, because to be honest, I was glad that for once he wasn’t dogging me.”

NINETEEN

W
HAT COULD PROZZO
possibly want to know about me that he didn’t already know? And why had he been asking questions about Matthew? Why hadn’t the detective just sought me out? I called the general number for the Springfield police, and learned that he was “out on an appointment.” I left a message for him, then called to see how Anthony was doing (with a dual purpose of procuring Prozzo’s cell number), and Fiona surprised me by picking up the phone. She apologized for answering by saying, “One of Anthony’s medical school friends should be calling right back. He’s a neurologist.”

“How is he?”

“I’m about to take him to the hospital … finally. He’s been refusing to go. But then he had an episode in the shower.”

She’d heard him cry out and found him slumped down in the stall, leaning against the tiles under a deluge of water. She kept asking what was wrong and all he could say was, “I can’t think, I just can’t think!” When he recovered from this momentary fit, Anthony finally agreed to be driven to the hospital and gave her the name of the neurologist he’d known in medical school, who happened to be affiliated with Dartmouth-Hitchcock Medical Center.

“I don’t mean to usher you off the phone, but that doctor is supposed to be calling about meeting us over there. I already have Anthony in the car.”

Now even more worried about Anthony, I knew it wasn’t the time to ask him for phone numbers, not to mention find out why he’d gone to Burlington. I made Fiona promise to stay in touch about his injury.

I tried the Springfield police station yet again with no luck, and then realized my deadline for the latest column was four o’clock that very afternoon. Worrying that Prozzo now was focusing his suspicions on Matthew and perhaps on me as well, I decided it was best to remain occupied until I heard from him.

An archivist had written to tell me how to preserve newspaper clippings, in essence how to remove acid from the paper, which causes it to turn yellow and fall apart. I dissolved a milk-of-magnesia tablet in a quart of club soda and poured the mixture in a pan that was large enough to hold the flattened clipping, one of my op-ed pieces that I’d written for
The New York Times
on vanishing wildlife in Vermont, including the bobolink getting churned under by the hay threshers. Before putting the newsprint in the pan, I was instructed to put in a piece of nylon net that would allow me to pick up the paper without tearing it. I soaked the clipping for an hour, removed it, and just as I was patting it dry with the intention of allowing it to cure completely in the air, the dogs began barking madly: somebody had pulled into the driveway. I went and looked out my study window and recognized Prozzo’s Jeep Cherokee. At last. He was swiping his signature Ray-Bans off his face and beginning a bowlegged walk toward the door. I went and met him. Tucking his sunglasses in his shirt pocket, he apologized for showing up without phoning beforehand.

“Got your message, Catherine. I didn’t get back right away. I was actually hoping to see Anthony before dropping in on you. But he’s not home. And hasn’t been answering his cell phone.”

“He’s gone to the hospital.” I briefly explained what I knew.

Prozzo appeared genuinely alarmed. “That sounds so bizarre, falling like that. Talk about bad luck!”