Swallow The Hook Part 5

"Now we're getting somewhere, "Frank said as they got back into the car. "We can concentrate all our efforts on the houses down at this end of the road."

Unfortunately, no one was home at the first two. At the third the door was finally answered, after a long period of ringing and knocking, by a middle-aged woman named Donna Milford. "I'm sorry," she said breathlessly. "I was clear back in my workroom, and with the sewing machine running I can't hear the bell." A few minutes' conversation put Mrs. Milford out of the picture. She knew Mary Pat only from visits to the Stop'N'Buy, and although she was home all day, she worked at the back of the house making curtains and slipcovers, and never noticed what traffic pa.s.sed in the front.

"What about the folks in the two houses between yours and Mr. Nyquist-are they usually home during the day?" Frank asked.

"Well, Judy Penniman works all day and their son's at school. Her husband Doug's a trucker. Sometimes he's home during the day, but then he's usually sleeping. And the Stilers, they're retired, so they're in and out most days, I guess."

Would the trucker husband be brazen enough to have his girlfriend, Mary Pat, meet him at his own home in broad daylight? Or maybe Mary Pat was friends with the wife, who let her use their empty home to meet her lover. Or could the retired couple be helping her in her predicament? He'd have to come back again in the evening to check out the remaining houses.

Leaving the Milfords, they saw a car pull into the Stilers' driveway. "Looks like we're in luck. They're back home," Frank said. "Isn't she the woman who organizes the concerts on the town green in the summer?"

"Yeah," Earl agreed. "Her husband's got something wrong with him. He walks real stiff and he doesn't say much."

Frank pulled into the driveway behind the Stilers and got out of his car with a cheerful wave. Mrs. Stiler acknowledged him, but went to the pa.s.senger side of her car and opened it. As Frank approached, he could see her moving first one, and then the other of her husband's legs out of the car. He stepped forward to help her, but she waved him off. With one practiced move, she swung her husband from the car. They both staggered slightly, then regained their balance.

"There, now." Mrs. Stiler turned toward them with a smile and extended her hand. "I know who you are and I imagine you know who I am, but I don't think we've ever officially met. Constance Stiler." She shook Frank's hand firmly, then Earl's. "And this is my husband, George." Frank offered his hand to the man, who didn't respond. "George has advanced Parkinson's disease. He finds it difficult to shake hands, and to converse, but he enjoys having company. Come on in."

They followed the Stilers through their back door into a large and cheerful kitchen. Patiently Constance helped her husband ease into a chair that looked out over the yard behind the house. Frank studied her movements. He imagined she must be in her mid-sixties, but she moved like a much younger person. Tall and lean, she looked as if she had always been athletic and still kept up with her exercise. Dressed in khakis and a sweater, she nevertheless projected a rather elegant image. Her most striking feature was her hair: thick, wavy, and a pure, gleaming silver.

Motioning them into more comfortable chairs, she pulled a straight-backed chair away from the table and perched on the edge. "What can I do for you?"

"We're here about Mary Pat Sheehan," Frank began.

Constance began shaking her head. "A terrible tragedy. The poor girl. Do you know what caused the accident?"

"We're looking into it. Right now I'm trying to figure out who she was visiting on Harkness Road."

"Why would that matter?"

Frank sidestepped the question. "Mr. Nyquist said he noticed her driving out to this end of the road many times over the summer."

Constance smiled. "Mr. Nyquist is nothing if not observant."

"Was she visiting you?"

"I think she may have been here once, early in the summer, to pick up some posters for the concert series. She offered to put them up at the Stop'N'Buy and her church."

"And that's it? She didn't stop by on a regular basis?"

Constance arched her eyebrows. "I don't know what you're getting at, Chief Bennett. I only knew the girl in pa.s.sing. What does who she was visiting have to do with her car accident?"

Frank hesitated, his eyes scanning the small details of the Stilers' home: the canvas PBS tote bag hanging on a hook, the wall calendar with a famous painting that he recognized but couldn't name; the Julia Child cookbooks on the shelf. No, he didn't imagine that Mary Pat and Constance had been fast friends. Still, something held him back from telling her what he was after.

"We're trying to determine who she was with immediately before the accident. Did you ever notice her across the street at the Pennimans'?"

Constance regarded him with her steady, intelligent gaze, letting him know that she understood this was only a partial truth. "Well, she certainly wasn't here. And since I don't watch out my front window like Mr. Nyquist, I really couldn't say about the Pennimans." Somewhere across the kitchen a timer let out a tinny, persistent beep. "Is that all you needed? It's time for George's medication."

"That's all. We won't keep you."

Back in the car, Frank continued down the road, even though there were no more houses to visit. Harkness Road ended in what would be called a cul-de-sac in the suburbs, but in the country, the wide, gravelly area surrounded by dense woods was simply known as "the turnaround." On one side, a slightly overgrown path extended into the woods. Earl pointed to it and explained, "That's the old logging trail, where kids ride their ATVs and dirt bikes."

On the other side, a narrow but hardpacked dirt road led out of the turnaround. A crudely lettered sign nailed to a birch tree read PRIVATE PROP. KEP OUT.

"Where's that go?" Frank asked.

"To the Veeches. I've never been back there." The look on Earl's face showed he wanted to keep it that way.

"What's the big deal? Who're the Veeches?" Frank asked as he carefully steered the patrol car up the rutted dirt road.

"They're this weird big family. They all live back here and they never bother with anyone in town. They're dirty and none of 'em work, and there's something wrong with all the kids."

"Wrong in what way?"

"I don't know," Earl said, peering out the window as if he expected sniper fire at any moment. "Slow, I guess. One of them was in school with me for a while. He was about fifteen and still in the sixth grade, then he just stopped coming. Everyone made fun of him." Earl paused, thinking back on the bad old days when he'd been in school. Frank suspected Earl had endured a fair amount of teasing himself.

"There was a joke they all told about the Veech girls," Earl continued. "What's the Veeches' definition of a virgin?"

"What?" Frank prompted.

"A girl who can run faster than her brothers."

"Earl, that's terrible," Frank said, but snickered anyway. "So what do they do back here, farm?" He winced as his well-maintained patrol car bottomed out on the increasingly steep road, wondering how much farther they had to go before they'd come to a house.

"Nah, they just collect welfare. Sometimes you see one of them in the supermarket in Verona. They always pay with food stamps." Earl's voice vibrated with contempt.

Plenty of families lived on the brink of poverty in these small mountain towns, but Frank had noticed that even the poorest workers seemed to be staunch Republicans, fiercely opposed to government handouts of any kind. The Veeches might run counter to the local character, but they must be law-abiding, because he'd never had a complaint about them, and they'd never been suggested as suspects in the few petty thefts or vandalisms that const.i.tuted his usual workload.

Just as he began to despair of ever getting off this lousy road, the light brightened, the trees thinned out, and the first of several ramshackle houses came into view. Frank pulled up in front of it and turned off the car, then hesitated. Surely this house wasn't inhabited. The front door opened about three feet above ground level, with no porch, stoop, or step leading up to it. Several broken windows were patched with cardboard, and the remaining gla.s.s ones were shrouded by tattered sheets serving as curtains. The central part of the house had been built of wood, and several haphazard additions flowed from it, including a small Airsteam trailer that had apparently been backed right into the side wall, then attached with some roughly nailed-up boards.

Someone had once started painting the place bright blue, but had laid down his brush in mid-stroke and never picked it up again. The garish color covering half the house made the rest of it look even more dismal.

"No one could possibly live here," Frank said. "We better drive up to the next house." He started up the car again and hadn't gone more than a few feet forward when Earl cringed away from the pa.s.senger-side door, shouting, "Look out!"

A huge, brindle-coated dog had sprung out of the trees and lunged against Earl's side of the car. Frank stopped with a jolt as the big brute leaped again, putting paws the size of saucers against the window and baying ferociously. Two more dogs ran down the road from the direction of the other houses, surrounding the patrol car. Although smaller, they were no less fierce. Frank could hear their claws scratching his car, as one and then the other showed his head above the car hood.

Frank let out a few whoops of the police siren and the dogs backed away momentarily, but despite all the racket, no one emerged from any of the houses. He turned on the bull horn. "h.e.l.lo, Mr. Veech? Could you call off your dogs, please?"

Still no sign of life.

"We just want to ask you a question about the accident Mary Pat Sheehan had out here last week. Could you help us out?"

No response.

"Now what?" Earl asked as the dogs closed in again. The big one s...o...b..red all over the window, looking for a way to tear Earl's throat out.

"I think we beat a tactical retreat." Frank put the car in gear, not caring if the dogs got out of the way. "We'll wait and see what the Pennimans have to tell us before we come up here again."

"Next time we better bring the state police animal control officer with us," Earl said.

"That's an option. But it could be the dogs were guarding the place because no one is home today."

Yet as they pa.s.sed the first house, they saw the ragged curtain in an upstairs window fall back into place.

9.

"WHAT'S TODAY'S DATE?" Frank demanded out of the blue as they drove back toward town.

"October first."

"s.h.i.t! Caroline's birthday is just four days away and I haven't bought her present yet."

"So she'll get it a day or so late-what's the big deal? She's not a little kid."

No, but Caroline had always regarded her birthday as a national holiday, and since she was an only child, he and Estelle had indulged her in this, even after she was grown. She looked forward to his present and would be disappointed if it wasn't there on the right day. Frank didn't want to let her down, especially with the coolness between them now.

"If I buy something today and send it express, she'll have it by the fifth," Frank said.

"What're you going to get her?"

That was the problem. Now that Caroline was married to Mr. Wall Street, there wasn't a thing Frank could get her that Eric couldn't provide a better version of. There was nothing she truly needed, and Frank didn't understand her wants anymore.

Then, as if the hand of G.o.d were guiding him, Frank rounded a bend in the road and a sign came into view. ADIRONDACK ARTISANS: POTTERY, WEAVING, JEWELRY-Beth Abercrombie's shop.

The last time Caroline had visited, she'd seen that sign, but the store had been closed and Caroline had stood with her nose pressed against the gla.s.s, oohing and aahing at what she could see through the window. Some arty little knickknack from Beth's shop would be right up Caroline's alley, and it had the advantage of being something that Eric couldn't deliver. Best of all, the pretext of shopping would give him a chance to ask Beth about Nathan Golding.

"I just got a shopping brainstorm, Earl. I'll drop you at the office. See what you can turn up searching the Internet for Sheltering Arms-I'll be back in half an hour." Frank soon dropped Earl off in the town office parking lot, then doubled back to Beth's shop.

The shop itself was down a little unmarked country road just beyond the sign. In less than a quarter of a mile, Frank spotted it, nestled in a clearing surrounded by white pine and birch. Its cedar shake siding, stained a deep green, made the little building look as if it had sprung up there naturally.

Beth must have had the place built to suit her needs. The front door, flanked by two large plate-gla.s.s windows, opened directly into the shop, while a side door led into her living quarters behind and above the store.

Frank followed a flagstone walk past some chrysanthemums blooming bravely despite the chill, and hesitated before the door. Maybe this hadn't been such a good idea. He was the only customer; what if there was nothing he thought Caroline would like? He'd have to buy something-he couldn't very well say "just looking" and saunter out like you could in a big department store.

He reached for the doork.n.o.b, half hoping the shop was closed, but it opened and the breeze immediately set some windchimes into a melody announcing his entrance.

A wonderful scent of pine impressed him before his eyes registered anything. Not the cloying, suffocating smell of those pine air fresheners or green scented candles-just the terrific smell of a fresh Christmas tree the day you first bring it into the house. But there was no tree, and no Beth, either.

Frank prowled around the deserted showroom, taking everything in. Three tiers of shelves ran around the perimeter of the room. The carpenter in him immediately noticed the fine craftsmanship of the shelves-the finely mitred corners, the beveled trim, the satiny finish. Then he looked at the pottery displayed upon them: bowls, plates, and vases, no two items exactly the same, though clearly made by the same hand. A rack in front of the window held multicolored woven wool shawls, and another displayed cotton area rugs. In a case by the cash register, silver jewelry sat on black velvet pads. The overall effect was quite pleasant and restful, but Frank wondered how Beth could make a living with such a small inventory.

He reached out and picked up a large green vase that caught his eye. Turning it over, he held it at arm's length to make out the tiny writing on the discreet price tag. Twelve dollars? No, one hundred and twenty! Good grief, she couldn't sell many of those around- "Why, h.e.l.lo, Frank. What brings you here?"

The sound of Beth's low, mellow voice surprised him so much that he nearly dropped the vase, which would have been a real catastrophe.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to startle you. I heard the bells chime, but I had a pot on the wheel and couldn't come right out." Beth smiled. She radiated a placid stillness, as if the atmosphere of the shop emanated directly from her.

Her calmness inspired an equal level of nervousness in Frank; he felt like she'd caught him shoplifting.

"Hi, Beth," he finally managed to stammer. "I, uh, I'm looking for a birthday gift for my daughter. Thought she might like something from your store."

"Aren't you a sweet dad! Is she a college girl? She might like some earrings, or a shawl."

"Oh, no," Frank answered. "She's out of school. She's going to be twenty-six."

"Twenty-six!" Beth put her hand on his forearm. "You can't have a daughter who's twenty-six! You must've been twelve when she was born."

Frank felt a silly rush of pleasure. Did she really think he looked only thirty-eight? That was about how old she was, he guessed. "No, I was twenty-one when Caroline was born," he admitted. "But sometimes I felt like I was twelve."

"Yes, having children knocks the know-it-all right out of you, doesn't it?" Her green eyes, flecked with gold like a cat's, looked directly into his. Frank's mind went blank as he felt his heart quicken and his throat go dry. Good Lord, he hadn't had this reaction to a woman since Bettina Albert had paralyzed him with her presence in eighth-grade French.

"Do you have children?" he managed to choke out, keeping up his end of the conversation. He'd heard Beth was divorced, but he hadn't noticed any sign of children.

"Yes, two boys. Gregory's at the University of Oregon and Theo's a junior at Oberlin."

"Now it's my turn to be surprised. I would've expected grade-school kids." Perhaps she was a little closer to his age than he thought.

"No, they're out of the nest." A wistful look crossed her face as she gazed out the window. "I miss them, but I never expected they would stay around Trout Run." Beth brought her attention back to him with a little shake. "Enough about that-let's find a gift for your daughter. You were interested in that vase?"

Frank coughed. "Actually, I'm thinking a bowl might be better-more practical." He gestured toward a medium-sized bowl glazed the same rich green color as the vase, but with less detail work. He hoped this one was a bit cheaper; he didn't have the nerve to turn it over and look.

"You have a good eye."

Again, that ridiculous flutter of satisfaction. As she reached out for the bowl, he noticed that her hands were stained with the clay she had been working. Somehow, that made them more attractive.

"She can use this to serve food, or it would look nice with a seasonal arrangement. Some gourds, or pine cones and berries," Beth said as she held the bowl up for his inspection.

Frank nodded in agreement, although what he knew about seasonal arrangements wouldn't fill a matchbook. "I'll take it. Could you pack it up? I have to ship it to Chappaqua."

"I can take care of that for you. The UPS man stops here every day."

They moved to the cash register, and Frank handed over his credit card. As he filled out the shipping form, he said, "I guess you heard about the shooting over on Giant this morning?"

"Shooting? You mean a hunting accident?"

His heart sank as he realized he was going to be breaking the news of Golding's death to her. He'd a.s.sumed that news this big would have reached her by now, but of course no one from town shopped here, and if she'd been working all morning without the radio on, she wouldn't have heard. "It wasn't an accident. And I'm afraid the victim was someone you know."

Beth looked up from wrapping the bowl.

"Nathan Golding."

She took a step back and plopped onto a stool behind the counter. "Is he badly hurt?"

Frank's hesitation answered her question.