Cutter's Run (10 page)

He narrowed his eyes. “Look, Mr. Coyne. I been tellin’ you, I don’t pay Miz Gillespie any mind one way or t’other. I haven’t noticed nothing.”

“She has a friend,” I said. “Her dog got poisoned, and somebody picked up the body from the vet’s. Any idea who that might be?”

“Look, I told you—”

“Right,” I said quickly. “Sorry.” I tilted up my glass, drained it until the half-melted ice cubes clicked against my teeth, then put it down. I stood up and held my hand out to Arnold Hood. “I appreciate your taking the time to talk with us,” I said. “Thanks for the tea. It was good to meet you.”

He gave my hand a quick shake and nodded.

Alex and Susannah stood also and said good-bye to him. Arnold Hood remained sitting on his steps, his elbows on his knees, holding his iced tea glass in both hands, and as we were walking back to our cars, he called, “Miz Susannah, ain’t you going to turn my radio back on?”

“Nope,” she called over her shoulder, “I don’t care for that music.”

“You always was a bitchly woman,” he said cheerfully.

I
T WAS ABOUT FOUR
o’clock when Susannah dropped us off. I retrieved two bottles of beer from the refrigerator and handed one to Alex, who headed out to the deck with it. I checked the answering machine. There was one message. I pressed the button on the machine, heard the tape rewind, and then: “Sheriff Dickman. You called. I’m home. Call me here.”

So I found the portable phone, took it into the living room, and tried Sheriff Dickman’s home number. This time a woman answered. She said the sheriff was out in the garden, and when I told her I was returning his call, she said she’d fetch him. A moment later, he said, “Dickman. Who’s this?”

“It’s Brady Coyne, Sheriff. You remember, I—”

“Course I remember. Those damn swastikas. What’s up?”

I told him about the new swastika on Charlotte’s outhouse and summarized what I’d seen when I searched the cabin. “To tell you the truth, I half expected to find her body,” I said. “It looked to me like she left suddenly.”

“And you think something happened to her.”

“Yes. I do.” I told Dickman that I’d just returned from talking with Arnold Hood, from whom Charlotte was renting the cabin, but hadn’t learned much from him.

“You’ve been busy,” said the sheriff.

“Well,” I said, “I’m worried about her.”

“I can appreciate that.” There was a pause. Then he said, “I mentioned that poisoned dog to one of my deputies. He said he’d heard about a poisoned animal up in your neck of the woods, mentioned an animal hospital over in Dublin, couple towns west of you. So I called the vet. Interesting story. Seems that someone had brought in their sick dog. A bird dog, purebred English setter that tended to run off and go hunting by itself. The vet couldn’t save it. It died fast. He’s convinced it was poisoned. Said it was no poison he’d ever seen before.”

“Like Charlotte’s pup,” I said.

“Yes,” said the sheriff. “But that’s not really the point. The point is, my deputy knew about this vet because we’d been called about a burglary at the hospital. They stole two computers and emptied the cash register.” He paused for a moment. “They also stole the dead setter.”

“Jesus,” I said. “Somebody picked up Charlotte’s dog.”

“Exactly,” he said.

“I assume you haven’t caught that burglar,” I said.

“No. I’d say we haven’t got your normal burglar here, if there is such a thing. We’ve got someone who’s mainly interested in stealing the bodies of poisoned dogs.”

“Before they can be autopsied,” I said.

“So what do you make of it all, Mr. Coyne?”

“I’m not sure,” I said. “Someone’s poisoning dogs, then stealing their bodies, and we’ve got swastikas…”

“About Ms. Gillespie, I mean,” he said.

“Either she’s been frightened off,” I said, “or…” I let my voice trail away.

“Yes,” he said. “Let’s hope she’s been frightened off. Tell you what. I’ll get the word out on Charlotte Gillespie, see if we can track down any of her relatives, maybe figure out where she was living before she moved into that cabin, where she worked, who might be… interested in her. Tomorrow I’ll come over your way, twist a few arms. I don’t like swastikas in my jurisdiction, and I sure as hell don’t like women going missing.”

“I’d like to be involved,” I said.

“Sure,” he said. “You already are.”

After I disconnected from the sheriff, I went out onto the deck. Alex had her heels up on the railing. Her eyes were closed and her face was tilted up to the afternoon sun.

I touched her shoulder and her eyes blinked open.

“Napping?” I said.

She shook her head. “Thinking.”

“Oh-oh.”

“Yeah,” she said. “Oh-oh. So what’s up?”

“I talked to the sheriff.”

“What’d he have to say?”

I summarized my conversation with Sheriff Dickman. “He’s going to try to find Charlotte. He’s definitely concerned.”

“Someone’s poisoning dogs and then stealing their bodies?”

“That’s how it looks.”

“And making swastikas,” she said.

“I guess so.”

“That’s sick,” she said.

“Given what might’ve happened to Charlotte,” I said, “it’s worse than sick.” I shook my head. “Anyway, the sheriff thinks I’m a helluva detective.”

“He said that?”

“Well, not in so many words.”

“What you actually mean,” she said, “is,
you
think you’re a helluva detective.”

“Well? Don’t you?”

Alex rolled her eyes. “Of course I do.” She pushed herself out of the rocker. “I’m going to grab a shower. We don’t want to be late to Noah’s.”

I reached to her, and she stood there with her arms hanging at her sides, letting me hold her but not holding me back. “Sometimes…” she mumbled.

“Sometimes what?” I said.

She stepped away from me. “Nothing. I think too much, I guess. Come on. If you behave yourself, I’ll let you give me a shampoo.”

“Behave?”

“You know.”

“Misbehave, you mean.”

“Exactly,” she said.

An hour later Alex was standing in front of the full-length bedroom mirror, squinting through her glasses, trying to hook hoops into her ears. She was wearing sandals, a pleated white skirt that stopped a few inches short of her knees, and a flowered short-sleeved blouse. I stood behind her and slid my arms under hers and around her belly. “You look gorgeous,” I said.

She dropped her arms, reached behind her, and pulled my hips against her butt. “You always say such sweet things right after you get laid,” she said. Her hair was still damp and smelled of wildflowers. I kissed the back of her neck, watching her face in the mirror.

She took off her glasses, closed her eyes, and bowed her head, exposing her neck to me. I nuzzled her and moved my hands up under her blouse.

Her eyes opened. She met my gaze in the mirror for a moment, men straightened up. I let my hands drop. She put her glasses back on and resumed trying to poke her earring into the hole in her left ear.

“This is hard for me,” she said, still facing the mirror. “I keep wondering…”

Her voice trailed off, and her eyes flickered toward mine in the mirror, then slid away.

“Wondering what?” I said.

She shrugged. “You know. Same old thing.”

“If I was here all the time?”

She nodded.

“I can’t,” I said.

“I know.” She hooked on her second earring, turned to face me, gave me a quick smile, and said, “I’m ready. Shall we go?”

I told Alex she looked too pretty to ride in a banged-up old Jeep Wrangler with a swastika on the hood, so we took my new BMW to Noah’s place. We put on a Mozart CD and opened the sunroof, and Alex admitted that the car was pretty cool.

She directed me through what seemed like a maze of turns, and after fifteen minutes or so, I pulled into a large peastone parking area in front of a long, low-slung shingled farmstand. I parked between Susannah’s Audi and Paul’s black Lexus.

The sign on the roof of the farmstand read “Hollingsworth Orchards.” Smaller hand-printed signs in the windows said “Old-Time New England Apples,” “Homemade Res and Preserves,” “Fresh Cider,” “Pick Your Own Apples,” and “We Open Labor Day.”

The house sat on a short driveway behind the farmstand. It was a classic three-story New England farmhouse—white clapboard, big porch across the entire front, tall windows, and two brick chimneys poking out of the roof. A weathered old barn stood behind the house, and beyond that were several football fields of orchard. Rows of apple trees heavy with fruit marched up the hillside and disappeared over the top.

We got out of the car. “Pretty, isn’t it?” said Alex.

I nodded. “Smell the apples?”

“Mmm.” She took my hand and gave it a squeeze. “I’m sorry, Brady,” she said.

“What for?”

“You know. For never being satisfied. For wanting something, and then getting it and wanting more. It’s always been a character flaw of mine.”

“It’s the only one I’ve noticed,” I said. “I guess I can live with it, since you seem to be able to put up with all of mine.”

As we started up the path to the front porch, the door opened and Susannah came out. She was wearing white shorts and a blue-and-white-striped jersey, and her blond hair hung loose around her shoulders. She waved. “Come on in. Daddy’s organizing the booze, eager to take your orders.”

We went up onto the porch, and Susannah grabbed one of Alex’s hands and one of mine and led us inside. Noah was seated at the kitchen table. Paul was at the sink rinsing some dishes. He was wearing an apron.

Noah had assembled his collection of liquor bottles on the counter, and he rubbed his hands and grinned. “We been waiting for you,” he said.

I shook his bony farmer’s hand, and Alex went over, braced herself on his shoulder, and bent to kiss his leathery cheek.

Paul wiped his hands on a towel and grinned awkwardly, as if he’d been caught shoplifting. I held my hand out to him and he shook it with both of his. He touched the hem of his apron and made a little curtsy. “Guess we know who wears the pants in this family, huh?”

“Hey,” I said. “You’re a sensitive nineties type of guy.”

“Unlike some people we might mention,” said Alex.

“Paul,” said Susannah, “would you mind getting the ice out of the freezer?”

Paul darted a quick you-know-how-it-is look at me and turned to the refrigerator.

“So,” said Noah. “What’ll it be?”

Alex and I asked for gin and tonics. Paul fetched beers for himself and Susannah from the refrigerator. Noah made our drinks, then mixed a pitcher of martinis and poured one for himself. He took a large swallow, then turned to me. “Let me show you around,” he said.

“Please,” I said.

He turned to Alex with his eyebrows raised.

“You gave me your tour last time I was here,” she said with a smile. “I admired your collection of trucks, remember?”

Noah nodded. He topped off his martini, grabbed my arm, and said, “Well, come on, then.”

I wondered if Paul was joining us, but he had resumed his place by the kitchen sink. So I followed Noah through the sliding glass door onto the back porch. “This is my pissing platform,” Noah said. “Since Jessie died, I been sleeping in the room off the kitchen. My bladder wakes me up three or four times a night. It’s what happens when you got a worn-out prostate. I like to piss out here under the moon and stars. Reminds me of when I was a boy and too damn scared to go all the way to the outhouse in the dark.”

Noah was tall and skinny, stoop-shouldered and gaunt and heronlike, and the image of him urinating off his deck made me smile.

The yard between the deck and the barn was knee-high in milkweed and goldenrod and littered with old farm machinery—one pickup truck on cinder blocks and another sitting on flattened tires, a big flatbed with a cracked windshield, a couple of tractors, and a variety of rusted tillers and harrows and plows. Noah waved his hand at it all. “Jessie was always after me to move this junk into the barn. But I kept telling her that’d mean moving the other junk out of the barn to make room for it. Never got around to it. Wish I had. She always wanted a flower garden out here.”

He pointed out to the orchard. “I have to hire people to do my work for me,” he said. “Can’t do it myself anymore. Hardly ever even get out into the orchards. Keep meaning to saddle up the old horse, but I keep not doin’ it. I’m too damn creaky and I get tired pretty easy.” He sighed deeply. “I love growing apples, and I love eating them. But since I lost Jessie, I don’t have much heart for it.” He shrugged.

There were some wicker chairs on the deck. He dropped heavily into one of them. I took the one beside him.

“Susannah mentioned that you were thinking of selling the place,” I said.

He waved his hand. “I just say that to put the idea in her head. I ain’t going to sell. The way I see it, it ain’t mine to sell.” He turned to me and touched my arm. “They tell me if I’m lucky I might last another eighteen months. They say only the last month or two will be bad.”

I started to speak, but he held up his hand. “You don’t need to say anything.” He smiled. “When I was a boy, I figured I’d live forever. When I got a little older and came to understand that I was going to die someday, I was afraid of it. But then it got so I was mainly just curious about it.” He shook his head. “I’m okay with it. Kind of a relief, actually, knowing. Problem is, Susannah don’t know, and I got to tell her.”

“I understand,” I said. “I’m sorry, Noah.”

“My daddy lived to eighty-six,” he said. “And Gramps was just a week shy of ninety-one. I always figured…” He waved his hand. “It don’t matter. But I worry about Susannah.” He turned to face me. “I told you I wanted to ask you something, Brady. I need some advice.”

“Sure,” I said. “Legal problem?”

He shook his head. “Personal.”

“Why me?”

He shrugged. “You got nothing at stake. You don’t know me well enough to lie to me. Anyways, I can tell you’re a truth-teller. You’re smart, and I believe I can trust you. I don’t know many smart people I can trust. Seems like only the dumb ones are trustworthy, and that’s because they’re too dumb to know better.”