Moonbog (8 page)

The incident with the kids and the repair work occupied his mind so, while he was working, Marshall never thought again about David’s return to Holland and what it meant.

But as he strode down the driveway and onto the road, he had plenty of time to think. Like the memories that the view of the old homestead awoke, the thoughts he had were not good.

VI

S
idney Latham’s office was plush to the point of being down-right out of character for a small town like Holland. A potted palm tree and another plant with huge, split leaves basked in the sun by a long picture window with a view onto a wide, tree-lined field. The couch in the outer office was too comfortable and pulled David down deeper than he wanted; he was afraid he would fall asleep in so much comfort. Apart from feeling tired, he felt grubby and wished he had first gone back to the motel to shower and change.

The door opened suddenly. Latham poked his head out, caught David’s startled glance, and then waved him into the office. As David walked past him, Latham stuck his hand out and gave him a firm, pumping handshake. “Nice to see you, David. Nice to see you.”

David took the chair beside Latham’s desk. He started to apologize for not being at the top of his form, but decided to remain silent. Latham walked to his desk and picked up a walnut box. Opening it, he asked, “Cigar?”

David shook his head.

“Don’t mind if I do myself,” Latham said, as he began to peel the cellophane from one. Under a billow of smoke, he sat down in his leather cushioned chair.

“I was shocked to hear what happened to you last night,” he said. David felt a lack of sincerity on Latham’s part, and then thought cynically that it probably made him a good lawyer.

“I’ll get over it a lot sooner than the boy’s parents will,” he said softly. He looked at the manila folder on Latham’s desk. It had
Logan
written on the top. “Still, it’s quite a shock for the town.”

“Umm.” Latham flicked at the edge of the folder, making a snapping sound that began to irritate David. He looked as though he wanted to say something, and David raised his eyebrows in expectation. Latham puffed vigorously on his cigar and then cleared his throat. “Lot of folks are upset, no doubt. I can’t say as I blame them, though.”

“Well, I’m sure Shaw and the state police will do everything they can,” David said mildly.

His statement was exactly the bait Latham seemed to be looking for. He leaned forward across his desk and said, “Well you know, that’s part of what I’m a bit concerned about. I was over talking to Shaw this morning, and between you and me, I’m not really convinced he’ll do much of an investigation.”

David shrugged, sensing some kind of conflict, and hoped Latham would drop the subject and just get down to a discussion of the Will. The last thing he wanted to do was get involved in small town politics.

“‘Course, you must have heard about those disappearances last summer.”

David nodded.

Latham snorted. “Well, Shaw didn’t do a hell of a bang up job with those.”

“Those were disappearances. This is a murder. Quite different things,” David said, jumping to Shaw’s defense. “With a murder, you have a lot more solid ground to work with. There’s a sergeant from the state police coming up this afternoon, and a couple of detectives from Portland. With help from the A.G.’s office, they should be able to find the murderer.”

Latham shrugged, but his face showed that he still had his doubts. “Shaw’s been police chief in Holland for a long time. He’s never had anything like this before. ‘Til now, it’s been small-time things compared to this. Holland’s had its share of drownings, disappearances last summer, stolen cars, a couple of firebugs having a spree . . . never a murder. I just hope he gets moving a little faster than he was this morning.”

David wanted to let it drop, but he still felt obligated to come to Shaw’s defense. “There’s a lot of paperwork involved. They’ve got photos and casts. Once the state police get here—”

“Well,” Latham interrupted, “I don’t want to get you all involved. About this Will of yours.”

“My grandmother’s Will, not mine.”

“Right. Your grandmother’s. As I told you over the phone last week, we have most of the details ironed out.” He opened the folder, took out the legal document and slid it across the desk to David. “I’ve registered a certificate of death for your father with the county courthouse, so whether he’s alive or dead now, he’s considered
legally
dead.”

“So if he shows up a few years from now—?”

“The property’s still yours—legally. Actually, all we have to do now is take care of the back taxes and it’s yours.” Latham flicked the ash from his cigar into the ashtray to give his statement authority. “We can take care of everything in a day or two. The only real problem is getting time in my schedule to take care of it.”

“But it’ll be by the end of the week for sure?”

Latham nodded.

“Good. My girl friend and I were hoping to drive further north, since I’m on vacation. Maybe even get up to Quebec.”

“I don’t see why we won’t have it done by Wednesday at the latest.”

“And then I can sell it right away, if I want to?”

“Whatever you want,” Latham said as he sat back in his chair and leisurely puffed on his cigar. “Once the estate is closed, you can do whatever you want. However. . . .”

David paused, waiting for him to continue. When he didn’t, David clapped, his hands together and rubbed them. Standing up, he said, “I want to get that house sold as soon as possible. It’s been enough of a burden as it is.”

Latham stuck out his hand to shake. “It’s been good doing business with you,” he said as they shook hands firmly.

“I was thinking of driving out to the house later, maybe tomorrow. You know, take a little look around. You have the key, right?”

Latham opened the manila folder and withdrew a smaller manila envelope. “Right here.” He handed the key to David. “If you’d like, I could go out with you. We could walk the property line.”

“You’re forgetting, Mr. Latham, I grew up there. I know how much land there is with the house.”

“I had a surveyor go out there last fall and run a transit. I’d like to see if the stakes lasted the winter.”

“If you don’t mind,” David said flatly, “I’d like to go out on my own.”

“Sure . . . sure.” Latham leaned his knuckles on the desktop. “Well, it’s been good to see you after all these years. I’ll get to work, finish up these little details and get back to you, oh, probably Monday afternoon.”

“You have my number at the motel?”

Latham nodded. David started toward the door.

“You know,” Latham said. David turned. “If you’re going out there, you ought to be careful. After what happened, you never know. An old deserted house like that,” he shrugged, “maybe someone’s hiding out there. Be careful.”

“I’m not worried,” David replied, swinging the office door open. “Whoever he is, he seems to like them a little younger than me.” He paused, and when he thought that Latham might think he was being too flippant, he added, earnestly, “I’ll keep my eyes open.”

VII

T
he sun was just setting as Marshall worked the key into his front door lock and swung the door open. Just as he stepped inside, a streak of gray fur skittered between his feet and dashed into the kitchen.

“Whoa there, Alfie,” Marshall said, a smile widening on his face. “What’s the big hurry here? Didn’t you catch any nice fat mice this afternoon?”

Marshall walked into the kitchen and carefully placed the package containing a new pane of glass onto the counter. The cat began pacing back and forth at his feet, vigorously rubbing his arched back against the old man’s thin ankles. Marshall looked down at the plump gray cat and smiled.

“You just hold onto your tail there, boy. I’m movin’ as fast as I can.” He went over to the cupboard and took down a can of Nine-Lives. “Tuna ‘n egg. Your favorite,” he said, as he started to grind the can opener. Alfie looked at him and made a soft meow. Marshall scooped the can into a small bowl, placed it on the floor, and stood back smiling as he watched the cat eat eagerly. When half the food was gone, Marshall got some milk from the refrigerator, filled a bowl and placed it in front of the cat. Alfie immediately switched to the milk, lapping it steadily until it was gone, then he finished the tuna and egg.

“You eat like this all the time, you know, you’ll get fat ‘n lazy, won’t get them mice in the barn, you know?” He bent down and picked up both bowls, now empty. Alfie looked up at him with unblinking gold-disk eyes.

Marshall leaned against the counter and folded his arms across his chest. “You know, Alfie, Davie’s back in Holland.”

Alfie meowed, then sat on his haunches and began to lick his paws.

“You never met him before, have yah? Stew’s and Louise’s boy.”

Alfie sneezed.

Marshall stroked the edge of his jaw with his thumb and forefinger. “You know, Alf, I just don’t like what I’m thinkin’. I didn’t get a chance to talk to him, but there was something . . . something about just knowin’ he’s in town that, well, sorta’ makes me nervous.”

When Alfie didn’t respond, Marshall took it as a signal to continue. “Well, I mean, I knew he’d be comin’ back eventually. He had to. The Will just couldn’t be settled without him.” Marshall snorted loudly, and that made Alfie jump slightly.

“I don’t know what he’s figurin’ on doin’ about the old place. I can tell you one thing, though; I sure as hell hope he don’t decide to settle there.” Marshall knelt down and began stroking the cat’s back. Alfie arched his back and wiggled every time Marshall’s hand got to the base of his tail.

“You know, when he drove by me today, I didn’t think anything about it. I sure as hell didn’t want him to stop. I was glad he didn’t. But I got a . . . a real funny feelin’, like . . . like. . . .” He supressed a shiver. “Like something’s real wrong, or something’s
gonna be
real wrong.”

Alfie closed his eyes with pleasure and began to purr softly. “Yeah,” Marshall continued, “I know, I’m probably gettin’ carried away feelin’ . . . feelin’ hmmm, yeah.” He shook his head sadly and stood up. His left knee cracked loudly. He winced.

“Well, now that you’re fed, I guess I’ll fix myself something. You want to go outside, or you gonna keep me company? Who knows, there may be some left-overs.”

As if in answer, Alfie leaped up onto the counter in one fluid motion and then sat there silently, as Marshall opened the same cupboard door where he had gotten the cat’s food and reached down a can of baked beans. Opening the can, he spooned the contents into a small pan. The pan had a thin collar of burned-on food, but Marshall made no attempt to clean it off before heating up his supper. Just as he was placing the pan on the gas flame, the telephone rang.

“Who the hell . . . ?” Marshall muttered, as he started walking toward the phone in the anteway. He tensed as he reached for the receiver, thinking it was probably David.

“Hello?”

“Hello, Mr. Logan. This is Bob Hollis.”

“Yeah?” Marshall replied.

“Jeffy’s father. I understand there was a bit of a . . . a problem out your way this afternoon.”

That was when Marshall knew who it was on the phone and why. He felt himself tense with anger. “Yeah, there was. Seems your boy and a friend of his decided to have a bit of fun . . . at my expense.”

“That’s not exactly what
I
heard, Mr. Logan,” Hollis interrupted. “From what Jeffy tells me, he and a friend of his were playing in the woods and on the way home, they happened to cross your yard. You came out and, at least from the looks of Jeffy’s shirt and the cut on his knee, it looks like you gave him a pretty good whipping.”

“Weren’t at all like that!” Marshall said firmly, his anger rising higher. “Your son and his buddy were soaping up my windows. I caught ‘em red-handed. They even broke my front door window.”

“But Jeffy—”

“And your son got
part
of what he deserves. If he was my son, I’d tan his hide but good! They was trespassin’ to begin with, and they was vandalizing my property.”

“Jeffy never said anything about
that
,” Hollis said tightly.

“‘Course not. He was at fault. And if I had caught a hold of his buddy there, I’d have wopped him too.”

“Well, Mr. Logan, I’m sure it was nothing too serious. I’m sure that was no reason to bloody his knee and tear his shirt. He almost had to have stitches.”

Marshall snorted.

“I would think, Mr. Logan, that you might have restrained yourself. There was really no need to—”

“If he was
my
son, Mr. Hollis, I’d make sure his backsides were so sore he’d have to sleep on his stomach for a week!” With that, Marshall slammed the phone down, making it ring once. He swore violently under his breath as he turned and went back into the kitchen. The beans, unattended, had started to burn on, and Marshall quickly turned off the flame and pushed the pan away. He swore loudly and slammed his fist on the countertop. Startled, Alfie jumped onto the floor and raced to the door.