Mad Season Page 6
“I’ll pay for it out of my savings,” she said, her eyebrows shoved into a V, her pointed chin risen like a martyr’s. “I was saving for new carpeting. Harold knows how much I want it, but he can’t find work, though he’s got a lead. I won’t have linoleum like Mother put up with.”
“The pine lasts just as long,” Colm suggested. He was getting a double message here: she wanted the best but she didn’t.
The black eyes blazed at him. “The oak,” she said.
“They’re discounted now,” he said quickly, “I’d forgotten.” His father would have to accept it—jeez, he’d pay the difference himself. “You can take as long as you need to pay,” he offered, and she nodded, chin up.
Neither of them, he realized after Marie had gone, her slim hips grinding inside a brown vinyl skirt, had mentioned the word murder. Pulling the lids down over the opaque eyes, he sensed something cold pass through him. It wasn’t just the mortuary. It was something more. He couldn’t put a finger on it.
“S’funny,” his father said, coming back in the room, his pants open, he’d forgot to zip. He touched his groin: “I got some pressure down here, I don’t like it. She take the oak?”
Colm nodded. “You’d better see Dr. Collier. But zip up first or he’ll think you’re advertising.”
“Oh, shit,” said his father, zipping.
* * * *
When she died, Ruth told Colm after the wake, she wanted to be cremated, and he said he’d been thinking the same thing. There were only the bones left, like shells picked clean on a beach. The dead could rise again, if that’s what you believed, out of the ashes.
He’d give her a discount, he said, and winked. They were leaving the funeral home together. The wake was still going on, Belle in an open casket wearing makeup she’d rub off at once if she could see; Harold holding on to Marie like he couldn’t stand up by himself. Lucien visibly absent—he wasn’t to know yet, Marie said, in spite of Ruth’s protest.
Ruth couldn’t weep. Her initial shock, the sense of loss, had gone to anger. A life snuffed out over money! There was to be a funeral of course, full Mass—she’d see that Lucien got there. It would be well enough attended, like the wake. Half the people had come, most likely, out of curiosity.
“How can you live in a mortuary?” she asked Colm. “I know about your father. He looked frail tonight, though he had the old chin lift. Like a director glad his play was going well but afraid someone would blow it in the last act.”
He smiled. “You’ve got him.”
She glanced sideways at him. He was quite dressed up: gray suit, dark striped tie. He looked almost handsome: slightly beaked “black Irish” nose (the Spanish invasions, he said), the round glasses—the cerebral look. She found his thinness appealing, when once she’d been attracted to the macho-muscle type. So many of her old classmates going soft in the middle from overindulgence in one thing or another. Pete himself was heading that way. Maybe that was why he left—to be young again.
“It’s not so bad,” Colm said, “with the ones who die in their sleep. They’re at peace by the time we get them. You fall into a kind of partnership with death. But I admit I have trouble with ones like Belle. When Dad goes, I’ll sell.”
“This is your first murder,” she reminded him. “You’re still in shock.”
He didn’t say anything, just lifted his chin to the night—the Irish romantic.
“So are we getting anywhere?” she asked. “Are there any real leads? Where are we going next?”
“The Alibi,” he said, with a small laugh. It was a long thought from the funeral home to the local bar. The name of the place had never seemed so apt.
“To see about Willy? Check his story? Isn’t that what they do in detective fiction?”
He squinted at her, like she might be teasing him (maybe she was). “I don’t expect we’ll find any more than what he told me, but we have to ask. And we’ll want to see the bartender. See if they’ve passed along any barn money.”
“What about the other stores in town? Out of town, Burlington. The banks. Yes?”
“The police have already done that. I dropped in this morning. But nothing yet. I hope you told Vic they appreciate his lead. They usually forget to say.”
Actually she hadn’t, she’d hardly seen the boy since Mr. Dufours brought him home. The call came at that exact moment about Belle. Sharon and Emily had to make supper, she could only sink in a chair and talk, talk about Belle, ask why, why? When she finally dragged herself upstairs, Vic was in bed with the light out. This morning he’d complained of a sore throat, and though she felt he might be faking, she let him stay home.
“You’re coming along,” Colm said, almost shyly, pulling her out the door—he heard Bertha’s voice shrilling behind them. And to her surprise, maybe because of Bertha, who’d been circling them all evening, she came.
The Alibi was crowded, though it was a weekday night. All the rednecks in town were there, it seemed: some she recognized, most she didn’t; a scattering of students from the college, girls who looked under eighteen and probably were but had fake ID. She slid into a booth. She felt out of place here in her dark blue dress and blue heels (she preferred boots). She was sensitive about being out with a man, though there was no reason she shouldn’t be, Pete hadn’t thought twice about that, had he? It was her deceased mother-in-law’s values—or should she say “prejudices”?—carried on by Pete’s sister, Bertha.
Bertha had grabbed her at the wake: “I want you to stay out of this murder business,” she’d said, all breathy, like she’d run a mile in her black pumps. “There’s no telling what could happen.” She looked up like lightning would strike any second, then she went on about Emily: Bertha saw her get off the school bus once with Wilder, at his house, no car in the driveway, she’d said, insinuating. And Vic: Vic should go to Pete—a boy needed his father in a time like this. And why was Colm Hanna hanging around Ruth, a married woman? She didn’t like “any of it,” she said. The sister-in-law, warning of bad breath.
“Shut up,” Ruth whispered, “shut up.”
And Colm said, “What?”
“Not you,” she said. “I’m talking to a ghost.”
She shrank back into herself to see a familiar face: a woman who worked in the Natural Food Coop. And behind, at the next table, that woman who’d started the new boutique, some cute pun on sense and scents, she didn’t want to remember. The town was getting too boutiquey for her taste. The gourmet restaurants popping up! The New Grub Street, Cakes and Ale: literary names, places the locals couldn’t afford—only the new people, flocking into the town because it had a college, and that meant concerts, artsy affairs they could dress up for.
No one cared about the farms anymore. They were just there, pretty black and white cows to drive past on the way to the restaurants.
Colm was at the bar, ordering beers. He was leaning on his elbows, smiling, talking to the bartender, a big-bellied man with a red-veined nose—the stereotype of his profession. When the beer came she nodded at Colm and gulped it down. It had taken long enough. She felt she’d been groping about in a cave and couldn’t find her way out. There was the sense of claustrophobia, of panic.
He peered into her empty glass. “I remember you used to balk at even one. You’ve improved.”
“I don’t usually. I mean, I’m not that dying of thirst. It’s tonight, I guess, all that’s happened.”
He poured a little from his glass into hers. “Go on, you need it. Want to hear what I found out at the bar?”
“Tell me! I should have gone up with you.” She felt better now, flushed, even exhilarated. These wild mood swings, was it menopause?
“Willy was here like he said, with his friend Joey and another guy from the men’s group home. They horsed around some, bartender served them O’Doul’s. The group-home guy came around eleven to get them, Willy went along. He might have spent the night at the home, we know he wasn’t with Tim. I’ll give the Counseling Service a ring tomorrow
.”
“Willy wasn’t involved, I’ve told you that.”
Stubbornly, he drank his beer. Of course they had to be certain. Still, she was piqued. Couldn’t he see that Willy was little more than a child? How could he carry out a robbery?
She told him so. He looked at her out of those hooded Irish eyes; she remembered that stubborn streak. He didn’t like to be reproved, even when he was in the wrong. It was a weakness in him. The arguments they used to have! Yet the fun of making up afterward. . .
She wiped her forehead with a sticky palm.
“What else?” she asked, getting businesslike. It was over, that relationship.
“The barn money. Last night, he noticed it when he was cashing up. Said he’d never smelled anything so bad, thought it came right out of the . .. ‘cow’s ass’ is the way he put it. Sorry.”
He was wasting his apology on a farmer’s wife, she told him. “No, a farmer,” she amended. She was a farmer. She propped her elbows in front other beer. “Who was it, then?”
He sank back in his seat, pushed his glasses up on his nose. “He doesn’t know, can’t remember. So many smells in here, on clothing, hands. If his memory comes back, he’ll call. If it happens again, he’ll know—not that it’s any proof.”
“It was him, whoever came here to the bar. Or one of them,” she said fiercely. “I know it. I feel it. If he came that soon after the murder, he’ll come again.”
“Maybe. But not if he sees us in here. Belle’s friends?”
“How would he know?”
“Interrogators have a way of getting known.”
“Yes. Shall we go, then?”
“Can I finish my beer? Just because you’re an alkie,” he poured a little more in her glass. “You can help.”
She wanted to hit him, she didn’t know why. But she drank the beer. What was wrong with her tonight? She watched him tip the glass to his mouth, calm as a cow chewing; any minute he’d wipe the hay off his chin. Colm Hanna!
Ha! He’d spilled beer on his shirt. He was dabbing with a paper napkin. Served him right. It felt good to laugh.
* * * *
When Vic woke the next morning the telescope was beside his pillow. He sat up and glanced about, like someone was in the room, might beat down on him. But it was only six-thirty he saw by his clock, and the house was still. Though he could smell coffee brewing down in the kitchen and knew his mother was back from the barn.
His heart jerked. Was it his mother who got the telescope? Jeezum. Had she been to see the Unsworths or Marsh’s mother the way she always threatened? She was out late last night, she could have gone. He was worried now. Didn’t she know she could make it worse for him? He’d decided not to tell her about the episode in the woods. He made Gerry Dufours’s pa promise not to tell, and Mr. Dufours said he understood, but if it happened again he might go out with a shotgun after those snotty kids and “larn ‘em a lesson.” Vic didn’t want that either. They’d take it out on him and Gerry afterward, wouldn’t they?
The telescope was bent, he saw. The glass was broken in the butt of it. And he’d spent a month’s allowance to buy the special glass. He punched his pillow. What was wrong with farmers, anyhow? His dad went to a college good as them. He’d said that once, and one of them said “Cow College,” and maybe it was true. His dad studied agriculture. What was wrong with studying agriculture?
A car pulled up outside, and he squinted out his window. It was a thin man in baggy cords and dungaree jacket, that Hanna guy. His mother said he’d be around again, to talk to him. Well, he was glad. He had a theory. He had a theory that whatever happened in the woods yesterday was mixed up with what happened to the Larocques.
He didn’t know just how, of course, kids that size couldn’t beat up an old man, could they? An old lady like Mrs. Larocque? But maybe enough of them could.
But how could he tell Mr. Hanna without saying what happened? The guy was too much in cahoots with his mother.
Then he remembered that Mrs. Larocque was dead. His belly ached to think of it. That was how he was able to slip past his mother without any questions. She had that phone call. He didn’t like that. Jeezum. Nobody had any business beating up on an old lady.
“It’s not fair,” he said aloud.
“What isn’t fair?” It was Emily, sticking her nose into his room, smelling of barn. He moved away, he didn’t want to get the smell on him before school. “Little boy got to get up in the morning? Do chores? Sweep a floor? Poor little abused kid.”
She was being sarcastic, he was annoyed. “I don’t mind chores. I can work as good as you any day. And you were late yesterday, Mom was pissed. Mom—”
Then he realized he still had the telescope in his hand. He saw her looking at it.
“What happened to it, Vic?” she said quietly. She came in the room and sat on his bed, looked at the broken glass, the bent shape of it. “Somebody take it from you?”
“Who’d take it from me? I dropped it, is all. I dropped it in school and the glass broke. I can fix it. Today, after school.” He slapped it down on his desk. “Get outa here now, I gotta get dressed. Tell that guy I’ll be right down.”
“Okay.” She got up off the bed. “Make sure you go to school. Stay home, they’ll think you’re chicken. Anyway, I had a little talk with Garth yesterday. At Wilder’s house. I got a feeling they won’t bother you today.”
“Who bothers me? Don’t you talk to Garth about me. Wilder either. I don’t like that! I had a cold coming on yesterday.” He sniffed. “It’s all the way on now. But I’m going to school. I always go. Now, get outa here, I said.”
“I’m out,” she said and shut the door behind. A minute later he heard the shower going. Emily didn’t want the barn smell on her either.
Sisters were a pain. All these females telling him what to do, what to eat. Vic wished his dad were here. Did he think those Saturday night calls made up for his being away all these months?
“I hate you, Dad,” he cried, “hate you. And I won’t come live with you. Ever!”
He stuck his short bony legs into yesterday’s underpants. His mother hadn’t done a wash lately. What was going on in this world, anyway? It was all out of sync.
The door cracked open and it was Emily again, wrapped in a blue towel. “If you dropped that telescope in school, how come Garth Unsworth had it? It was in his room. Wilder found it.” She looked fiercely at him. “Something you’re not telling us? Mom won’t like that.”
He kicked the door shut, hard, and she shrieked. He’d caught her bare toe.
Ha. She wasn’t getting another word out of him.
* * * *
Colm Hanna found a glum teenager and a sullen boy at the breakfast table. He glanced around for Ruth, he wasn’t sure he could cope. As though sensing his worry she came in the room with the coffee cup that seemed an extension of her right hand. At once the atmosphere warmed. She seemed to have gotten over whatever pique she’d had with him last night.
“He was late getting his chores done,” she said, excusing her offspring’s attitude. “It’s not you.” One shoulder touched his as she leaned over to offer coffee; he felt his bones separate.
“She’s right,” said Emily. “It’s not you, Mr. Hanna. Though I don’t mind the chores. Not when I don’t have a test. Today I have a test.”
“What’s the subject?”
“Geometry. My worst subject in the world. If I get through it I’ll never look at another theorem in my life.” She actually smiled, and he smiled back. She looked like her mother then, the same broad cheekbones, the wide dark eyebrows. They had a way of smiling out of one corner of the mouth like they were about to confide something to you.
He turned to Vic. “You’re the scientist in the family. I understand you’ve made your own telescope.”
It was evidently the wrong thing to say. The boy scowled. “It’s nothing,” he said, “just a dumb homemade telescope.” He punched his sister, and she punched back, with a tight smile.
Still Vic glowered, and Colm gave up on the subject. He was glad when Emily and Ruth left for the barn and he was alone with the boy. He made a few more efforts to coax a smile; that failing, said, “I want to thank you, Vic, for the lead you gave. We’ve already had one follow-through.”
“Oh yeah?” The boy looked up, interested.
Colm told about the barn money in the Alibi. “Of course we don’t know who it was, but someone’s bound to show up again with it—somewhere. That was good thinking on your part.”
The boy examined his cracked fingernails. “I got another idea too.” He coughed, like he’d got a piece of toast stuck in his throat. He rammed a finger down after it.
Colm waited. But the boy was turning redder from whatever he’d swallowed. Colm patted him on the back. “You okay?”
Vic had hiccups, and Colm picked him up, held him high, then swung him down.
Vic was so surprised he stopped hiccupping. “Jeezum,” he said. “They never stopped so fast before.” He gave Colm a look of something like admiration.
“My father’s remedy. Now what’s your idea? Your mom and I can’t find the bad guys without help from you.”
“All right,” Vic said finally, laying his thin arms on the table, carefully, like they were a part of his telescope. The hands at the end of the wrists were disproportionately large, like soup ladles. “I’ll tell you. It’s just a thought. But it might have something to do with, well, what happened to me yesterday. I mean, the same kind of had stuff.”
His eyes seemed to shrink back in his head as he told his story, like it was forcing its way out of his mouth. When he finished he made Colm promise to keep it to himself. “Not ever, ever” to mention it to his mother, and Colm promised.
Though it was true the connection was vague. What could a bunch of kids have to do with a theft of several thousand dollars and a killing? But just the same... “You can’t give me the names?” Colm asked.