StoneDust (13 page)

“You shoulda been there,” piped Freddy Butler. “It was neat.”

“If I'd been there I wouldn't of asked,” Pink growled. “So what happened, Smoke? Bastards wouldn't serve you? Too drunk?”

“I wasn't that drunk. But the bartender said it was five past one.”

“Closing is one,” Freddy noted.

“I said my watch must have stopped.”

Smokey held up two bare wrists, and everybody laughed.

“‘How about a quick one?'”

“So the bartender goes, ‘We're closed,'” said Freddy.

“So I say, ‘Okay, I know you're closed. All we want is one drink.'”

Freddy said, “The bartender goes, ‘The cash register is locked.'”

“So I say, ‘Put the cash in a coffee can until the morning, only pour me and my friend a drink.' This is one surly son of a bitch.” Smokey's eye fell on the grandmother with the baby. “Excuse me, ma'am,” he touched his cap.

“So the bartender goes—”

Smokey cut Freddy off. “Can it. The bartender says we gotta leave. I said, ‘I'm leaving as soon as I get a drink.'”

“You gotta be firm with these people,” Pink agreed.

“Bartender says, ‘Get the hell out.' Picks up one of them little sawed-off baseball bats. I said, ‘Look, everybody in this piss hole is still finishing their last drink. It's not going to hurt to give me and my friend a drink.'

“He waves his bat in my face. I didn't like that, but I figured, okay, maybe the sorry 'sucker's had a bad day. So I say, ‘Tell you what. We're going visiting anyhow'—I got an Indian gal I'm buddies with—‘so sell me a couple of six-packs we can bring as a house present. Like decent, well-brought-up people do.' Man bangs the bat on the bar and says next time it's going to be my head.”

Smokey drained his Screech and looked around expectantly. I motioned Matthew, who came quickly.

“Thank you, Ben…Now, I should explain he's doing this in front of people some of which I know personally. Couple of little Freddy's cousins, and their buddy Pete Stock. So he's not only threatening me, he's embarrassing me. Well, I blew my stack.”

“I'd have blown it a lot faster,” said Pink.

Smokey nodded. “Yes, you would. Anyway, I told Freddy to stand by the door in case the son of a bitch—excuse me, ma'am—tried to lock me out, and I went out to the truck to get a saw.”

“Which one?” asked Pink.

“I would have preferred my Stiel, except it had a brand new chain, and I expected I'd run into nails. So I grabbed my old Husqvarna.”

“Good tool,” said Pink.

“The Husky's a quiet tool, yeah, but the Stiel is your better saw. 'Course, these days a lot of people go for the Jonsered.”

“I won't buy a foreign tool.”

“Where you think the Husky's made?”

“Alaska.”

“Anyway, when I get to the door, poor Freddy's on the wrong side and it's locked.”

“He hit me with the bat,” said Freddy.

Everyone looked at Freddy; no one believed him.

“Not only was the door locked, it was one of them steel ones Stanley makes. So first thing I had to do was cut a new door. That didn't take long and I walked through the wall and there was the bartender on the phone to the cops, so I sawed the phone off the wall and then I got busy on the bar. Boy, you should have heard the noise. It was
loud
in there.”

“Thought you said the Husky's a quiet tool.”

“I forgot my earmuffs.”

“Sawed it in half,” yelled Freddy. “Right in half.”

“I made two cuts thirty-six inches apart, to make Freddy a path. Told Freddy to grab a couple of six-packs and drop some money on the register. I mean, I wanted it clear we weren't talking robbery here.”

“Entirely different situation,” said Pink.

“Tell you one thing.”

“What's that?”

“Since then, I never recall so many friendly bartenders. Second I'm in the door, there's a glass waiting.”

“Was your lady friend grateful?” I asked.

“What's that, Ben? Oh, my Indian gal? She was pleased. I left Freddy to sleep in the truck and had a couple of beers with her. Left her the rest except one for the road.”

“Wasn't that the night Reg Hopkins died?”

Smokey laughed. “Well, that was the funniest damned thing of all.” He looked around.

The jukebox was screeching Mary-Chapin Carpenter and the car thieves had joined the dancing. Smokey's immediate audience included Pink and Matthew, the grandmother, Canada Zeke, and me, working hard at maintaining an appearance of casual interest.

“Don't pass this on, but this is the funniest thing you ever heard. Freddy and I start home, but when we get to the covered bridge, the 'sucker's blocked. There's this Chevy S10 sitting inside. Okay?

“Freddy here sticks his head out the window and yells, ‘Move that goddamned truck.' Nothing. I notice the headlights are on, burned down to cats' eyes. Battery's dying. Freddy yells again, ‘Move that goddamned truck or we'll saw it in half.' I say, ‘Hold on, Freddy. First of all, I'm done sawing tonight. Second, man who parked there probably had a reason. We're just going to leave him and go around the long way.' ‘Long way,' yells Freddy. ‘That's twenty miles.' Well, it ain't, but it's a ways.”

“I left my car at the Hitching Post,” Freddy explained. “I thought the cops might take it.”

“Freddy starts arguing with me. I said, ‘Son, if you want to cross that bridge, you can walk, but I'm driving around.' Freddy starts yelling, ‘Push it off the bridge. Push him out of the way.'

“Why didn't you?” asked Pink.

“You know, Pink, sometimes you reach a point of an evening when you just don't feel up to it. I just wanted a peaceful drive, finish my beer, and fall asleep. Nice warm night, I didn't want the aggravation. And like I say, I had a feeling the fellow in the Blazer wanted to be there.”

“What time was that?” I asked.

“Three-thirty, maybe four, four-thirty. Hell, could have been five.”

“But it was after three.”

“Huh? Oh, had to be, counting the time at the Hitching Post and the time with my gal. Right, Freddy?”

“I was sleeping.”

“Well, I wasn't. Anyway, Freddy decides he's going to walk to the Hitching Post. Not that anybody was thinking that clearly by then. I said suit yourself. So I turned the truck around and the last I see of Freddy, he's walking across the covered bridge.

“Now get this. Next day I'm up early. Never made it home. Fell asleep in the truck. So I drive back down to Newbury for some breakfast at the White Birch. Some dude comes in and says the cops found poor Reg Hopkins dead in the covered bridge. Don't you see? That was
his
Blazer. Reg was in it. Dead. So I call up Freddy and ask his mother to wake him and he gets on the phone and I say, ‘Hey, turkey. You know that Blazer you wanted to push? There was a dead body in it.'”

“I thought he was shitting me,” said Freddy.

Smokey winked a hazel eye. “I said, ‘Freddy. I hope you didn't leave your fingerprints on that Blazer. 'Cause if the cops find 'em, you're in deep trouble.'

“Freddy starts crying. ‘I didn't do nothing. I didn't do nothing.' Pink, you should have heard him. He's begging me, ‘Don't tell I was there. Don't tell I was there.' And I said, ‘I don't have to tell if you left your fingerprints. They'll call you.' ‘I didn't touch it,' says Freddy. ‘I swear I didn't.'”

“I didn't,” said Freddy. “But I was scared until Smokey started laughing. You really had me going there, Smokey.”

While everyone was laughing, I asked Freddy, “What did you scratch it with, a can opener?”

“Car keys—Hey. What?
What
?”

“Wha'd you say, Ben?” asked Smokey, and Pink looked puzzled.

“You crossed the bridge into the reservation about two and there was no Blazer on the bridge. When you came back between three and five, it was blocking the bridge.”

“The devil are you talking about, son?”

“I'm wondering when Reg arrived at the bridge.”

“What scratch?” asked Freddy. “I didn't scratch nothing.”

“What scratch?” asked Smokey.

Pink glared uncertainly through a haze of Screech. Finally, he said, “Oh, that scratch,” and fell silent.

“You are making me jumpy,” said Smokey.

“How's that?” I asked.

“You been following me around or something?”

“I saw a long scratch on Reg's Blazer.”

“What were
you
doing there?”

“Heard the police call on the scanner. Drove out for a look. Anyway, Pink towed it into Plainfield pound and we were talking about the scratch. Now you tell this story and I figured it was Freddy who scratched it, being in a bad mood because he had to walk home.”

Smokey clamped a big hand on my shoulder. Matthew Jervis found spills to wipe at the far end of his bar and the grandmother shielded her baby. The last thing I needed was another hit in the head, so I glanced at Pink, who said, “Let him go.”

“When he explains what the hell—”

I heard an explosion like a gunshot point-blank. Smokey flew off his stool and landed on his back, motionless, his face red as a tomato where Pink had slapped him.

“Let's go, Ben. Man's got a lot of friends here.”

We walked unhurriedly, but resolutely, across the dance floor, toward the door. We got some looks, but nobody made a move, except Gwen Jervis, who blew me a kiss.

In the parking lot, I said, “Thanks for the help.”

Pink tossed me his keys. “Needed the ride home. I'm too shitfaced to drive.”

I woke him outside his trailer in Frenchtown. He belched Screech and groaned, previewing his hangover.

“By the way, what can I tell Aunt Connie about the rattle in the Lincoln?”

“You gotta know now?”

“I'm going to have breakfast with her in the morning. I'd like to give her some good news, before I hit her up for a favor.”

Pink swayed like a Sequoia in an earthquake. “Tell her…Tell her I'm going to tear that 'sucker down to the rocker panels if I have to. Tell her when I'm through with that mother—”

Chapter 16

“Chevalley Enterprises stands by their warranty,” I said, ladling a third portion of Connie's raspberry preserves. “Pink guarantees he'll fix that rattle.”

“He's been guaranteeing for months now and it still rattles. Now for
whom
do you want me to give a dinner party?”

It was seven-thirty in Connie's morning room. Warm summer air drifted in the french doors. Yellow walls reflected sunlight dappling through an elm tree. House finches and chickadees nattered at a feeder.

Connie had already walked to the General Store for her
Wall Street Journal
, which she had been reading in neatly folded sections when I arrived. Coffee, tea, and toast were spread on a sideboard, and it appeared to me that Pink had been right about the medicinal qualities of Screech: My headache had diminished to the growl of a backhoe chewing on the other side of a hill. Which was just as well, as I had run into resistance.

“I told you. The Fisks, the Carters, the Bowlands, and the Barretts.”

“But I don't know them.”

“Of course you know them. Duane and Michelle Fisk own Newbury Pre-cast. Bill Carter the builder. Ted Barrett's the shop teacher—you know, the builder who went broke. The Bowlands are new; Rick works for IBM. He was cooking with me at the cookout. Remember? Button-down? You said he reminded you of
The Man in the Gray Flannel Suit
.”

“I don't
know
them.”

“You've known Duane and Bill and Ted since they were kids.” Newbury boys learned the work ethic raking Connie Abbott's lawn.

“You
know
what I mean, Benjamin.”

I did, of course, know what she meant. Although she was a fierce democrat in the small “d” sense—her commitment exceeded only by her generosity toward charities and institutions that championed equal opportunity—Louis XIV would have felt right at home at her dinner table, where guests had to be known by family, long acquaintance, laudable achievement, or sterling introduction. Wealth was not considered a laudable achievement and, in fact, fortunes accumulated since the Civil War were a liability.

“I really need a favor, Aunt Connie. I'm betting eight people can't sustain a lie. At a dinner party I could trap all four couples in one place at the same time. If I can shake them up so they think I know more than I do, they'll fill in the empty spaces.”

I had kept my word to Vicky. Not even to Aunt Connie would I name Vicky as the mystery guest, although I had filled her in on everything else I had learned since our last chat when she recommended I query gossip-queen Marie Butler.

Connie returned a shrewd look. “I looked up the word
nepotism
the other day. Did you know that it means, literally, favoritism shown to nephews?”

“It's a wonderful word, Connie. And I'm willing to pull nepotistical rank to settle up with whoever dumped Reg in that bridge.”

“Perhaps you'd better explain why you can't give this dinner party in your own house.”

“For one thing, it's pretty hard for a single guy to serve eight people alone. Beer and pizza won't lock them up the way you could in your dining room.”

“Victoria McLachlan would be delighted to act as your hostess.” Connie held Vicky in high regard and followed her career with keen interest, while on the personal side, she thought Vicky was an ideal candidate to take me off the streets.

“They won't come to my house. They'll know right away I'm still chasing Reg.”

“I can't very well invite them here, only to reveal you lurking under the tablecloth.”

“They'll know I'm coming, but they have to accept your invitation.”

“Oh, Ben, nobody cares about those old rules any more. Least not these people. Though Ted Barrett was an especially well-mannered young fellow—and quite handsome—No, if you want them to accept my invitation knowing you'll be here, you'll need juicier bait than dinner with what passes for
grande dame
dom in these parts.”

“Like what?”

“What exactly do you want out of this evening?”

I told her.

“To what end?”

I told her that, too.

“Excellent. Either way you'll do justice. I suggest the following. I'll invite them—”

“Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.”

“And you will spread a little white lie. Not a real lie. Just a hint that will make it impossible for them not to accept.”

“You're reading my mind.”

“Of course.” Connie fixed me with her blue-eyed gaze like a buck in headlights. “What does that crowd want more than anything?”

“Land.”

“That's why you want
me
to host your party…” She smiled with genuine affection. “You're reasonably intelligent, when you put your mind to it.”

“Are you by any chance patronizing me?”

“Do you think they'll bring cocaine?”

“
What
?”

“I'm joking, Nephew. I've heard drugs are not unknown in their set.”

“I thought you don't listen to gossip.”

“I didn't say I was deaf.”

***

The next day I was drinking midmorning coffee outside the General Store when Michelle Fisk pulled up in her red Audi and tennis togs that revealed suntanned thighs firmer than I would have guessed. She tossed a sheet of Connie's pale green fold-over note paper on my table and demanded, “What in hell is this?”

“It's a dinner invitation. I got one too.”

Aunt Connie had had them hand-delivered, kindness of Alison Mealy's girls-only Main Street bicycle gang.

“What's it supposed to mean?”

“Dinner on Saturday night. Cocktails at seven.”

“Why would ‘Miss Constance Abbott' invite us? We're not in her circle, in case you hadn't noticed. What are you up to, Ben?”

“She invited me, you and Duane, Ted and Susan, Bill and Sherry, and Rick and Georgia. I see a pattern. I'm surprised you don't—and I'm not talking about your Jacuzzi party.”

“Then what?”

“Just because she's old doesn't mean she doesn't keep up. She knows who does subdivisions in Newbury.”

Michelle sank to the bentwood chair beside mine. “Jesus, she owns more land than God.”

“God panicked when the market collapsed. Connie bought.”

“But years ago we tried to buy some and her lawyer, that old judge, told us to take a hike. He wasn't even nice about it.”

“I don't know what to say. She's not getting any younger. Looking at probate. She supports a ton of charities, maybe she and the judge figure liquidating would make it easier to give it away.”

“So where do you come in?”

“Well, I'm a grand nephew, and I
am
a real estate agent.”

“Big bucks commissions.”

“Not if I know Connie. She'll knock me down to three percent, if I'm lucky.”

Michelle laughed. “Wow. Oh, wow. I hope you're right.”

“Hey, I'm just guessing. But when she told me the guest list, that's what came to mind.”

“Oh my God,” she breathed. Then, suddenly: “Ohmigod what'll I wear? Ben, what do you wear to her house?”

“Good question. Saturday night…Written invitation…Dining room…Four or five courses. I mean, you could wear anything neat and clean, of course, but if you want to please her…”

“We do.”

“Right. Well, I, for instance, will probably wear a light-colored sports coat, shoes, socks, pants, long-sleeve shirt—she
hates
not seeing cuffs—and a pleasant necktie.”

“I can't get Duane in a tie.”

I frowned. “Similar party last year—Saturday, written invites—this artsy fundraiser showed up dressed like a janitor in a flag factory.”

“What happened?”

“Connie was perfectly polite. But he'll never be invited back; and the charity he represented received a strong hint they should review their hiring practices. Last I heard, he got transferred to Minneapolis.”

“Are you putting me on?”

“Only a little—Hey, listen, maybe this is genuinely social. She likes young people, likes staying in touch. It could have nothing to do with her thousands of acres. But, whichever, I'll tell you this: You'll have a very interesting time. She's done it all and she knows everybody. But whatever you do, don't push the land thing. Let her do it her way.”

Then I said something that under any other circumstances would have been just plain cruel: “She's always enjoyed stylish women.”

Michelle drove off, somewhat pale, and I settled back, confident the guests would arrive tense.

***

“Oh my,” said Connie. “Aren't they lovely?”

We'd been sharing dry sherry in the living room, and debating who'd show first, when Ted and Susan Barrett came up the walk like the wholesome vision of a lost America: Ted dark and handsome, Susan blond and beautiful. They were tall and slim, dressed with the understated care parishioners put into their Sunday best, and holding hands.

Halfway to the door, Susan stopped and faced Ted and struck the universal how-do-I-look pose. Ted stepped back and studied her. Whatever he said pleased her; he took her hand again, kissed it, and led her proudly to the door.

“Good luck tonight,” said Connie.

We were old hands at hosting dinner parties. Like Masai hunters tracking lion, we worked by glances, nods, and long- established understandings. She took her place, perched upright, dead center, on a green velvet recamier. I went to the foyer.

Through the sidelight I saw the Barretts exchange wary looks that changed to party smiles as the door swung open.

“Come in. You look lovely, Susan. Hi Ted.”

He and I shook hands a little self-consciously, the near- murder of each other at Gill Farm still fresh in our minds. Then I took Susan's hand.

Most women friends I would kiss on the cheek; but Susan Barrett's beauty could be off-putting. I would no sooner kiss her without a clear invitation than finger a Botticelli at the Metropolitan Museum of Art. Tonight I noticed a difference in her deep, warm eyes, a sort of shield raised by the other Susan—the nurse trained to be ice when shrapnel flew.

I led them to Connie, who drew them effortlessly into what had to be the most interesting conversation they had ever had about the uncommonly dry weather. Susan had brought her a little bouquet of rosemary and tarragon. Before the doorbell rang again, Connie had Susan describing her garden and both Barretts enthralled by a history of the West Street cottage they had moved to when Ted filed Chapter Eleven.

I opened the door to Rick and Georgia Bowland—Rick nervous and overdressed in a dark business suit, Georgia a little fragile in a silk blouse, a flower in her honey hair, and a whiff of expensive gin on her breath.

“What a beautiful house, Ben. You're so nice to invite us.”

She handed me an antique perfume bottle filled with fresh lavender blooms. “Our nanny turns out to be a gardener.”

She had done something very soft with her hair, perfect for a summer evening. When Rick started tugging his little mustache, she stopped him with a hand on his elbow and inquired in her pleasantly low voice, “To whom does one make lewd overtures to get a drink around here?”

I suspected that Georgia, too, was nervous. She didn't broadcast it like Rick, but she seemed almost frightened. What I didn't know was whether they were anxious about meeting Connie, or swinging a land deal, or had something to hide.

“Come meet Connie.”

Georgia took my arm and stage-whispered, “Are there any
verboten
topics?”

“Beg pardon?”

“I too have an elderly aunt. We do not discuss Democrats or shopping malls.”

“I'd avoid your ‘I Believe in Steve' campaign, unless you want an earful about the La Frances. She thinks the world of Vicky.”

“Got it. Thanks.”

Connie welcomed them into the living room, exclaimed over the pretty bouquet, and assured an anxious Rick that she preferred “Connie” to “Ms. Abbott.” Georgia had done her homework and Connie beamed when she dropped the name of one of her old friends from Greenwich.

I poured white wine for Ted and Susan, gin and tonics for the Bowlands, and hurried back to the foyer as Bill and Sherry Carter and Duane and Michelle Fisk piled out of Michelle's Audi. Duane handed over the keys and they came up Connie's broad walk, two by two.

Observing through the sidelight, I had the distinct impression that both Duane and Bill had been hogtied by their women to be shaved, hair-trimmed, and cravatted. Just before they reached the steps, Michelle turned Duane briskly west, straightened his tie by the light of the setting sun, and gave his shoulder a firm pat.

Sherry did much the same for her husband, although she ended her inspection with a kiss on Bill's nose. Bill returned a friendly swat to a behind rendered doubly intriguing by snug white slacks and a filmy jacket.

I opened the door. “Hi, everybody. Come on in.”

Michelle led the way. She looked alert, though not as wary as the Bowlands and the Barretts.

“Are we the first?”

“No, the last. Come on in.” I kissed her cheek. “Neat dress.”

“You think so?”

“Perfect.” I was really beginning to get a thing about her amiable roundness and snapping black eyes. She seemed confident that a dress for Saturday night at the country club, toned down, would pass muster on Main Street.

“Duane, how are you?”
His
black eye was healing nicely, a lot faster than my various wounds, but then I hadn't received mine from a considerate friend. It didn't seem to trouble him as much as the dress code.

“I'm fine, except this goddamned tie feels like a boa constrictor.” An O-ring of neck fat squeezed by his collar suggested that his dress shirt pre-dated his recent weight gain.

“Hurts to be beautiful, Duane. How are you, Bill?”