Corpus de Crossword (17 page)

An ambulance tore up the road, and jerked to a halt as a tall woman leapt out. “Amanda!” Belle heard someone shout, “Get back! You won't be doin' us no good if you get yourself burned!”

A knot of less intrepid townspeople huddled near Belle; others were hurrying up the hill, a stream of worry and fear and bewilderment. Belle could see a church spire in the hollow below, and past it, beyond yards and border trees now denuded and black, what she knew to be the town itself.

“Oh my,” Belle heard a nearby woman sigh. She was middle-aged, plump, and her face was the picture of compassionate concern. “Oh, Curtis … It's just too …”

Curtis put his right arm around the woman, who stiffened ever so slightly. “What will people think?” she murmured, but his response was drowned by a sudden whoosh of flame exploding through the edifice's third-floor windows, sending a cascade of sparks into the night air.

“Ain't gonna save 'er now,” a barrel-shaped man with an enormous mustache hollered to a younger companion, who nodded once, his eyes glued to the blaze.

Another man, slight with stiff white hair, was also trying to yell over the roar. “… Well, what do you expect, Gus? Empty place like that. ‘Attractive nuisance,' like I've been sayin' all along … Probably been a bunch of kids playin' around in there … Up to no good, as most of these kids are nowadays—”

“I'll tell you, John, the place is beginning to seem like it's got the devil's mark on it—”

“Don't say such things!” the plump woman argued forcibly, but Gus was not to be dissuaded.

“Maybe it's judgment day we're lookin' at here … Maybe Lonnie and them police down in Newcastle is out-and-out wrong about that girl's body bein' carted up here and dumped in the garden. Maybe old Quigley—”

Curtis interrupted. “Rumors, Gus. Just rumors. And there's no reason for any of us to revisit that.” As he spoke, he discreetly removed his right arm from the plump woman's shoulders, pulling his left hand from his coat pocket. Belle caught the glare of metal, and instinctively drew back, while Curtis, aware of being observed, slid the prosthetic hook back inside his coat. “Gossip only hurts the innocent. You should know that as well as anyone, Gus.”

“Alls I know is that old man Quigley …”

But the rest of Gus's theory disappeared in the fiery wind.

CHAPTER 22

It was a gloomy little band that sat in Trinity Church's undercroft following Sunday service the next morning: Warden John Stark at the imperious head of the table, Curtis Plano solidly beside him, Sylvia nestled close to Curtis, treasurer Gustavus Waterwick looking rattled and somber, a deflated Father Matthew, and, as far away as tact would allow, junior warden Milton Hoffmeyer, who kept nodding his head in the ponderous manner Stark had never been able to abide.

“… So, Milt … you're suggesting we do
nothing?
Just like you did
last
week?” Stark's sharp eyes glittered with outrage. “We sit here on our hands and wait for another—”

“I'm not saying
nothing,
John. I'm simply advising caution. Don't jump in too fast—”

“Caution almost got the church burnt to smithereens last night—”

“Now John, you know that's not the case. For one thing, the wind wasn't coming out of—”

“I don't give a fig what direction the wind took—or didn't take! Why, if one of those embers had—”

“Well, one of those embers
didn't!
And I think your notion of attacking Alex Gordon is—”

“I'm not saying
attack
—
!
”

“You most certainly are, John,” was Hoffmeyer's uncharacteristically stern reply. “You're suggesting an ultimatum that would—”

“Well, what's your idea then, Milt? Send a sympathy card up to Boston? ‘Sorry your weekend house burned up … Hope you'll be rebuilding real soon. We miss all the hullabaloo. Signed, the Vestry—'”

“Gentlemen … gentlemen,” was Father Matt's quiet remonstrance, “let us remember we are in God's house. Enmity has no place here.”

Stark's white hair quivered as he choked back a response, while Hoffmeyer glanced at the priest and nodded agreement although his expression remained surprisingly severe.

In the ensuing silence, Sylvia Meigs leaned forward and rested her head in her chubby hands as if she were silently weeping. Curtis patted her arm, but made no bolder display of affection.

“It was so awful …!” she murmured, “… seeing that old place just … just
disappear
like that … All those generations who've lived there … marrying … having babies … growing old—”

“It's God's judgment,” Gus Waterwick interjected in his sonorous accent.

Sylvia turned a grieving face toward him. “That's what you said yesterday … I don't like that kind of talk … And I don't believe that.”

Gus leaned back in his chair. He took a long time before responding. “I'm not saying the Quigleys were good—or
not so good
people … Alls I'm saying … well, you remember the stories …”

All eyes except Father Matt's and Sylvia Meigs's dropped to the vestry table. “You're not going to repeat those rumors about old man Quigley, are you?” Sylvia demanded. “Because I for one …”

Gus Waterwick didn't reply, so the librarian continued in her brisk but kindly fashion. “… What I mean is, that's all they were … just rumors. The Quigleys were
reclusive,
sure, but not—”

“Where there's smoke, there's fire,” Waterwick stated stubbornly.

“They were our neighbors,” Sylvia protested with some warmth. “I don't remember them ever making a bit of trouble for anyone.”

No one responded either pro or con to this statement, so Sylvia looked up and down the length of the table. “Surely you don't believe those tall tales? Do you, Milton? Or you, Curtis? Or John?”

“They were odd folks,” Curtis said at length. “No doubt about it.”

“They were old-fashioned,” Sylvia countered. “They liked their farm, liked growing things, liked peace and quiet—”

“I don't know about peace,” John interjected, “but they sure insisted on keeping quiet—”

“Well, you don't like noise either!” Sylvia asserted. “As I recall, you were up in arms when all the digging—”

“Different thing—”

“Is it?” Sylvia stood her ground, causing Trinity's senior warden to back down. He did so with an offhand jest:

“Watch out for her, Curtis. She's a genuine spitfire.”

Gustavus Waterwick leaned forward again. “That fire up there … God's judgment. Maybe.”

“But what did—?” Father Matt began, but the other males clustered around the table regarded him with blank, you-don't-know-what-you're-talking-about stares.

“Well, I don't believe in idle gossip,” Sylvia announced after another uncomfortable silence. “Whatever went on up at the Quigleys' was their lookout. None of us would relish folks making up stories about
us.”

“But that boy they hired—” Gus began.

It was Stark who interrupted. “Never mind all that now … Water over the dam … A hornets' nest after all the residents have buzzed off—and you know what they say about poking sticks into old hornets' nests … Besides, we've got our own situation right here and now … ‘Attractive nuisance,' just like I been sayin'—just like Lonnie and every other law enforcement officer will tell you—”

“Then you're suggesting the fire was started by kids, John?” Sylvia asked the question; her voice was deceptively soft and still.

“Kids or tramps—hoboes, as they used to call them … That's why I'm
recommending”
—John turned to glare at Hoffmeyer—“that we write a letter warning this Alex Gordon that his property is a magnet for troublemakers, and—”

“I wouldn't do that, John,” Sylvia said.

Stark stared at her. “You goin' over into Milt's camp now?”

Sylvia shook her head, then finally mumbled a nearly inaudible, “I don't think it was kids that started the fire. Or vagrants, either.”

Both Stark and Hoffmeyer sat erect in their chairs. “How do you know that?” they asked almost in unison.

Again, Sylvia's voice was whisper soft. She kept her eyes glued to the table. “Well, I don't … I mean, I don't know for certain who … Well, you see, late yesterday afternoon I went up there … I was out for my usual walk … I didn't mean to trespass, but you know where the property's gone all wild … there's this whole tangle of bittersweet vines, and I thought I'd cut some to make a wreath for the door. You know those twisty vines look so pretty all tied up with ribbon …”

Stark tapped his fingers on the table. Curtis Plano hushed him with a swift: “Let the lady finish, John.”

“… Anyway, while I was climbing around … down below where the old kitchen garden used to be, a car swung up the drive, with no headlights on; it was getting kind of dark by then … And I admit I did a stupid thing … I sort of hunkered down out of sight. I thought it might have been the contractor—or maybe a watchman the owner had hired on account of all the machinery being left exposed … And I didn't want to … what I mean is, I wasn't supposed to be there—”

“What did you see, Sylvia?” Stark demanded.

Sylvia drew in a long breath. When she spoke again, her voice was quieter yet. “Well, it wasn't the contractor or a watchman who drove up there. It was Frank Bazinne and his wife.”

Silence covered the table. No one stirred; no one cleared a throat; even the old wall clock seemed to cease its noisy ticking.

Finally Milton Hoffmeyer spoke. “They were probably up there collecting wood for the winter. I know that's technically stealing, but, heck, everyone does it now and then.”

“She was crying, Milt,” was Sylvia's toneless answer. “Hard.”

“Frank's not an easy husband. Never has been,” Hoffmeyer observed, while Stark and Curtis Plano and Gus Waterwick kept their counsel. As did Father Matt, although his behavior was motivated by pastoral concern and theirs by civic worries. Bazinne was a misfit, a man who could bear a grudge for a long time; and it was a known fact that Frank—and his siblings—was more than indignant over the hiring of “foreigners” to work the Quigley site.

“Did Frank see you?” Stark finally asked.

Sylvia shook her head.

“Or his wife?”

“No. I was hiding … well, not really
hiding,
but I—”

“And you didn't come forward?”

Again, Sylvia shook her head, then looked at Curtis in appeal. “What was I going to say? ‘Hi' … ‘Nice evening' … ‘What brings you folks out tonight?' … You know, things aren't any easier for me when it comes to Frank. And with his wife wailing away … well, I didn't think it was my place to interfere …” Sylvia's voice trailed off, then she shook her round shoulders, as if hoping to return the incident to the past where it belonged. “Then they walked around to the other side of the house … and I just … well, I hurried down here.”

Again, the room fell silent.

Again, it was Stark who took charge. “Are you all thinking what I'm thinking?”

“Torched.” Gus nodded slowly as he spoke. “Pure and simple. And it would be just like a Bazinne to take matters into his own hands.”

“That's my guess,” Stark replied.

“And mine, too,” said Curtis Plano.

Milt Hoffmeyer shook his shaggy head. “I can't believe Frank would do a thing like that.”

“Can't you?” was Stark's astringent response. Then he returned to Sylvia. “You haven't told anyone else about what you saw, have you?”

“Not even Curtis—till now.”

“Good girl. We'll keep it that way.”

The table echoed with murmured assent until Father Matt's boyish lilt rose above the rest. “But arson … well, it's our duty to inform—”

“Father,” Stark's voice commanded, “it's time you learned how things are done here in Taneysville. Past time, I'm thinking … Now, Frank and his brother may be bad apples, and none of us may cotton to them, but they're part and parcel of this community; and folks around here don't turn against one another. We never have; we never will—”

“But you're talking about possible criminal—”

“Sylvia didn't see Frank start any fire, did she?”

“No, but—”

“And you didn't tell us that Frank was carrying anything to indicate he
intended
to commit arson, did you, Sylvia?” Stark's eyes leveled on the librarian's soft face.

She hesitated for a second only. “I just saw Frank and Mrs. Frank.”

“And were they carting anything that looked suspicious? A bucket or a gallon can?”

“They weren't carting anything at all.”

Stark moved his gaze back to Father Matt. “There you go, then. There's no point stirring up the suspicions of the Newcastle law enforcement establishment when there's nothing to it. It's a rumor at this point, and we have no call to spread it.”

“But—”

“No buts about it, Father.”

“We can't obstruct justice—”

“No one's obstructing anything, Father.”

“But I—”

“You've been serving our church very well, Father. We like you, and we admire you.” Stark looked into the eyes of the other vestry members. “I know I speak for us all when I say that you would be missed if you left.”

Aware of this threat or not, the priest persisted in his argument. “But Lonnie Tucker's a long-standing member of the community. Surely he should be informed—”

“If I were you, Father,” was Stark's decisive reply, “I'd let the residents of Taneysville work things out for themselves. For instance, your notion about telling Lonnie? The first thing he'd do is run off to the Newcastle police; and that could hurt Frank … it could hurt him real bad—”