Idyll Threats (22 page)

“Sorry to hear it.” I remained standing, towel in hand, unsure where to put it. Everything was so clean.

“Someone messed with one of the toe tags on an unidentified corpse. Wrote the name ‘John Homo.'” He massaged his brow with the heel of his hand. “Not even a good joke. I know who did it. The new guy, Wayne.”

“Can you fire him?”

He tugged at the knees of his scrubs. “I suppose I could mention it to his supervisor, but,” he took another sip of his drink, “I'd rather not. No, I'll handle it my way.”

“How's that?”

“I'll give him the worst we see for a month. Babies and burn victims.” He swirled his drink. So Damien played rough. Good for him.

“The guys at the station did tell me, about you,” I said. “But recently. It wasn't the first thing they mentioned.”

He said, “Perhaps Idyll lives up to its name.”

No it didn't. The townspeople were just as biased, as stupid, as people anywhere. It's why I kept my private life private. Why most of the men on Elmore's list did the same. Fear of harassment. I shifted my weight. “I should go. I just wanted you to know I wasn't singling you out. Or, I was, but because I thought you'd be sympathetic.”

“Sympathetic to what?”

I decided to come clean with him. “I'm looking for two gay men. They were on the golf course the night of the murder. I need to talk to them, and I don't want it to turn into a witch hunt. I haven't told the others.”

“Don't trust them?” He set the glass down on the Eileen Gray table.

“Not with this. Not yet.”

“I see.” He got up and walked to the sideboard. Seemed to consider another drink. “I've never heard about the Nipmuc Golf Course as a cruising spot. Scout's honor.” He gave the Scout salute. “Though you should take that with a bucket of salt. I got kicked out of the Scouts.”

I didn't ask why. “Where should I put this?” I held out the towel.

He reached for it. Under the damp cotton, I grabbed his hand and
held it. And looked into his very blue eyes. “There's something else,” I said. “I'm gay.”

His scar got white, and he blinked twice, fast. “Oh,” he said.

I let go of his hand. “Surprised?”

He held the towel to his chest. “Yes, actually. I thought—Well, you're quite convincing. And my gaydar is broken. I'm always hitting on straight men.” He fingered his scar. “Not such a good idea.”

He'd been attacked? Years ago, judging by the scar's age. Around here? God, I hoped not. I didn't want to endanger anyone with my investigation, and it seemed I might, if the locals wielded knives this way.

“No one knows at work. Do you mind keeping it secret?” I asked.

“Of course. No. I…God, you must think me an idiot.” He rubbed his scar. “Accusing you of being a homophobe.”

“I didn't, and you didn't.” I walked to the entryway to claim my damp shoes. I'd checked his footwear. Just to be sure he wasn't our killer. Rick once told me I'd check my mother's prints if she looked likely for a crime. I'd laughed and said of course I would.

He held the towel. Its dampness had soaked his chest, turning his light-blue scrubs navy. “Maybe we can have a drink sometime. When you're not investigating,” he said.

“I'd like that.” My heart went thumpity thump.

“Well, good night, Chief.”

“You can call me Thomas.” Why had I said Thomas? I usually went by Lynch or Tom or Tommy. I got to the door and realized I had no idea how to get home.

He gave me directions I hoped I could remember. Then I left. Outside my car, I looked toward his front door. The rain had stopped. He stood there, towel to his chest. As I drove home, an electric buzz filled me. I turned the radio on and sang along to songs from my youth, now identified as hits from prior decades. Geez. At least they weren't calling them oldies. Not yet.

I always hit on straight men. My gaydar is broken.
If he'd mistaken me for straight, did that mean he was interested? Had been attracted
to me? Maybe I'd invite him to look at my table with the lady's name. After I'd had the place redone, from peeling linoleum to pink and black tiles.

And when I got to my wreck of a house, the first thing I was going to do was dig up Elmore's list and cross Damien Saunders's name off it.

Idyll Days was hell on earth. The soles of my feet felt as though they'd been beaten with rods. My toes were cramped. I'd not walked this much since I was a rookie, community policing in the Bronx. Today was the last day of events. My constant motto, since I'd risen this morning. Last day. Last day. Last day. I wasn't the only one who felt this way. Locals who didn't make their fortunes this weekend had gotten the hell out of town.

“Too much hustle and bustle,” Mr. Yener, a DPW worker, had told me. “There's no parking and everywhere you go there are lines. If I'd wanted that kind of aggravation, I'd live in the city!”

Main Street resembled Herald Square. Hordes overtook the sidewalks and streets. Idyll Days brought four thousand tourists to town. I walked past Idyll Garden, the town's florist shop. “How quaint!” a woman said. She tugged her husband's arm and pointed at a lawn ornament. It looked like an old woman leaning over, exposing her bloomers. Quaint?

“Everything okay?” I asked Billy, as he walked past, supporting a limping woman.

“Bit of a brawl at the wool station,” he said. “Just going to the first-aid tent.”

“Okay.” I'd instructed my men that anyone with so much as a sneeze should be brought to the first-aid tent, manned by the firefighters. This, after I got a call from Captain Hirsch suggesting I lend “support” to the tent. As if my men weren't stretched thin already by this event. Oh,
and we had that murder. So far, I'd personally sent a sprained ankle, an asthma attack, a bad sunburn, and two bloody noses their way.

Main Street was closed to cars, both lanes overtaken by booths hawking maple syrup, beeswax candles, and old-fashioned wooden puzzles. I walked the street, mindful of the open cashboxes. So far, no thievery had been reported. The worst incident of the weekend was a superficial head wound suffered by a three-year-old who'd wanted to pet the pony. He'd tripped over his feet and clipped his head on the fence. Thing bled like a sucker and attracted quite a crowd.

My only piece of good luck was that I'd been tied up sorting out a fender bender at the library parking lot yesterday when Donna had her shift at the kissing booth.

“Chief!” Mr. Neilly waved to me from his post at the dunking station. He manned the ticket booth. Currently on the hot seat was Mayor Mitchell.

“Everything okay, Mr. Neilly?” I rotated my ankles, one at a time.

“We're running out of tickets. Could you ask Sandy to send some from the library?” It was five blocks down the road. Contemplating the walk gave me blisters.

“Sure.” There was no one in line. “Not many takers?” I asked.

“We just had a group of high schoolers.”

“They all had arms like linguini,” the mayor called. He kicked his tan legs to and fro. He wore a polo shirt and khaki shorts. Didn't make sense to bundle up, not if he landed in the water. But he was dry and smiling.

“Would you like to try?” Mr. Neilly said, reading my expression. “All proceeds benefit the Idyll Food Pantry.”

“How's your car?” the mayor asked. He'd heard of my deer run-in. Had given me grief over it. Like I'd chosen to smash the vehicle.

“Fixed,” I said, eyeing the bucket of balls.

“Repairs come out of your budget,” the mayor said, as if I didn't know.

I was tired of his veiled threats, of his constant shadowing of my work.

“It's for a good cause, right?” I said, handing Neilly a five-dollar bill.

“You didn't happen to play baseball, did you?” the mayor asked. He wiggled on the plastic seat above the tank.

“I did.” I took the first ball, held it tightly, and then relaxed my grip. “Don't worry, I didn't pitch.” I moved to the right and zeroed in on the bull's-eye. Breathed in, held the breath. Then exhaled hard and hurled the ball. It thwacked the tarp.

The mayor grinned. “What were you, a designated hitter?”

“Nope.” I picked up the second ball, adjusted my grip. A small group of tourists had collected behind me. “Shortstop,” I said, and let loose. The ball went fast and hit the edge of the bull's-eye, ringing the bell. The mayor's seat upended, and he splashed into the water. The crowd applauded. The mayor stood and sputtered water. His wet hair covered his eyes.

“Nice shot,” Mr. Neilly said.

“Thanks. I'll go check on those tickets.”

My mood was lighter, but my feet throbbed as I walked past the wool exhibition, where a small pen of lambs was stationed. Nearby was the knitting club. Those women, with their long braids and ever-moving needles, made me nervous. I crossed to the other side of the street, where children were having their faces painted and balloons were being contorted into animal shapes. The squeals of the balloons being twisted made me want to stuff my fingers into my ears. Last day. Last day. Last day.

I reached the library and passed along my message. Sandy grabbed a roll of tickets larger than my head and left for the dunk tank. I stood on the front steps, enjoying the soft weather. Summer was gone, with its wet storms and humid nights. Fall was almost here, tinting the leaves yellow. Making Idyll even more postcard New England. You had to hand it to the natives: they knew when to exploit their local resources for profit.

In front of the columned, brick library, the grassy lawn was covered by the bake-sale and book-sale tables. People browsed books and brownies with equal intent. Inspired by a tug of hunger, I went to the bake-sale tables. Mrs. Prior greeted me absently as she counted change to tourists buying pies. I exchanged a dollar for a Mother Lode. Then it was back down Main Street, where the smell of horse dung mingled with that of roasted nuts, confusing my stomach.

The sounds in town had amplified a thousandfold, and I had to keep checking if the yelling indicated fear, anger, or excitement. People were enthusiastic. About the apples. About the pony rides. About our five-and-dime store, though nothing inside cost five or ten cents. I'd nearly completed my sixth circuit, and the end of my shift, when I heard a familiar voice encouraging people to adopt a cat. Outside the hardware store, Tiffany Haines, my late-night golf-course trespasser, stood next to four cages holding six cats. She had a clipboard, a pen, and a voice that carried. “Bring some love into your home! Adopt a cat! Cats who are not adopted may be euthanized!”

“What's yootamized?” a girl in pigtails asked her mother.

“Let's go see the ponies.” The mother tugged her daughter away from Tiffany and her cats.

“Hello, Tiffany,” I said.

She said hello quietly. “Do you want a cat?” She pointed to a small, black fur ball. “They're nice pets.”

Is this how Cecilia North had been as a kid? Hustling pets for adoption on Idyll's streets? I peered at an orange cat with blue eyes. It stared back at me, then lifted its leg and began licking its bottom. “Sell many cats?” I asked.

“We're not
selling
them. We're giving them away to good homes.”

“How do you know the homes are good?”

She tapped her clipboard. “People have to give references, at least two. And we check them. Plus, we ask if they have other pets or small kids, things that might be problematic for the animal.”

“But if you're checking references, can people take the pets today?”

“If we can reach their references and do the other checks, yes. If not, they have to come to the Rescue League to pick up the animal.”

“Sounds complicated.” The orange cat butted its head against a striped cat.

“We want these animals to have good lives. Some came from bad homes where people mistreated them. Some were just dumped by the side of the road. It's terrible.”

A woman carrying a bag full of bake-sale goods stopped to peer
at the orange cat. She made kissing noises at it. The cat ignored her. “What a dear,” she said.

Tiffany sprang into action. “That is a very sweet cat,” she said. “And unless we can find a home for him by Wednesday…” She made a sad face. “Unfortunately, we can't accommodate so many cats, and the no-kill shelter nearby can't take any more.”

“Oh,” said the woman. “How awful.” She bent to get a better look. “But I already have two cats, Mittens and Puck.”

“Oh, this cat loves company! That's why we put him in with a friend!” Within eight minutes, Tiffany had the woman's information, references, and a $50 check to cover veterinary fees.

“Well done,” I said.

“I've still got five to go.”

“Hey, Cat Lady!”

Tiffany kept her head down and yelled back, “Keep talking, Cowboy.”

Another of my trespassers, Christopher Warren, jogged to the cages. His ginger hair glowed in the sun. “How's cat sales?”

“It's not sales,” I said. Tiffany smiled.

“Good afternoon, Chief Lynch. Enjoying Idyll Days?” he asked.

“Not really.” Both kids looked shocked. By my honesty? Or my failure to appreciate their town's event? “It's not much fun if you're working,” I said.

“Gotcha,” he said.

“Why'd you call him ‘Cowboy'?” I asked Tiffany.

“Mr. Warren here fancies himself a man of the Wild West,” she said.

“Shut it,” he said.

“He learned how to ride a horse and everything.”

“Lots of people ride horses,” he said. He bent and meowed at the cats.

“Yes, but most of them don't wear ridiculous horse belt buckles every day.”

She held her hands just below her belly button to illustrate her point. “Where is that thing? You haven't worn it in weeks.”

A large belt buckle. Mrs. Ashworth had seen a belt buckle on the man who was standing on the golf course the night of the murder. Chris was nearly as tall as me. No. I was reaching.

He said, “Haven't felt like it.” He poked a finger into the wire cage, and the black-and-white cat swiped at him. “Fuck!” He pulled his finger back, fast. And then hit the side of the cage. It rattled. The cat mewled.

“Chris!” Tiffany said.

“Look what it did!” He showed his bleeding finger. “Is that cat sick? Will I get an infection?”

“Don't be stupid. They've got all their shots. You'll be fine, you jerk.”

He had a quick temper. I looked down. He wore large sneakers. Red and black. I recognized them. Michael Jordan had worn them during his famous Flu Game back in June, leading the Bulls to victory over the Utah Jazz. Bet they had a distinct tread. Large feet. Size 11.5? Possible. Very possible.

“I'm sorry.” Chris bent down and addressed the cat. “Sorry,” he said, softly. “You scared me.”

“Right. And you just delighted the hell out of her,” Tiffany said.

“It's a her? How can you tell?” he asked.

“Um, have you heard of genitals?” They both cracked up. Chris bent double, laughing.

When they'd settled down, he asked me, “How's the murder case coming?”

Funny you should ask.
“I can't discuss it.”

“Oh. Well, did you follow up on the flashlight? The one I saw?” he asked.

“Yes.” But no one, including Charlie Fisher, had seen it. And wasn't that interesting? Him being the only witness to it.

“I heard about Luke's punishment.” He kicked the sidewalk. It made my toes ache just to watch. “Do you really check up on him at his house to see that he's home by nine?”

“Yes, I do.”

He nodded to himself. “Probably a good idea. You've met his mom?”

“I have.”

“Man, is she nuts or what? Luke's probably gonna wind up in jail like his dad.”

“Chris,” Tiffany said.

“What?” He pointed to me. “He's the police chief. I'm sure he knows.”

“So Luke's dad did time?” That explained a lot.

“Robbing houses mostly. But then he got into a bar fight and knifed a guy. Got off because the guy came at him with a gun. Then he left town. Luke hasn't seen him since. That was five years ago.”

“That's unfortunate.” I'd heard a lot of stories like that one.

“I think Luke just wants attention,” Tiffany said. “It's why he acts out.”

Chris said, “Maybe it's genetic.” He sucked on his injured finger.

“What is?” I asked.

He looked up. “Being bad. Maybe it's in your blood.”

“That's a happy worldview,” Tiffany said, dishing out kibble to her furry friends.

Maybe he was just making conversation, but it seemed like he was trying to lead me somewhere. He'd reminded me of Rick earlier. He was doing it again, but the resemblance now was to my lying, drug-addicted partner. The Rick who'd say anything to get what he wanted.

He looked across the way. “Remember when we could ride them?” he said to Tiffany. He stared across the street at the ponies.

Tiffany said, “I remember you trying to ride one two years ago. Nearly broke the poor thing's back.”

He said, “Ah, memories. Well, I've got to run. I promised to help out at the dunk tank.”

“Going to offer yourself up?” I asked.

He chaffed his hands. “No way. The water is freezing. I'm selling tickets.” He loped off, his stride long.