Summerkill (10 page)

Matt had been Clete Donnelly’s construction boss for going on twenty years. He was a master at bringing together the necessary
men, materials, and equipment at the right time and place. Given the complexity of the project, Clete’s notorious second thoughts
would’ve made Hudson Heights construction scheduling a nightmare for most people. Matt handled it. A few drinks into Friday
night he’d been known to slide into the “let’s step outside and settle it” mode, but on the job he kept his cool. His men
liked and respected him. No matter what the pressures or how much he was banking to handle them, he remained the genial baseball-following,
beer-guzzling, Jeep-driving one of the boys he’d always been.

Thurman was more standoffish, neither sports fan nor beer drinker and hardly one of the construction boys. Definitely a group
member, though—like Mariah and Willem he’d been born into the local aristocracy. I couldn’t imagine him sparkling at all the
cocktail parties in which that set indulged, but he regularly attended. His wife had been dead for over a decade, and his
daughter Molly, now in her late teens, was by Mariah’s account one of those people who get described as “different.” Not retarded,
not mentally ill in a way that could be labeled—a fragile soul who needed sheltering. That, the group gladly provided; Molly
knew she belonged.

At Hudson Heights I’d worked more with Thurman than with Matt and had found him helpful though not much fun. We shared an
alma mater—he had a doctorate in geology from Cornell, with a concentration in soil analysis. He’d worked his way up to number
two man on New York’s geological survey team, only to see the entire unit abolished in one of the state’s periodic budget
crunches the year before I came to the area. A victim of middle age and overqualification, he’d been out of work for over
a year when Clete offered him a job helping put Hudson Heights together. It was an off-course career move, he’d confided to
me once, but the money was adequate, the work more interesting than he’d expected, and most important, he could stay in the
area and not have to uproot Molly.

And he and Matt had become good buddies. You never know.

“Hey, guys,” I said breezily, “any good mudslides out at old HH lately?”

Running a hand through his thick, curly black hair, Matt came up with a weak grin. “Not since you stopped messing around.
So how’s it going?”

“Lots better than yesterday.”

Thurman looked half-poised for flight. “Is there any news on this terrible murder?” he asked.

“One huge hot flash, Thurman: they’ve figured out I couldn’t have committed it.”

“Good to hear!” To my suspicious ears Matt’s heartiness sounded less than full strength, but he recovered quickly. “So when
are we going to get together on those three problem residentials you guys are signed up for?”

“We’re not. The Garden Center and I are kaput.”

“Jesus, first Skip, now you. What’re they trying to do, self-destruct?”

“Sometimes I wonder. Do try not to let them bulldoze that nice stand of clump birches on number twenty-eight. And Thurman,
can you make sure those Cornell Pinks and the bank of shrubs behind them keep their feet wet? If that background hasn’t grown
together better by September you might want to nudge Willem to fill in with some evergreens. Otherwise those Cornells are
going to look like a bunch of skinny orphans next spring, assuming they survive that long.”

“After all we’ve been through with those shrubs, I’ll carry the watering can personally if I have to. I do think we’ve finally
got the problem licked, though, don’t you?”

“I wouldn’t bet the farm. Cornells are notoriously temperamental.”

“Just like some people, would you say?” Matt’s grin looked a little better. “So, what do you figure to do with all that time
you won’t be using to come around and give us grief?”

“Something more constructive. I plan to get a head start on developing my own clientele, down in the south county mainly.
That was on next spring’s agenda, anyhow.”

Matt made a face. “The artsy, back-to-nature crowd?”

I shrugged. “They do think ‘garden,’ not ‘is this going to obstruct our view of the ninth hole?’ There’s nothing wrong with
it, beyond the boredom factor, but all the people building in Hudson Heights have asked for so far is decent foundation plantings.
I’ll be working with Jake Southeby, making use of the sort of plant material he grows. We already did one garden last year.”

“Well, there’s got to be money down there. I wish you luck extracting some of it.”

I took Thurman’s nod as an indication he was collaborating in this wish. “Thanks,” I told them both.

Back in the Bronco, I contemplated where to take the newspapers to read in peace. The prospect of another end-of-driveway
encounter did not appeal. But then why put myself through that? Sue wouldn’t mind if I left the Bronco at her place and walked
the rest of the way home.

Their property is coming along, though not so fast these days, since Denny’s getting more and more paying projects. It’s a
wonderful old Victorian house, its exterior lines intact, the inside pretty much deteriorated. Shabby, you could say, or extremely
well lived in. A real bitch to heat.

Sue had company: Kyle’s silver Saturn was parked next to the house. He was the only one of Denny’s siblings to keep in close
touch with their renegade brother. The Donnelly family diplomat, I guess. Kyle and Kate, second and fourth born, respectively,
were the nicest-looking, most polished of Clete’s four children. Also the closest to one another. The oldest, Clete Jr., was
said to be a replica of his father, only more so. A career military man, he reputedly spent most of his time abroad, doing
the sort of things you’d just as soon not ask about.

My neighbor Denny was christened Royden, after a great-uncle. It is a name he passionately detests and will only resort to
when he needs to be official. Heavyset, bearded, and soft-voiced, he gives visible advance thought to what little he finds
to say. You’d think he wouldn’t be worth spit sticking up for himself, but like Clete Jr. he’d resisted getting sucked into
the family business. It couldn’t have been easy.

Never much interested in schoolwork, Denny was good with his hands and somewhere along the way developed a fondness for restoring
old houses. Mostly self-taught, he showed a real feeling for the nuances of the different styles. It was his joy to bring
a decayed wide-plank floor or a broken, much-painted Victorian cornice back to the way it was supposed to look.

My shell of a building was nowhere near classy enough to be a candidate for restoration, but one day shortly after I took
title Denny saw my Bronco parked outside and walked up to have a look. We got to talking, and he came out with so many ideas
I asked if I could hire him to help make it livable. During that project we discovered, without sinking a lot of words into
it, that we were companionable. We like being neighbors.

Enlisting Denny turned out to be a wonderful move in terms of the remodeling. It did not, however, get me off to a great start
with Clete, who was bent on closing off outside work in the hope of forcing Denny into the fold. I told Clete when he braced
me on it that I thought Denny was old enough to choose his own fold.

Did Kyle ever feel he had that option to exercise? He seemed comfortable as his father’s second in command: easy to talk with,
even-tempered, efficient, capable of holding his ground without roiling things up. Still, I could see it was stressful, inhabiting
a territory that stretched between Clete Donnelly and the rest of the world. Kyle maintained his smile, but he popped a lot
of antacids.

His private life he kept low profile. He and Mariah’s much younger half sister Emily had married not much out of high school
and produced a son, Chad, a year later. After which, according to Mariah’s strongly unsympathetic version, Emily decided she
needed to find herself and took off for Mexico to paint. For all I knew, she was still searching for that elusive inner Emily;
there’d been quite a few scene changes since Mexico. She showed up back in Pinehaven once in a while, moving in for the duration
with ex-husband and son if Kyle didn’t have a girlfriend in residence. The sisters had made up somewhat, but she still didn’t
log much time at Mariah’s place. Chad hung out there a lot, though. He was a skinny, quiet kid who played oboe—about as un-Donnelly-like
an instrument as you could find—in the high school orchestra.

I peeked through the kitchen screen door. Sue, who loved to feed people, was giving her brother-in-law lunch. “Is it okay
if I leave the Bronco here while I sneak over home?” I asked her. “There’s still a bunch of cars out by the road.”

“Five or six when I drove by,” Kyle confirmed. “I guess you’d have to expect that.”

“Not for much longer, if they’re hoping to watch me get arrested.”

“Well, of course you’re not going to get arrested!” Sue exclaimed. “We just heard Baxter saying on the news that you’re definitely
not a suspect.”

Kyle sauntered over to the door. He’d always been pleasant to me, but in a couple of steps back sort of way. I connected more
strongly with his father—not more positively, to be sure, but the definition was better. “He didn’t go into much detail. I
guess you’re not supposed to in a murder investigation. It’s something about the timing?”

“Right.”

“You weren’t home when it happened?” He looked puzzled. “They’re saying between ten and midnight. If you came home later,
wouldn’t you have—?”

“Run over the body, unless I swerved. No, I was home from before nine on. With my nephews. What we established was I didn’t
go outside.”

“You must have a couple of night owls there.”

“Yep. How’s Clete taking all this?”

“You know Dad.” He smiled. Solidly built but lithe, with dark wavy hair and strong blue eyes, he always seemed to have trouble
standing or sitting still for long.

I smiled back. “Has he got his sights fixed on me?”

“Well, he did. And I’m not sure how seriously he’ll take the word of a couple of young boys. Not after the three he raised.
I wouldn’t make a special effort to cross his path just now.”

“When did I ever? Well, see you. Oh, Sue—you can let Alex and Galen come on over if they want. I’ll be home the rest of the
afternoon. Just have them use the path and the porch door.”

The boys’ path was still our secret; I had no trouble getting home unobserved. Roxy set up a racket once she realized I was
in the house. She was sounding a little hoarse; probably I shouldn’t have left her out in the run. I slipped the bolt on her
doggy flap and she charged in.

The first thing I did was call Jake Southeby and alert him to the possibility of doing a second garden this fall. I had plans
pretty well worked up for a couple we’d consulted with in June. Hopefully yesterday’s events hadn’t torpedoed their interest.
Jake said he’d get on it.

Normally my porch was securely private, but after last night’s would-be intruder I opted to take the papers and a diet Coke
and stretch out on my bed, under the skylight. For a few minutes, there, I was feeling pretty pleased with myself.

The
Star-Journal
account was about what I’d expected. To our district attorney, this shocking tragedy appeared to have the makings of an open-and-shut
case. Indeed, he wouldn’t be surprised to see an arrest soon. From the remainder of the story, a simpleton could plug in my
name. It would be late evening before Sheriff Dye’s shoot-down could reach print anywhere. But if Sue and Kyle had already
heard on some or other news, things ought to start getting better really soon.

The
Albany Record
torpedoed that theory. Their story was bylined Jack Garrett, probably the most familiar name on the paper’s editorial staff.
He’d been around a long time. I remember looking at his Sunday column once in a while when I ran out of things to read at
Birchwood. Even back then, his schtick had been to provoke reactions, stir something up.

His story provided roughly the same immediate background as the
Star-Journal
’s except it didn’t cite Phil Thomson as a source. The enhancement came in the category of less immediate background. Jack
Garrett had gotten hold of some details about the incident with my stepfather: dates, names, a significantly short of bottom-line
take on the family court disposition. Which of us would qualify for the title of most appalled? I figured I had a strong shot
at it.

So did my mother, on her own behalf, when she called about twenty minutes later. “How dare you involve us in your miserable
life after all this time?” was her response to my wary hello.

“Nice to hear from you, Ma,” I said, glad she couldn’t see the receiver shaking in my hand.

“Could you cut the crap? The phone hasn’t stopped ringing this last hour. What do you expect us to tell people?”

“That having shunned me for twenty-five years, you’re hardly in a position to comment on whatever’s going on down here. Or
would that be too straightforward?”

“Whatever might be happening right now is not our problem. If you wanted to share that awful business of twenty-five years
ago with the world, couldn’t you have had the decency to omit our names?”

“Ma, think about it. Why would I want to advertise myself as being handy with a pointed instrument? Or mention your names?
Believe it or not, I’ve acquired better references. I was halfway wondering if you and your husband decided to go for a preemptive
strike. Especially when I read the part about how things went in family court.”

“That’s preposterous!”

“No more than my choosing to babble. Anyhow, we’re talking non-problem, here. I’ve been cleared as a suspect— it’s already
been on the news.”

“That may take care of the media, but our associates will still be curious. Most of them have forgotten all about your existence,
if they ever knew. We have to tell them something.”

“‘None of your business’ has a nice ring.”

“Do you still work at being obnoxious, or does it come naturally now?”

“It depends on my audience. Anyhow, I’d be very careful how I went around explaining twenty-five years ago.”