Murder Takes to the Hills (32 page)

And I whispered, “Hang tough, Saint George!” to Branch.

While Sonny loaded suitcases in the trunk, Cindy and I cleared the dining room table and jammed food into the refrigerator. We stacked seemingly endless plates, cups and glasses in the sink, Cindy remarking that Mrs.
Fouts
would have a field day. I said it would simply confirm her opinion of Yankee women and men in general.
 

I took the cookies and fruit and put them in the bag with Fargo’s remaining food and treats. We took our light jackets from the hall closet and went out the kitchen door, leaving Lewis, Ray and Dave huddled over the coffee table filling out the endless reports that accompany this kind of event.

We stopped in
Beulaland’s
one late-night store and bought six-packs of caffeine-packed sodas. As Sonny pulled rapidly away, I cautioned him to slow down till we were out of town. “You don’t want a speeding ticket at this point,” I warned.

At that moment from behind the town gasoline station came a flicker of lights and the universal horn greeting:
Shave and a haircut.
 
Sonny answered with:
Two-bits.

We had received and acknowledged our final salute from
Beulaland
.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

The first half of the drive home was very different from our drive down to
Beulaland
.
 
The road seemed very black, and our headlights felt as if they encapsulated us even more from any life or scenery that might be near. We saw some semis, a few cars and a surprising number of RVs.

We rarely could make out the person driving or any passengers, and I wondered giddily if the vehicles drove themselves up and down the road just to give the few real people the illusion of company through an otherwise empty land.

There were, of course, the oases. Bright lights, vehicles pulled evenly into marked slots. Surprisingly clean restrooms, typical
diner
menus with almost every dish known to man included, and waitresses of all ages—but neat and usually friendly.

We stopped every three to four hours, mainly to give Fargo a run, occasionally to get fuel and usually to eat something. And that something became different for each of us as the hours on the road expanded. At one point a waitress placed a hamburger and fries in front of Sonny, presented Cindy with a fruit salad and gave me a generous stack of pancakes with bacon.

I was driving when I noticed the headlights didn’t seem to have as long a range as they had on my last shift. I worried that something was wrong with the alternator but hated to waken Sonny—I tried fruitlessly to remember how long it had been since he had slept through a night in his own bed. But the lights grew dimmer yet. Where was an oasis when you needed one?

I looked from side to side—and suddenly realized the “problem.” All night, whenever I had driven, I had
stared
ahead along the beams of light, not looking toward the blank black sides. Now, I could
see
things alongside the car. It was early
daylight!
I was thrilled. I tried to think of a poem about the dawn and could not.

But I felt that I must share this wonderful event with my companions, so I quoted the only reference to the sun I could remember.

I cried, “
‘Tis
morning and Juliet is the sun!’” I threw my right arm out as I spoke and my fingers clipped Cindy on the side of her head.

“Jesus Christ! Alex, pull over. You’ve finally lost it.”

Sonny sat up in the back. “What’s going on? What’s wrong?”

“Alex is quoting Shakespeare, complete with artistic gestures.” She rubbed her temple.

“Are we still on the road?”

“Yes.”

“Then leave her the fuck alone. You got something against Shakespeare?” He sank back down, Fargo his pillow.

At last, in mid-afternoon, we crossed the
Sagamore
Bridge over the Cape Cod Canal and began, what seemed to me, the longest leg of our journey…the seventy miles between the bridge and the dunes of Provincetown.
 
I had lived in
Ptown
all my life and never realized there were so many towns to pass.

Long after I had given up, we reached the Orleans traffic circle, which spit us out into Eastham.
 
That left only Wellfleet, Truro and…
home!
 
Sonny was driving at the time, and a few hundred yards down the road, he pulled over near a wooded area.

“Sorry, ladies, gotta go.”

“God, Sonny, we are only about twenty minutes out! Can’t you wait?”

“Nope.” He opened his door, and Fargo squeezed into the front to go with him. They seemed to be gone a considerable time, and returned with Sonny explaining that Fargo had to sniff a dozen trees before finding the right one.

All journeys must end, as ours finally did when Sonny nosed the spattered, road-filmed car into the driveway.

The back door to the house opened and erupted people. Mom and Aunt Mae ran to Cindy and me. Trish kissed the bearded Sonny with no apparent problem.
Lainey
and Cassie, Peter and Wolf, Walter and Billy, Ellen, and Choate Ellis all hung back for a few minutes and then joined the
hugfest
. And I realized why Sonny had had to “go.” He had phoned Mom to tell her where on the highway we were, and she had done the rest.

Peter and Wolf had of course come armed with champagne. Peter lifted his glass in a toast: “Welcome to your gorgeous, newly extended home!”

Cindy and I looked at each other and broke into a run toward the back of the house. There was our unpainted, unfurnished Master Suite in all its glory. The bathroom of my dreams, complete with
bidet
. When had Cindy found time to call Orrick’s from
Beulaland
? I had forgotten all about it. I gave her a hug and kiss, and we turned to the sliding doors leading to our small, private deck. Beyond it was a petite trickling fountain and the beginnings of a flower bed. Mom and Aunt Mae had been busy.

“Was it worth all the trouble?” Mom asked from the doorway.

Cindy laughed. “My dear Jeanne, compared to our restful bucolic vacation, it was all a very minor irritation. But you and Aunt Mae have been busy. I never imagined we’d come home to a working fountain and live plants.”

Her look became dreamy, and she turned in a slow circle. I knew she was decorating. Choosing just the right paint, carpet, draperies, furniture. She could see the completed Master Suite—oh, all right, the name kind of fit—where I could not. But Cindy had a marvelous eye for color. It would be perfect when she finished. Go for it, sweetheart.

“Excuse me for interrupting, girls.” We would never be quite adult to Aunt Mae. “Your guests know you are tired and don’t wish to prolong their welcome, but they—and I, I must admit—are dying to learn what on earth went on down there. And how on earth you survived it.”

I managed not to sigh, put my arm around her shoulder and smiled. “Why
sho
’
nuff
, honey
chile
, it will be our pleasure.”

Fortified with champagne, we gave the briefest possible account of our time in
Beulaland
. They were horrified, saddened, amused…much as we had been when it was going on. Only we had also been good and scared, which was difficult to put across in the safety of our living room, surrounded by relatives and friends.

Even their comments sounded familiar to ones we had made.

“How can anyone hurt or kill an innocent animal?”

“That poor old lady—so scared she got chest pains!”

“Bastard was sure hard to kill. Reminds one of that Russian
fella
…his name just slips my mind.”

“Rasputin,” Sonny supplied. “Haven’t I had this conversation before, or am I just groggy?”

 
“That Sheriff
Jeffie
ought to be on TV.” There was general laughter at this comment.

“He may soon have time to look in to that possibility,” Sonny added. “The State Police captain intimated that our
Jeffie
may presently receive several suggestions that he resign to ‘spend more time with his family’ if he has one, or ‘to pursue other endeavors’ if he doesn’t.”

Everyone was laughing, but I was not especially amused,

“What’s the matter, dear?” Mom asked. “You seem very solemn.”

“I just have wondered sometimes if we weren’t simply a couple of busybodies. We didn’t live there or own property there, or expect to. We really knew no one, except very casually. That planned ‘development’ had no real effect on us. Perhaps we should just have kept quiet.
Jeffie
aside, they are bright folks down there. They would have worked it out in their own time and way. I am not entirely certain we didn’t just make matters worse. Maybe Rasputin the Second didn’t really have to die.”

“Listen, Sis.” Sonny poked a finger at my chest. “McCurry was on the fast track to disaster. If it hadn’t been you and Cindy, it would have been someone else who just happened to say the wrong thing when Mickey had ingested the right amount of alcohol and drugs. Maybe he would have killed that Mildred woman, maybe Sara, or that outspoken Dermott guy or Branch himself. But it would have happened. Trust me.”

Choate Ellis nodded. “I’m sure Sonny is right. He’s experienced in such matters. And I know it resulted in a terrifying experience for the two of you. But perhaps you will feel slightly better about your intervention if you remember the words of the Parliamentarian Edmund Burke: ‘The only necessity for evil to win is for good men to do nothing.’ Of course.” He smiled. “Nowadays that means women, too.”

And that about said it all.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

Peace. It’s wonderful!

And we had had a whole eleven days of it. From the Wednesday afternoon when we got home, and for the entire weekend, we simply reveled in being
home.
Not to mention alive and well.

We finally got back to sleeping normally and eating normally and doing normal little things. Like housecleaning, getting the car washed and waxed, putting away heavy winter clothing, spading up the garden, housecleaning, planting radishes and sugar peas and housecleaning. I will leave it to you to figure out who did what.
 

The pets were also glad to be home. Fargo was assiduous in his patrols of the yard and announcements of visitors. We had one small problem with him. The minute we turned the fountain on, he was delighted with his new wading pool. We were still working on convincing him that taking a drink from it was fine, splashing in it was not. I had the feeling it might be a lifetime project.

Wells, too, was some concern. She was still a little nervous at having been left—even with her favorite aunt—and spent a bit too much time alternately under the bed grumbling to herself or demanding to be petted. But the vet assured us those extremes would wear off.

When Monday came, we both went back to work. I reclaimed my clients from Harvey Weinberg and took him to lunch. I visited the art galleries that handle my photos and got some good, some fair orders—enough to keep me busy for a while signing, numbering, matting and framing.

Cindy played some catch-up at the bank, but was generally pleased with the way her department had functioned. Since we hadn’t managed to get souvenirs for anyone, she did the lunch bit also, and everyone seemed happy.

I was especially pleased—relieved might be a better word—at Cindy’s manner since our return. When Sonny informed her that retired officer Edgar Fountain would be back in place as her lookout when she started work Monday, she accepted the fact almost casually.

“I suppose it’s wise,” she admitted. “But somehow I don’t feel threatened.” She laughed. “Perhaps after our
Beulaland
adventure a simple stalker is just a minor passing annoyance.”

Sonny was a little more serious. “Well, he could have been a transient and has now moved on. He could have given up on you and is now busy adoring someone else, or he could have been waiting impatiently for your return. Let’s give the good Edgar one more week.”