“Hmm.” Fran tapped her lips with a finger. “I don’t know if either of them had keys to Mr. Trask’s house, but we can ask my father.”
“Well I would, but here’s the thing.” How was I supposed to tell her I suspected her mother had a key because she’d been fooling around with her boss without saying it? “I know it’s sort of strange I want to butter up Sheriff Kelly, and I don’t want it getting around too much. More people I tell, the more likely it becomes an issue. So I thought, Fran will keep this quiet. She’s so—” Come on Alex, think of a word. You write for a living. “—capable. She’d help you discreetly. And people are sometimes careful about things like keys. They put them in hidden places. I didn’t want to go rooting through your house.”
“Oh no, of course not!” Fran exclaimed, her eyes now wide again with the thrill of conspiracy and compliments. “I can have a look. I know where they put things they don’t want other people to see. I used to find all my Christmas presents ages before they wrapped them, and they never knew.”
“Well look at you, like a spy. I knew I made the right choice.”
She giggled. I felt sick with myself.
“So, I’ll meet you outside,” I continued. “I’m going to go talk to your dad to make sure he doesn’t bother you while you’re looking.”
“Good idea,” she whispered, followed by another bout of giggling. She flitted to the staircase, apparently on her way to riffle through her parents’ things.
Free from her, I slunk out the door and went around the back. As she said, her father hunched elbow-deep over the motor of his truck. He glanced up as I approached.
“Mr. Carrow,” he said gruffly. “You looking for my wife or my daughter?”
“Neither, sir. I wanted to talk to you about Walter Trask.”
The dead man’s name got him to pause, at least. “What about him? He was a good enough boss and my best friend for twenty years. I know what you’ll hear, but I have nothing bad to say about him.”
“Huh, interesting. Because I’m fairly sure most men get jealous when their wives start having an affair with their best friend.”
He fumbled the wrench in his hand, and the clang of it against the engine echoed into the otherwise quiet atmosphere. He stared at the block under his hands, frozen. I watched him very carefully. A wrench could be a pretty nasty weapon if he decided to attack me. But he didn’t look angry, just very tired. His birdlike body slumped against the chassis of the truck.
“Who told you Louise was going around behind my back?” he muttered.
“It’s pretty obvious, considering the fuss she made in the post office, and the fact she was torn up over Trask’s death. More than his own fiancée. And I know you’re getting a divorce. Fran told me.”
He raised his head. “Damn that girl,” he hissed. “Can’t keep her mouth shut.”
“Well, what were you planning to tell the neighbors when one of you moved out?”
“Business,” he said. “We were going to say I went to Canada on business.”
“Wouldn’t they have noticed you weren’t coming back?”
“Yeah, well, what do I care?”
“Are you still planning on going now that Walter is dead? You’ve got the whole factory now.”
Oscar’s eyes drifted back to the motor.
“Mr. Gaines.”
His head snapped back up. “I know what it looks like, Mr. Carrow. I’m not an idiot. A man divorcing his wife over infidelity, and then the wife’s lover turns up dead? And somehow he ends up inheriting the lover’s business? I’m surprised Bobby Kelly isn’t here with handcuffs to pull me in right now.”
“So why isn’t he?” I asked. “What benefit is it to him to leave you alone?”
Oscar didn’t answer.
I sighed. “Listen, I don’t give a shit about whatever squabbles are going on here. I don’t care about your divorce or your wife’s affair or Judith getting screwed over because of it. I just want to get Mrs. Ferri out of prison before she burns to death in there. So, tell me what you have on Robert Kelly, or I am going to call up some very powerful people in Boston to come here and have a sniff around. And I guarantee they’ll be less nice about it than I will. I know you had to know Trask was smuggling with Leo Manco. You don’t work with a man for twenty years without knowing at least some dirty secrets.”
The air hung sticky and cloying between us. Would he believe my bluff? Apparently, he did because his shoulders sagged again.
“Yes, I knew Walter wasn’t on the straight and narrow, and that he and Leo Manco were smuggling. I didn’t care. They’d always drop a bottle off on my desk and that was it. But Kelly got wind of it and since it was before Walter started sleeping with my wife, I thought I’d do him a favor and find some dirt on Kelly. Turns out the story we got told about his family was a pack of lies.”
Oh good, one more reason to hate the bastard. “So, he doesn’t have family in Boston?”
“Oh, he does. Even does have an uncle in the police force there. Dad’s alive too, some Boston banker’s youngest son who could charitably be called a troublemaker. Had a fling with a maid and nine months later, Grandpa has a screaming bundle of problems named Robert. There was some back and forth, but in the end, somehow they paid Momma enough for her silence and they trucked themselves out here. Understandably, he isn’t keen on all that getting around, so when I told him I knew, he decided bootlegging was outside his paygrade.” Oscar shrugged. “A little peace of mind for us.”
I blinked at him. It was quite the story. Maybe it was even true. “How’d you find out?”
“Momma Kelly moved back to the city when Bobby turned eighteen, and at that point, she’d already been starting to lose her marbles a bit, so I thought, well, a couple years later maybe she’d tell me something that was supposed to stay secret. And I was right. She was being cared for in a home, a nice enough place though I don’t know who’s paying for it and she wouldn’t have recognized her own mother if she walked in the door. Took a couple days, but I put it together. And the look on Bobby’s face when I told him? I knew it was true.”
My skin was crawling. Poor Fran had to live with these two horrible people? No wonder she was lunging after me. She probably thought I was her ticket out of town.
“Kind of awful to hold a man accountable for his father’s sins, don’t you think?” I asked.
Oscar shrugged. “I may not be a good man, Mr. Carrow, but I am wise enough to know when to use something to my advantage. Same as you.”
The sick part was he wasn’t wrong. I’d convinced his own daughter to snoop through his house for me. That was tolerable, though, right? It wasn’t like I chased down a senile old lady to blackmail a cop. Still, I had to swallow my guilt. A smile quirked on Oscar’s face. He could see my uneasiness, no doubt.
“You know what, Mr. Gaines?” I said, careful to keep my voice indifferent. “Fine. Let’s say I almost believe you. What were you doing Thursday morning then? Because your wife says you weren’t at work. She was there and has a dozen of your neighbors able to vouch her.”
Oscar snarled, “Bitch.”
“A bitch who would be very happy to see you carted off to prison, so maybe you tell me the truth about where you were before she starts spreading rumors about whatever she feels like.”
He regarded me for a moment. “I was in Burlington overnight on business.”
“Business?”
“I went to see the divorce lawyer, for your information. And I’ll give you his number if you want. Walter was long dead before I got back in the evening.”
He might have been lying. But if he was lying, why offer me anything? I could call the number provided and check his alibi. Hell, he hadn’t even needed to do anything, just hop in the car and speed his way to the border. Within forty minutes, he would be scot-free, and that option had been there the whole time.
“I just want to know one more thing,” I said.
Oscar rolled his eyes. “Yeah, what else?”
His eyebrows raised in surprise, and he glanced at the house. “Not much,” he answered. “Why?”
“There’s a possibility Leo Manco was killed by their boarder, and there’s also a possibility the same person killed Walter.”
Oscar chuckled. “Well, if that’s the case, good luck. They’re like ghosts. I think I’ve seen them maybe three times in the last ten years?”
I looked at the house myself. It was well taken care of despite being all but abandoned. “Who keeps it up?”
“Mrs. Manco, mostly. Some other people come by every now and then. Cleaning girls and gardeners and the like. Make it look lived in. But it seems like there’s a different person living in there every summer.”
Interesting, particularly the part about Crista being the main caretaker when she’d said she didn’t have anything to do with the Reeds. If they weren’t the ones paying her to clean and whatever else, who was? I wanted to know more, but it was clear I had worn out my welcome several questions ago. I tipped my hat to Oscar. “Thank you, Mr. Gaines. You’ve been very helpful.”
He snorted and went back to tinkering with the car. Didn’t even say goodbye.
I circled back to the front of the house, and Fran was waiting there. If she was trying to be discreet, she had failed miserably, practically bouncing on her feet. I groaned.
“There you are!” she exclaimed. I waved for her to take her voice down. She gasped and leaned in, only lowering her volume a little. “I think this might be it,” she whispered as she pressed a key into my hand. “It was in Mama’s drawer.”
I examined it. It looked like a house key, and the location made sense. “Thanks. Hey Fran, listen.” God, I was going to hate myself for this. “I know your parents aren’t always thinking about the best for you, so if they ever end up getting out of hand, you come to me, okay?”
Anybody walking by might have thought I asked her to marry me, she got so starry-eyed. “Thank you! You’re so kind to say so.”
I forced a smile onto my face. “You’re welcome. Now, remember, I never asked for this key.”
She nodded. “I won’t tell a soul.”
Unlikely, but there wasn’t much of a choice at this point. I hoped she wouldn’t embellish the story I’d fed her too much when she told the people in town. Then again, maybe she’d stall a little. People in love did all sorts of crazy things.
“Great. See you around,” I said, and I bolted before she thought up another thing to say.
Chapter Seventeen
I hovered on the threshold of Walter Trask’s house, waiting for I didn’t know what. At the rate I accumulated horrific coincidences, I almost expected to find Richard dead on the floor. But he wasn’t. There was nothing; just an empty, quiet foyer. I stepped in and shut the door behind me.
The area around me had sunk into darkness, except from the beam of sunlight spearing its way into the gloom from an uncurtained window. Nothing there either. This already felt stupid. I’d put on a whole show for Oscar and Fran so I could look at dust on some rich guy’s furniture?
“Richard?” I called. My voice fell flat against the plush chairs and Persian carpet.
I meandered, looking for any signs of forced entry, or anything at all to suggest I wasn’t the only person in here. But my sweep of the first floor came up empty. No broken glass, no footprints, no sounds beyond my own breathing. The quiet sent a little shiver through me. I’d never get used to the silence and loneliness of this town. Maybe that was why they all swirled around one another so much, focusing on every cracked little rumor. If they didn’t, they’d drown in their own isolation.
I was pretty convinced Richard wasn’t here—either stymied by the locks or too wasted to think to squat in his new home—but Walter’s presence was still fair game. I still didn’t really know the man, only a faceless shadow on the cave of other peoples’ lives. That was almost the saddest part. As soon as he died, it was like he hadn’t been real. The only things left were the money and the lingering sense most people were better off without him.
The stairs were steep, and I got winded going up. At the top was an empty hall with four doors. Bedroom, bathroom, other bedroom. I opened the last door and froze; there was a figure in front of me. But another second, and I realized it was a painting: a life-sized painting of a man, hanging so the head was at eye level. It hung behind a desk in a garish frame. Trask’s office. And presumably the painting was of himself. I dared to turn on a light to get a better look.
For someone approaching fifty, Walter Trask had been a good-looking man, if kind of angular. Deep-set eyes, high cheekbones, and a strong nose made him look almost like the blocky angels in the architecture of the Westwick newspaper offices, but maybe that was the artist getting carried away with art-deco trends. The painting had him in a thick coat against a background of snowy maples with his factory in the distance. Well, at least he hadn’t had himself done up like some kind of urban bank manager.
I skimmed the desk. Sheets and sheets of copy paper. Organized, everything in triplicate. Odd that such a neat office keeper would find his way into rumrunning and the maple syrup business. Then again, how had I found myself in the detecting business? Sometimes life comes at us funny and we do what we can to not let it smack us around too badly. Hell, maybe the maple had been the cover and he’d always had ambition to be a criminal. I’d known a few boys back home who had aspired to be something like Sev was. Funny how Sev had wanted to be anything but.
I grabbed a stack of notebooks and began going through them. I’d nearly failed math several times as a child, and I remembered why when I looked at the columns of fluctuating numbers. I’d gotten Sev to go through cooked books back home, but I didn’t want to bring him into this. Anyway, what would running the numbers prove? That Trask had been hiding whatever money Bella gave him in his factory finances? We knew that already. Still, I flipped them open one by one to make sure nothing jumped out. When I was satisfied, I dumped them back onto the desk.
Next, I went for the drawer. Office supplies. Aggravated, I shoved the drawer back into the slot. It made an odd thumping sound as I did. Strange. Nothing in there was big enough to make such a noise. I pulled the drawer out and inspected it again. Now that I was thinking, there were surprisingly few things in the drawer. I pulled it all the way out and flipped it. Pens, pencils, and paperclips fell out in a flutter, followed by another thump. I shook it, and after a pause, a false bottom fell out, followed by a notebook about the size of my hand. I chuckled to myself. No matter where I turned here, the past was right there waiting.
I picked up the notebook. This one had words, thank God. I almost kissed the damn thing—exactly what I’d been looking for. I picked a random page. It was dated at the top left and was covered in lines of even handwriting.
Dec. 5, 1933: So that’s it for the rumrunning as of this morning. B promised she’d keep an ear to the ground about other opportunities, but I think I will have to focus on what my father left me instead.
A journal. I flipped back some, skimming for details about Trask’s life in his own words. It didn’t look like he used full names, and why should he have? He knew these people, and he had probably never thought anyone else would see this, but it made for difficult reading on my part.
I got the rhythm after a while though. He’d been, as several people had already assured me, self-centered. Everything everyone did was in relation to how he felt. Bella kept him on the payroll because he was a genius at figuring ways past the border patrol. Oscar Gaines told him what to do too often, so he was a blowhard. While he respected what he called Judith’s “shyness,” he was preoccupied enough with the thought of bedding her that he used the closest available woman, which had apparently been Louise. And Louise he didn’t mention besides her body. When he mentioned Richard, it was pure vitriol. Sometimes he would wax on about how their mother never liked when they fought, and how, since he was the older brother, it was his duty t
o fix things. And maybe if he did, Judith’s father would get on board with the marriage. Maude was barely a footnote, his own daughter unnoticeable.
And then there was Crista. I expected more slobbery descriptors like he used with Judith, but he wrote about her like he’d write about his favorite schoolteacher—awe and respect and curiosity. And also, sad. I flipped around, trying to find mentions of her and puzzled it out. Trask had no doubt been infatuated with her, though whether he comprehended was difficult to tell. She mostly ignored him, as was fair since she was married.
I stumbled across the entries surrounding Leo’s disappearance and death. To my surprise and slight disappointment, the blotted pages described everything the way Crista and Bella had told it: border run gone bad, separation, Leo likely killed by the border patrol. There was more detail, of course, some more interesting than the rest. Trask had refused to go looking for Leo or even insist on Kelly going to look for him on the grounds that it would seem suspicious, but between the lines, there was a greedy, hopeful tinge: if Leo never came back, maybe Crista would find comfort in someone else. He mentioned feeling bad about it several times, even going so far as to say he felt guilty once he realized Crista had been left in near-destitution and now hated him.
James Smith was brought up occasionally, but in about the same terms everyone else had: quiet, kept to himself, claimed he was on a hunting trip. Trask, however, had at least some suspicions about him. A mysterious man turning up with a gun just as someone else got killed? Trask never put the pieces together. He was too busy lusting after pretty much every woman who came into view.
I skipped forward to the last page, hoping something would be incriminating, but there was only more of the same, with an additional very dull twist about how next time he went into Burlington, he was going to buy more of the good kind of coffee. I flipped the pages back and forth. Something was missing. What had it been?
Then it occurred to me: the Reeds hadn’t been mentioned, not once. Odd, considering Trask had supposedly known them and worked with them. Any of his thoughts about Smith should have been followed up with thoughts about them since it was their house he had rented. Who were the Reeds, really? I’d never gotten a straight answer about them. Did they even exist? And if they didn’t, had Bella created fake people to blame if something went over badly, like Leo Manco dying? That would explain their continued absence and Crista’s willingness to oversee an empty house. And that would mean Crista had been lying by omission, and that Bella knew exactly who came and went.
Boiling Over Page 16
