The Hot Pink Farmhouse Page 13

  Soave flashed a quick look at Takai to see if she’d reacted to Jim’s crack. She hadn’t. “Smart-mouthing doesn’t go over so good with me, Jim,” he said, moving closer to him. “Somebody comes at me with an attitude, I immediately think he’s hiding something. If I ask you a question, I have a reason for it. Do we understand each other?”

  “You’re the man,” Jim said sullenly. “Whatever you say.”

  “You got that right,” Soave agreed. “And I say we found an unfiltered butt near that cartridge. Sure looked to me like it could have been a Lucky. What do you think, Des?”

  “Could have been,” Des said evenly.

  “That’s your brand, am I right, Jim?”

  Jim ran a hand through his stringy gray hair. “So what?”

  “So things suddenly don’t look so good for you, Jim. We test the saliva on that butt and the DNA matches yours, then I’ve got you at the scene.”

  “You’ve got my cigarette, man. Not me.”

  Soave went over to inspect one of the suits of armor in the middle of the room. Hangtown stirred slightly when he did that, glancing at the floor under Soave’s feet. Des didn’t know why.

  “You’ve been taken down before, am I right, Jim?” Soave demanded gruffly. Des had told him about Jim’s record on the way over.

  “I ain’t no drug trafficker,” Jim responded bitterly. “That was all a lie. But it cost me my family’s land, and I sure do regret that.” Jim was looking right at Takai when he said this, Des noticed. Now he turned his gaze back on Soave. “You want to polygraph me, go ahead. You want to test me for gun residue, go ahead. You’re looking at the wrong man. No way I’d do anything to hurt Moose. She was like a sister to me.”

  “Are you sure that’s all she was to you?”

  Jim started up out of his chair, seething with anger. “You got some nerve, mister, talking like that in front of the old man!”

  “Now just relax, Jim,” Des cautioned, stepping between the two of them. Hangtown just continued to sit there, staring into the fire. “The lieutenant’s only trying to get answers.”

  “You tell him to watch his mouth,” Jim warned her between gritted teeth.

  “I hear she was visiting some guy, Jim,” Soave went on, undeterred. “Maybe you didn’t like her stepping out on you. Maybe you waited at the crossroads for her to come home, shot her and hightailed on foot back here through the woods before anyone was the wiser.”

  “Lieutenant, you could not be more wrong,” Takai spoke up in a measured voice. “There was absolutely, positively nothing between my sister and Jim.”

  “I appreciate your input, Miss Frye,” Soave said to her, all but tugging at his forelock. “But it’s looking real bad for you, Jim. Worse and worse, you want to know the truth.”

  Des knew exactly where her ex-sergeant’s mind was going. He was thinking:I am going to have this buttoned up by lunchtime. She could see him liking Jim for it. There was definitely a circumstantial thread. But if Jim had shot Moose, why was he still hanging around? He’d be halfway across Canada by now, wouldn’t he? Not sitting here in front of the old man’s fire, waiting to get nailed.

  “You’re the man,” Jim said to him once again. “You’ll throw down if you want to, and there ain’t nothing I can say or do will change that.”

  “You’re going to the School House, Jim,” Soave informed him coldly. The Central District Major Crime Squad headquarters in Meriden had previously been a state-run reform school for boys. Everyone on the job called it the School House. “There’ll be more questions, and a blood test. Have him held until I get there,” he ordered the uniformed trooper.

  Hangtown sat up in his chair for the first time since they’d arrived. “Must you take him away, Lieutenant? Must you take my friend?”

  “It’s strictly routine questioning, Hangtown,” Des said to him gently.

  “Yes, but can’t you do that sort of thing mm-rr-here?” Hangtown pleaded. “Jim is my hands. I can’t work without him. And if I can’t work right now, I-I’ll just . . . I won’t get through this agony, this . . .”

  Soave softened in the face of the great artist’s pain. Plus he was anxious to show Takai his caring side. “Give me a good reason why I should trust you, Jim.”

  “I’ll never leave the property, sir,” Jim vowed. “Not with all of them reporters trying to jump our fence. I got to watch out for the boss. That’s what I do. So you got no cause to worry. Word of honor.”

  “I don’t want to have to come looking for you,” Soave warned him.

  “He just gave you his word, Lieutenant,” Hangtown said balefully. “That may not mean much to you, but around here it means everything.”

  Soave struck his thoughtful, smoothing-the-mustache pose. “Okay, Mr. Frye. We’ll do it your way. As for you, Miss Frye, rest assured that a state trooper will be on the front gate twenty-four hours a day. Also a man stationed right here in the house. You have no reason to be frightened. But if anything does bother you, anything at all . . .” He handed her his card. “You can reach me day or night. Don’t hesitate to call.”

  Takai accepted the card, but said nothing in response, which left Soave thrown for words. Hastily, he turned to Des and said, “Did you try starting the victim’s car?”

  “No, I didn’t,” Des replied. “Key’s in the ignition.”

  “You ever drive that Land Rover, Jim?” Soave asked him.

  “We all drive it. Only car we got that can make it down to the plowed road when it snows.” Jim’s eyes narrowed at him. “My prints are all over it, if that’s what you’re wondering.”

  Soave told the uniformed trooper to give it a go. The trooper fetched a pair of protective latex gloves from the trunk of his cruiser and hopped in, Des and Soave watching him from the front doorway of the house.

  Moose’s Land Rover kicked over and started without a hitch, clouds of exhaust billowing from its tailpipe.

  “I thought she told her sister it was dead,” Soave said, astonished.

  “She did,” Des said, the trooper getting out to raise the hood for a look.

  “So what do you make of that?”

  “I take it you’ve never owned a vintage British automobile, Lieutenant,” Takai said rather archly from the entry hall behind them.

  Soave drew back slightly, sensing he was being dissed. “No, I never have, miss. Why does that matter?”

  “I’m terrible at jokes, but there’s an old one about the reason why the Brits drink their beer warm. The punch line is that the same outfit that does the wiring on their cars also makes refrigerators. They’re famously unreliable, in other words. Especially when the weather turns cold. You say a prayer that it will start. You tap the dashboard three times for luck. You stroke it. And, above all, you make sure you park it where the morning sunlight will hit its hood.”

  Which Moose had done. The Land Rover was sitting directly in the morning sun.

  “Doesn’t appear to have been tampered with,” the trooper called to Soave, slamming the hood shut.

  “May I drive it, Lieutenant?” Takai asked him. “I’ve lost my own car.”

  “I don’t see why not. But you ought to get yourself something you can really count on. If I lived around here I’d buy me a Grand Cherokee.”

  “Yes, but you don’t live around here, do you,” she pointed out.

  Soave stiffened. Now he knew he was being dissed.

  The phone rang in the kitchen. Takai went to answer it.

  “Yo, I’m beginning to see what you meant about her,” he muttered at Des.

  “Rico, I had me a feeling you would.”

  Takai wasn’t gone long. She looked somewhat pale on her return.

  “Who was it, girl?” Hangtown asked her, limping his way heavily from the living room toward them.

  “No one, Father,” she answered shortly.

  “Don’t be coy, damn it!” he thundered at her. “Who was it?”

  “It was just the school calling,” Takai said, her voice fading. �
��About why Moose didn’t come to work this morning. They . . . they wanted to know whether she’d be back tomorrow.”

  The old man let out a sob of pure anguish. “I’m not going to make it,” he cried out. “I will die. Oh, Lord, I will die!”

  CHAPTER 7

  Scareeee . . . reeee . . . yeeeeowww . . .

  Mitch was working his way through the chord changes in Hendrix’s lead-in to “Hey, Joe,” an achievement that for him ranked right up there with scaling Everest’s south summit, when the bad news came down.

  Scareeee . . . dee-dowwww . . .

  Playing his Stratocaster had been Mitch’s third choice for how to keep sane after Des went tearing off toward Winston Farms in the pre-dawn darkness. First, he had tried going back to sleep. An entirely logical thing to do. Clemmie certainly had no problem. But Clemmie also had a brain the size of a garbanzo bean. So Mitch got up and tried to channel his nervous energy into his reference book on Westerns—a sidebar on Quirt’s namesake, Quirt Evans, the wounded gunfighter played by John Wayne in The Angel and the Badman, a tidy little 1947 release with Gail Russell and Harry Carey that Witness ripped off some forty years later. But Mitch found he had about as much luck working as he did sleeping. The words on his computer screen were just meaningless squiggles. So he played.

  Skchssschaheee . . . chaheeee . . .

  Mitch had no ear for music. He knew this. But he had the love and he had the power. And, in the immortal words of Meat Loaf, two out of three ain’t bad. So he played, his pair of Fender twin reverb amps cranked up high, one set of toes curled around his wa-wa pedal, the other around his Ibanez tube screamer. He played, his eyes shut, tongue stuck out of the side of his mouth.

  Scareeeeeee . . . reeee . . .

  Until Des finally phoned to tell him it wasn’t Takai who was dead.

  “It’s Moose, baby,” she reported grimly. “At least we think it is. Her body’s burned beyond recognition.”

  Mitch was so stunned he could barely speak. “Any chance it’s not her?”

  “Slim to none.” Des explained to him how Moose had borrowed Takai’s Porsche to go see a beau and never returned. “She’d have to be pulling one of the most elaborate disappearing acts in history. Look, I don’t know if I’ll be able to see you tonight. My time may not be my own for a while.”

  “I understand,” he said, hearing the dread in her voice. “Are you okay?”

  She fell silent a moment. “I’m interfacing with my old crew from Major Crimes—first time since I put the uni back on. It’s weirder than weird.”

  “You’re doing what you want to be doing,” he told her. “That makes you way smarter than they are. Not to mention ten times hotter.”

  “Guess I just needed to hear the words,” she said faintly. “Thanks, baby.”

  “That’s the second time you’ve called me baby. You never did that before.”

  “Do you mind it?”

  “The next time we see each other, I’ll show you just how much I mind,” he said to her with tender affection.

  But as soon as he hung up the phone Mitch was overcome by feelings of confusion and helplessness. Twelve hours ago he and Moose were feeding Elrod together. And now, through no apparent fault of her own, she was gone. Why? He stood there for a long moment gazing out his windows at a lobsterman in a Boston Whaler as he chugged his way slowly out onto the Sound. Mitch wondered what it would be like to be that man. He wondered what was on his mind right now, at this very second. Then he shook himself and called Lacy.

  His editor answered on the first ring. She had just gotten in, but she already sounded alert and sharp as a razor. That was Lacy. “To what do I owe this honor, young Mr. Berger?”

  “I had a nice hook on that Cookie Commerce story,” he told her glumly. “Emphasis on the word had.”

  “You’re talking about Mary Susan Frye, am I right?”

  “Now how on earth did you know that?”

  “The first report just came in over the wire,” Lacy answered. “They passed it on to me because of who her father is. What’s going on out there? Talk to me.”

  He talked to her. Told her how he had befriended the reclusive Wendell Frye, hearing the immediate uptick of excitement in her voice. Told her about Takai and how she was hooked up with the Brat, who was building houses all over Dorset and offering to donate the land for a big new elementary school. And how his wife, Babette, president of the school board, was the one pushing hardest for it. He told her about how Babette was squared off against the school superintendent, Colin Falconer—the hush-hush cyber-sex scandal, his suicide attempt. He told her about how this battle over Center School wasn’t about a school at all, but over the very soul of a quaint, rural New England village.

  As he talked, Mitch began to realize that he was pitching Lacy a story. He hadn’t planned to, but deep down inside he must have wanted to. Why else had he felt the urge to call her?

  “Mitch, how does the death of Wendell Frye’s daughter fit into all of this?” she asked when he’d finished filling her in. “How do the pieces fit together? Do they fit together?”

  “Lacy, I honestly don’t know. But I’d like to look into it.”

  “Go for it. I’ll talk to the magazine and call you back.”

  Mitch hung up and reached for a fresh notepad and started jotting down questions that needed answering. Questions like . . . How much of Dorset had Bruce Leanse actually bought up? What were his real plans? How did the school figure into them? How did Takai?

  Now his phone was ringing. He picked it up, thinking it would be Lacy.

  “I’m going to kill the son of a bitch who did this to my Moose!” Hangtown roared at him. “You hear me, Big Mitch? With my own two hands!”

  “Hangtown, I’m so incredibly sorry—”

  “He’s a dead man! Dead!”

  “That’s no answer. You’ve got to let the law handle this.”

  “But that lieutenant’s a muscle-bound cretin—he’s actually trying to pin it on Jim!”

  “Des will keep an eye on things,” Mitch assured him. “Believe me, nothing gets by her. And if there’s anything I can do . . .”

  The old master was silent a moment. “Are you my friend, Big Mitch?”

  “You bet.”

  “You’ll help me?”

  “Just tell me how.”

  “Jim and me, we were smoking ourselves some homegrown when Moose was killed. Understand what I’m saying?”

  “You were getting stoned together.”

  “It helps me with my arthritis pain. Mornings are the worst. I can barely get out of bed. But I can’t tell them we were getting high because it’s a violation of Jim’s parole. They’ll send him back to jail. And, wait, there’s more—Jim still keeps his hand in. Had some dynamite plants growing out behind the cottages this summer. I’ve got pounds of the stuff stashed in my dungeon, Big Mitch, and a state trooper camped on my doorstep at this very minute—” Hangtown broke off, wheezing. “Will you tell Des for me?”

  “Tell her what, Hangtown?”

  “The truth—that I can vouch for Jim’s whereabouts. That he’s innocent. Only, you’ve got to whisper it in her ear, or they’ll set the dogs loose on him. Can you do that for me?”

  “I can. But I can’t guarantee how she’ll respond.”

  “She’ll do what’s right,” the old man said with total certainty.

  “Hangtown, there’s something else we need to talk about. I just spoke to my editor at the paper—”

  “You’re going to write a story about this. Of course you are. I understand.”

  “How did you know last night? That I might have to write about you. How did you know?”

  “I told you—you get a sense of things when you get to be my age. You lose your friends. The people who you love . . . they get taken from you. But you do gain that.”

  “I won’t quote you. Not unless you want me to.”

  “I don’t care, Big Mitch. Don’t care about that stuff anymore. My Moose is g
one. My Moose is . . .” Wendell Frye let out a strangled cry. “Someone just cut my heart out.” Sobbing, he hung up the phone.

  Mitch’s own chest felt heavy with grief. Moose’s death was causing him to revisit emotions he hadn’t gone near since he lost Maisie. He didn’t want to go through this. He didn’t want to go to another funeral. He didn’t want to ask himself those awful, painful questions that had no answers, such as: Why does someone vibrant and good get snuffed out before her time while the cruel, the dishonest and the horrible just keep right on using up air and skin until a ripe old age? When he was on the job in a darkened screening room, alone with his notepad, Mitch never had to ponder such unanswerable questions. Hollywood movies steered carefully around them. Hollywood movies steered carefully around anything that made audiences unhappy. But out here in the sunlight, he did have to think about such things. Because if you got involved with people, things happened to those people, and not all of those things were good.

  In fact, sometimes it seemed that none of them were.

  And so he hopped in his old truck and went rattling over the wooden causeway toward town, where he could begin to deal with it.

  First he had to stop at Sheila Enman’s mill house in front of the waterfall on Eight Mile River. She needed to be told. It would be better if she heard it in person.

  The old schoolteacher was seated on a plain wooden chair by her kitchen window, her stooped, big-boned body clad in a ragged yellow cardigan and dark green slacks. Her walker—Sheila called it her giddy-up—was parked near at hand.

  Mitch enjoyed Sheila Enman immensely. She was a feisty old Yankee who’d lived in her wonderful mill house all of her life. She had great stories to tell, and age hadn’t slowed her mind one bit.

  Except today it seemed to have ground to a halt entirely. Gazing out of her window at the waterfall, Sheila was almost like a different person—vacant, remote and despondent. “Selectman Paffin just stopped by,” she said to Mitch in a muted, hollow voice. “Is it true, Mr. Berger? Is she really gone?”

  Mitch dropped into the chair next to hers. “I’m afraid so, Mrs. Enman.”

  “She had every reason in the world to be stuck-up. Her father’s position and all—Lord knows, Takai is. But not Moose. Never Moose. She was so sweet, so giving . . .” Sheila pulled a wadded tissue from the rolled-back sleeve of her sweater and dabbed at her eyes. “I must apologize, but I didn’t bake anything for you this morning. I just couldn’t bring myself to.”