HardScape (18 page)

“He asked me about us.”

“Us?”

In a rush of words, I said, “I told him we were friends.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“It means it's okay for him to ask you out.”

“Oh, good. I'm glad you've cleared that up. Ever since I moved to Newbury I could never find the proper authority to whom men are supposed to apply for permission to take me out. From now on I'll just direct all calls to you?”

“I didn't mean it that way.”

“Do you have a deputy in case you're out showing a house and I'm really hot for somebody and can't wait?”

“Ha ha.”

“Oh, I wouldn't be hot for somebody?”

“All I'm trying to say—”

“All you're trying to say is you're dumping me.”

“Well—”

“You can dump me. That's your privilege. But goddammit, Ben, you cannot give men
permission
to go out with me.”

“I was just assuring Tim the field was clear.”

“So Tim can plough me. And seed me. Can he fertilize me too?”

“He was merely paying me a courtesy.”

“
Tim has no right to pay that courtesy, you bastard. You have no right to receive it
.”

My next bright answer really angered her. I eventually left Town Hall, thoroughly confused and miserable in the knowledge that I had ended our friendship as well as our love affair, and had probably poisoned poor Tim Hall's dreams too. I sat in the sun at the table in front of the General Store and drank some coffee. I finally figured out what I was trying to say to Vicky, found a quarter, and telephoned her office.

“What I meant was Tim was screwing up his courage to ask you out. He wasn't asking my permission, he was asking for help.”

“That's his problem. What's your excuse?”
Click
.

I returned to my coffee and brooded. One misery led to another: Vicky; poor Renny; the cops invading my house; my sinking business and my nonexistent earnings. Scooter MacKay lumbered by with a bundle of newspapers on his shoulder. The
Clarion
delivers by truck and by mail, of course, but Scooter maintains an old tradition of the publisher personally carrying the new issue to the General Store.

He tossed a
Clarion
on the table. “Hot off the press. Read all about it.”

It was actually warm. Ink smeared my fingers. To my immense relief, there was no photograph of Connie's Lincoln on the front page. She would not have been pleased, having been raised back when only the crass published their wedding pictures.

Jack Long, however, looked very pleased, grin to grin with the President. The headline read: “Local Resident Joins Other Prominent Business Leaders for D.C. Lunch with President.”

Scooter himself had the byline: “Morris Mountain weekender and Land Trust advocate Jack Long flew to Washington, D.C., Saturday for what White House media spokespersons described as a ‘business lunch with the President at which meaningful views on the economy were exchanged in an atmosphere marked by its informal cordiality.'”

Scooter came out with a cup of coffee, sat beside me, and lit up.

I asked, “Don't you mean ‘cordial informality'?”

“Can't you read? I'm quoting the rocket scientist who issued the press release. I'm being ironic.”

“Oh, I get it.”

I read on. Scooter had described Long as “a new resident of Newbury already active in local affairs.”

“Local affairs?”

“You get it?”

“I get it.”

After historical references to other Newburyians who'd lunched with the President—an Olympic gold medalist with Eisenhower and some school kids with Nixon—the story continued on page two. I turned to page two and found myself gaping at my picture—a file photo the
Clarion
had run when I came home and took over my father's office. The headline read: “Main Street Realtor's Office Searched by State Police.”

I looked at Scooter. He took a deep drag on his cigarette. I couldn't tell whether he was embarrassed or secretly enjoying my discomfort.

“Was this necessary?”

“You're news, my friend. Raids, wrecks, what's next?”

“Scooter, I didn't need this. I got troubles enough. Christ, page two? Who the hell is going to list with me now?”

“My news editor wanted to run it on the front page. I prevailed. And note that I didn't embarrass your aunt. Probably would have won a Pulitzer with that photo.”

“Thanks a hell of a lot. Connie would have had your balls for pea soup.”

“Nobody reads page two. Besides, I'm not the only one. Have you read the dailies?”

“My customers don't read the Danbury papers. And the people around town selling old houses read yours. Goddammit, Scooter.”

I had not exaggerated my financial situation to Tim. I was slipping under—taxes looming, car repairs, furnace oil with winter coming. If I had some big expense, like having to retain Ira Roth as a defense attorney, I was out of luck. I stood up, angrily.

Scooter said, “You look like hell, Ben. You look miserable.”

“It's been a rotten week.”

“It can only get better, right?”

I started to say, Wrong, but before I could a silver Jaguar pulled up. A tinted window slid down. And Rita Long called, “Hello, there.”

Black hair swept into a ponytail, black sunglasses, onyx earrings, she looked as mysterious as the night, very beautiful, and suddenly vulnerable when she flashed a tentative smile.

I introduced Scooter. Rita took off her sunglasses and complimented the
Clarion
's photography. Scooter preened. As he left, he muttered to me, “Told you it would get better.”

I told him quietly to go to hell.

Chapter 16

“Terrific-looking car.”

“Come for a ride.”

I got in. Sunk into delicious leather. It was the V-12 model—a deluxe rocket ship. At the controls, a super deluxe pilot.

“You look well.”

“Thank you.”

She looked rested and artfully made up, still in jeans, but topped today with a black cashmere sweater instead of her usual workshirt. Her hair shone like a seam of anthracite. She could have walked into any house in the county, announced, I'm here for the husband, and encountered no resistance.

She tooled out of town, along 7. Fall was coming in with a bang and the colors were exquisite, with red maples, birches, and ash leading the parade. We enjoyed it silently for a few miles. When we got to Academy Lane, I said, “Turn right.”

Right again at Richardson Street, and down the sugar maple tunnel. I had been meaning all summer to come out with a chainsaw and cut up some of the fat, dead lower limbs which would make hard, dry firewood. Borrow Pink's truck and haul in a winter's worth. The Main Street house doesn't have a wood lot, of course; about all the fuel the place provides is when something awful happens to a favorite tree, wood I reserve for fires on special occasions.

Frank LaFrance was haying the fields with his patched-up Leyland tractor. I waved, but he rode by, stiff-backed. At that distance all he could see was Rita's Jag, and Frank wasn't about to waste a wave on city people.

“Where are you taking me?” asked Rita.

“My favorite house.”

She glanced over at me, over the tops of her sunglasses. “Is it for sale?”

“Perpetually.”

“What's wrong with it?”

“I don't know. Ellie Richardson died four years ago. It's been on the market ever since. Wait till you see it. Most beautiful location, private, and reeking of old New England.”

“Business is still that bad?”

“Mine is. There was a mini-boomlet for a while, but now people are fixing places up instead of moving.”

“Sounds tough.”

“That depends on what business you're in. The hardware store is going great. So's the paint store. The nurseries are booming. I wouldn't want to own a moving van, I can tell you.”

“Or a real estate agency.”

“Cycles. Everything goes in cycles.”

“Like ice ages.”

“It was always a swing business when I was growing up. For a while my dad would drive a new Olds. Then an old Olds. Hell, when I got out of the navy in '81, you couldn't sell a house to save your life. Twenty-one percent interest. But down on Wall Street, something was already cooking.… The driveway's right up ahead.…There. Watch the potholes.” The low-slung Jaguar bucked and bounced and scraped its tail, and then we were past the worst of them and within the yard.

“Oh, it's lovely,” said Rita. But, to my disappointment, she gave the neglected grounds a cursory glance and returned to our conversation, saying, “How long can you wait out the market?”

I was feasting on the steep gables that spiked the sky. “Adlai Stevenson visited his mistress here.”

Rita looked puzzled.

“Ran for president,” I explained. “Twice. Back in the 'Fifties.”

“Before we were born.”

“Yes. A whole gang of famous people used to visit here. When I was a kid I'd bike over and watch from the woods. My Aunt Connie had told me about the parties. I was too late. They'd all gone. Around the other side are beautiful walks and rose gardens. Clay tennis court. I'll bet you've never seen one of those.”

“What did you think you would see?” Rita asked.

“Beautiful cars. Women in long dresses.”

Rita still looked puzzled. “It was a long time ago,” I explained. “Before ‘Masterpiece Theater.'”

She smiled. “And now you're hoping for a buyer who'll restore it.”

“Somebody's going to fall in love with this place.” I laughed, a little nervously; I was regretting talking too much. “Your friend Alex Rose pretended to be house-hunting, so I drove him out here. He didn't get it.”

“He's not my friend.”

“Well, he's on your side.”

“How long can you wait?”

“For what?”

“To start selling houses again.”

“Financially? Who knows?”

“Are you carrying a mortgage on your house?”

This seemed like a pretty forward question, even from someone who I knew in some strange ways. I said so.

“I'm asking for a reason. Do you have big expenses?”

“It's not really my house. It belongs to my mother. I pay the taxes and whatever upkeep I can afford. If I can't afford it, I try to fix it myself. I kept promising to paint it this summer, but I spent the time pointing the cellar walls. Next year on the paint. God willing the furnace will make it through the winter. Why are you asking me this?”

“I'd like to offer you a job.”

I laughed again. “What is it about this place? Last time I was here, Rose offered me a job. Now you offer me a job.”

“Rose works for my husband. I'm second on his list. I'm afraid the state's attorney will indict me. I would feel better if I had someone on whose list I was first.”

“Well, I hear you're hiring Ira Roth for your defense. You'll be number one on his list.”

“My husband is hiring Ira Roth.”

“Don't worry, all Ira cares about is winning.”

“I want you to help me.”

“I'm not a lawyer.”

“I want you to be my Alex Rose.”

“I'm not a detective.”

“You were an investigator with Naval Intelligence.”

“Rose tell you that?”

“He told Jack.”

“Well, he was just trying to sell me to Jack.”

“I checked you out. I know it's true.”

“So you know I was seconded to Naval Investigative Services. Sounds bigger than it was.”

“With Admiral Denny.”

I didn't cover my surprise. “How the hell did you get to him?”

Rita looked at me over her glasses and gave me one of her prettier slow smiles. “I remembered an assistant secretary of the Navy who had a nice time at one of our parties. Nice enough to check you out and ask Admiral Denny to talk to me.”

“Denny wasn't an admiral when I knew him.…What did he say about me?”

“A few things I promised I wouldn't repeat. But he did say you weren't as dumb as you sometimes act.”

“The man was always lavish with praise.”

“I intend to hire my own ‘friend.' I'd like him to be you.”

“To do what? Your lawyers won't talk to me. Ira will hire his own investigator if it comes to that.”

“Don't let it come to that.”

“What do you mean?”

“Find out who killed Ron.”

“Rita, I did one murder investigation in the navy. It was a race thing—they were rioting on the ships in the late 'Seventies. I ran a bunch of harassment investigations. And we engaged in a little spy-hunting.”

“Catch any?”

“Why don't you ask your highly placed friends?” She started to interrupt with an impatient gesture, but I went on. “It was years ago. I was twenty-two years old. And it wasn't in the real world. It was in the isolated, separate, rarefied world of the service.”

“Newbury isn't exactly the real world either,” she argued.

She had me there, but I said, “It is to me.”

“Perfect. I need a friend who's ‘real' here. Somebody murdered Ron. Please help me find him.”

I shook my head. “I'm sorry, Rita. If I'm going to play detective in my hometown, it'll be to find out who killed my cousin Renny. At least I know my way around here. I'm not equipped to check out Ron's background. You haven't known him that long. Who knows who was gunning for him?”

“Ron was an open book. He didn't have any secrets, aside from me. Now look, Ben, if you're chasing after Renny's killer you'll need expenses. Right?”

“We've already established I could use the money.”

“As I understand it, private detectives up here ask twenty-five dollars an hour. I'll triple it—top New York rates—and all your expenses. Phone, trips, gas, lunch, airplanes, you name it.”

I had to admire her acumen. She had settled on a tempting figure. I was curious how she knew New York rates, not to mention Connecticut.

“So what's the hesitation? You took my husband's money to take dirty pictures of me.”

“I gave it back.”

“Catch the killer and you can name your bonus.…Ben, will you help me?”

I didn't say I would, though her money would make it easier to chase Renny's killer. All I said was, “Answer a question?” which Rita seemed to interpret as a kind of yes.

“What?”

“Two questions?”

“Go.”

“Did you shoot Ron?”

“No.” What was she going to say, Yes? Still, I believed her. Not only because of what I had seen of her and Ron. Not only because she could charm my socks off, but because I simply didn't see the violence in her. Maybe I believed that her spooky drawing was the artist's technique she claimed. Yes, I knew Aunt Connie said I was a fool for women. But not this time. Rita Long was not a killer. I'd stake my life on it.

“What's your second question?”

“Can you honestly think of no one better to hire than me?”

“I spoke with a private detective in Torrington. And another in Hartford. And one in Danbury. The Torrington man is a bounty hunter. He recommended the Hartford man, who seemed like a good, solid divorce specialist, but he didn't even know where Newbury was. The Danbury man reprocesses lease cars for GMAC. Business is booming and I didn't trust him to concentrate on my problem. I then telephoned around New York and didn't like anything I heard. Nor did I trust the ones I talked to not to go running to Alex Rose the second they heard my name.”

“You didn't give your name.”

“Then I thought of you. So yes, I'm convinced you're the man for the job. Will you take it?”

“Secretly, I gather?”

“As long as that makes sense.”

“Why would it?”

“I don't want people working against us.”

“Like who?”

“The killer.”

“Do you have a suspect?”

“Yes.”

“Going to tell me?”

“Going to take the job?”

I could think of three reasons to take the job. The money to pursue Renny's killer; the opportunity to spend some time with Rita; and that sensation that killed the cat. Also, Vicky McLachlan was right. I liked dancing on the edges, daring Oliver Moody, Marian Boyce, and Sergeant Bender. I said, “Yes, with two conditions.”

“Which are?”

“I want Renny's name cleared; I want his killer. I won't charge you for that time, but if something comes my way I go for it. Renny comes first.”

“What's the other condition?”

“You promise that the instant you think I'm wasting your money, you fire me.”

“Deal.”

We shook hands over the armrest.

“Who's your suspect?”

“I don't know how he did it, but I think it's Jack.”

“I just saw Jack's picture in the paper, shaking hands with the President. It said he went for a luncheon. And stayed for dinner.”

“I still think it's Jack.”

“You mean he hired a killer?”

“However.”

“Why? Jealousy?”

“Why not?”

“Why did he hire Rose to prove you were …”

“Screwing around? Maybe he wanted to cover himself in case he got caught. He's like that. He's very methodical.”

She called Jack Long methodical. Al Bell said he was a cold fish. I'd seen him in action—quick-witted and sure of himself. The thing that didn't quite fit these impressions of Jack Long was the Castle. Rita had told me he had designed it and she had only drawn it. The house was a fantasy—about as lighthearted as you could get building in stone.

“I don't know, Rita.”

She said, “Check him out. Start tomorrow night.”

“What's tomorrow night?”

“Jack's coming up. I'll give a dinner party.”

“You're out a week on bail and throwing a dinner party? That's the kind of behavior the state's attorney would gobble up.”

“A small dinner party. Call it supper. You. Me. And Jack.”