Corpus de Crossword (11 page)

“Maybe we don't like to think that this type of crime could be perpetrated on a woman.”

“I guess that's it …” May sighed while Rosco glanced at his notes and reread the sketchy information he'd picked up from Al Lever and Abe Jones.

“Apparently it's going to take Dr. Jones three to four weeks before he can determine anything very specific with regards to when the victim might have died … Now, I'm sure you've given this a good deal of thought over the last few days, May, but can you think of anyone, anyone at all, who may have gone missing? And we could be looking back as far as fifty years. Maybe longer.”

“No one in this village ever disappeared.” The voice was assertive, even a trifle aggressive. “Because, if that had been the case, I guarantee, we'd still be talking about it … I guarantee it.”

Rosco tried a new tack. “Can you tell me anything about the Quigleys?”

May didn't respond for a moment. Rosco could tell she was struggling with her rule of not trading in gossip or speculating on the motives of others.

“I guess I could say they were unusual. Kept to themselves. They weren't what you'd call unfriendly … but they sure weren't neighborly. They'd look down on the church every single Sunday, but they never stepped in, not once, to my recollection. It upset Milt something fierce; but I say let people get their religion where they can.”

“And the Quigleys had no children, from what I understand?”

“Nary a one … Which was hard; a farm needs plenty of extra hands.” She paused, thinking. “They did have a young man working for them once. It was a long time ago, maybe in the sixties … kind of a chunky kid with odd hair; that's what makes me think it was back in the sixties or seventies. He was from Newcastle, as I recall, inner city … I got the impression it was part of a plan to help troubled youth … I also got the impression that Mrs. Quigley liked him a heck of a lot better than her husband did … But that was just my observation.” Again, May hesitated. “I'm sorry to say the community wasn't very friendly to the poor child … I wasn't, I can tell you that, and it's not something I'm proud of. I mean, I didn't have reason to see the young fellow that often because Quigley kept him pretty tightly reined … But still … I guess I was just nervous on account of his being different, maybe even dangerous. Boys in big cities grow up so fast, and if they're running around with the wrong crowd, well—”

“You wouldn't recall his name?”

“No … I'm not sure I ever knew it … All I can tell you was that he had really white skin—kind of unusual in a boy, though I suppose that's what comes of living in an apartment complex—and very blond hair. A real towhead.” Her mouth turned downward in self-criticism. “We should have reached out … the church should have reached out … I mean if he was a young man in trouble … That's what churches are for, aren't they?” She paused again. “Maybe Lonnie Tucker knew the boy's name. They must have been about the same age … And Lonnie did his share of raising Cain when he was a teenager.”

Rosco noted the information and said, “The Quigleys never took in another boy for the summer?”

“No … but like I said, Hiram didn't seem to cotton to him. It's hard mixing city folk and country folk. He stuck with hiring local kids from then on.”

“You've lived here your entire life then, I take it?”

May gave a light laugh. “Oh, no. Only since I married Milt. But that's nearly sixty years now. I'm from Rhode Island originally … I'd planned to go off to college after finishing with the Hobson School. I worked summers as a chambermaid at an inn in Narragansett. Worked there since I was fourteen … I don't know what brought Milt out there. He's not a seaside sort of person … But he plain swept me off my feet. I was sixteen at the time. Milt was older, of course. I'm happy to say that Taneysville's been my home ever since.” She smiled—beamed almost.

“So all of your relatives are in Rhode Island?”

The smile flattened. “The Hobson School was an orphanage. It's all closed up now.”

“I'm sorry … ‘Tree' didn't tell me that your parents were … He didn't give me any of that background.”

“It's not something young people tend to remember about their grands. And since Tree's father and mother are gone as well, it's a subject we didn't dwell on when we raised him. Besides, the three of us made as loving a group as you'll find anywhere. We just didn't have the
extended
part of a family—as they say nowadays.”

Rosco tapped his pen on his pad of paper. “If you were me, Mrs. Hoffmeyer … if you were going to start asking questions about our mysterious skeleton, where would you start?”

“Not the way you're doing it.”

Rosco raised his eyebrows in surprise.

“I'm not saying I mind your brand of snooping … but a lot of folks around here might resent it. Some might even get downright mad—”

“Those would be the characters who you suggested were less than—”

May raised her hand. “Outsiders aren't popular in Taneysville. You go poking around someone like John Stark and you'll find yourself juggling a hiveful of grouchy wasps. And John's not the only one—”

“Stark would be—?”

But May wasn't finished. “And then there are the Bazinnes … you don't want to tangle with them—” She interrupted her own speech by leaping to her feet. “Oh, my goodness, I can't believe I've been so rude. Can I get you a cup of tea? Coffee? I should have asked the moment you walked in. I don't know what's gotten into me.”

“Nothing, thank you. I'm fine.”

“The coffee's fresh ground. Milt does it up nice at the store. And I have a pound cake. Made from scratch. Nine eggs … the old-fashioned way … Tree likes to tease me about cholesterol—”

“Thanks, May, but I'm okay.”

“You sure I can't get you some cake?”

Rosco made a show of patting his stomach. “It's not that I wouldn't love some, but I'd notice it the next time I put on my running shoes.”

“You young people. So health conscious. Just like Amanda Mott … she's big on
hiking
. In my day, women felt lucky to be able to
drive
somewhere. Long walks were something we
avoided
if we possibly could. Of course, we wore a different style of shoe back then—”

“Amanda's the EMT who helped unearth the remains, correct?”

“That's right … I'd had my hopes she and Tree would hit it off … They just looked so good together. Both tall, you know, and so, well, so vibrant and handsome—happy, too … Well, that's an old story. Water over the dam, as they say …” May returned to her perch on the sofa.

“Could we go back to John Stark for a moment … and the Bazinnes?”

May's shoulders hunched forward as she skirted part of the question. “John's the senior warden of Trinity Church. Has been for years. Anyone can tell you that … It was John who—” She pursed her lips.

Rosco looked at her. “It was John who what?”

“Well, let's just say that he and Milt are oil and water, salt and sugar … Milt's on the vestry at Trinity, too. Junior warden … It was John who kept making a lot of noise about stopping that construction up at Quigleys'. He was convinced it was doing structural damage to the church.”

Rosco penned in a few notes although he realized that May Hoffmeyer had intended to say something quite different. “And the Bazinnes?”

She drew a breath and leaned back into the couch. “Never mind what I said about them. Frank Bazinne's seen hard times, that's all. The whole family has. Besides, we can't all be blessed with sunny dispositions.”

Rosco didn't respond and May hurried ahead with a compelling: “Milt and I would do anything in the world to help Tree out. Anything … But like I said, that poor dead girl never came from around here—”

“Meaning that the murderer couldn't have been a local either … That's the police's theory, too.”

“Which brings us right back to what Tree is so upset about: outsiders making Taneysville look bad. Like that man Gordon … an outsider, hiring outsiders … I probably shouldn't be saying this, but it does make you wonder.” She frowned slightly. Rosco kept silent. “They say Mr. Gordon owns a company that makes magnets … I don't know why there's so much money in that. But there must be, or he wouldn't be so high-handed.” She stood. “Now, are you sure I can't fix you some cake?”

CHAPTER 15

After all was said and done, Rosco had succumbed to May's offer. He'd not only eaten one but
two
pieces of pound food cake, then washed it all down with coffee that had been liberally laced with heavy cream. “Tree” Hoffmeyer was correct in his assessment: his grandmother didn't know from “fat content,” “cholesterol count,” or “dietary restrictions”—and the cake had tasted especially good because of this blithe disregard for modern health rules.

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?”