by Leslie Leigh
Allie swallowed hard and licked her lips. "So," she said softly, "how did that come about?"
"Oh well, that wasn't the last time I saw her. She and her husband lived in Burlington and I ran into them here and there. Always stopped and said hi. And she always gave me a wink and a smile. Then one day I ran into her when her husband wasn't around. She said she was moving to Verdenier. She wanted to keep in touch with me. I asked why. She said she felt comfortable with me. Ever since that day in the coffee shop, she said. And she said she thought of me often. And she said a few other things that I swear were come-ons. Well, I couldn’t get involved with a married woman. It's just something I don’t do. But she asked for my phone number and I gave it to her."
"Why?"
"Because love makes you act irrationally, that's why. She called me a few times and we talked about all sorts of stuff. She said her husband was a little pipsqueak but he made a ton of money and that suited her. But she wanted companionship. And she got it wherever she could find it. I hated listening to that, but I loved the sound of her voice and can I tell you, I sweated like a teenager whenever I saw her number pop up on that screen. One day she said she found a shoe place up here and asked me if I wouldn’t mind delivering the shoes to her once she'd placed her order. See, this would give us an excuse to see each other. And it did. I tortured myself by bringing her the shoes, and she'd give me a giant hug and we'd talk a bit. We had a few things in common. Mostly we just saw eye to eye on the basic philosophies of life that everyone has. Like I said, we never did anything. So that was that. Then one day I stopped delivering her shoes. And last week I looked up her name in the Google search and found out she died."
"I'm sorry, Mr. Chapman."
"What happened to Art?"
"Art. Why had you stopped delivering her shoes?"
He started to rise. "That, I'm afraid, is a story for another time. And speaking of time, ours is way up."
"Well, you can’t just leave it at that."
"Who says I can’t?"
She stood up to meet his eye. "I do. You don’t just stop doing something like that, a man in the position you were in emotionally, unless something happened."
"I was caught. That was it. I was threatened and I never came around again."
"Threatened by whom?"
"Ahhhh, the plot thickens, doesn’t it? Well, my dear, if you really must know, I was also paid to stay away and keep quiet. Ms. Griffin, I can tell you that the person who both threatened and paid me off is not who you think it is so no further questions of yours should revolve around that person. I can also tell you that the money and the threats worked and so I will not answer a single question more from you about the entire matter. However, seeing as how I'm an old bachelor who is still in shock and pining away for the love of his life, I can tell you that I wish to see matters taken care of. And so I will tell you where to look next. Excuse me."
He walked to a coat closet next to the couch that seemed as though it was meant to be hidden in plain sight. He dug around for a bit, and then emerged with something in his hand.
"It's a curious thing how life works sometimes. The threats were delivered to me verbally, with much intimidation. The money was delivered to me in a paper bag by the same party or parties. Inside the bag, at the very bottom, was this."
He handed her an old student ring.
Allie read the inscription on the inside. "RPJ Ethan Allen High School." She turned the ring around. "1968. Whose is this?"
He shrugged. "Like I said, nothing more on the matter. I'll take that ring back, please. And I'm afraid our time is up."
He followed her to the door. And when she walked out, feeling as though someone had just dumped a bucket of cold water on her, she heard Art Chapman speak softly from the depths of his soul: "I really hope you get him."
Part II: FISSURES AND BREAKAGE
1.
The remains of a tray of cinnamon rolls meant for a bake sale that Allie never attended lay between her and Del. Allie pecked at her laptop while her friend swept up any evidence that the two had demolished the flaky treats.
"For once, something is easy," said Del. "We just have to get a hold of an Ethan Allen High School yearbook for 1968."
It was perfect timing. Allie turned her laptop around to show Del that she had found the Ethan Allen High School yearbook for 1968, in pdf format.
"Where'd you find that?"
"The Internet is our friend."
Del slid her chair over next to Allie's as Allie scrolled down past the faculty, past the montage of scenes from a bygone time. 1968 was a turbulent year for America, but no one would think so from looking at these pictures. Band practices, football games, scenes from the lunchroom – all the hopes and dreams of youth were encompassed in the tiny little dramas depicted on every page.
They hit the senior class and scrolled down to J: Jackson, Jerbolini, Jerman... Jessup.
Robert P.
"That's him!" The girls high-fived.
"Ok..." Del's smile faded. "So what?"
"What do you mean, so what?"
"I mean, great, we found him. It was a bit anti-climactic, you have to admit. Plus, we've only found him here. We still have to find him out there." She pointed at Allie's front door.
Allie sat back, feeling much less elated than she had been not more than twelve seconds ago. "Then we'll find him. Back to Google."
Few things on earth are as lackluster for the spectator as a Google search performed by someone else. Del got up and paced the house while Allie searched frantically. Dinah the cat came galumphing out and Del amused herself with the animal for the time it took for Allie to search. When she finally hit upon the name Robert Jessup from Charlotte, Vermont, three things happened nearly simultaneously: Allie let out a sudden squeal, which made the cat jump a foot off the ground and dart off like a bottle rocket, which in turn made Del scream and fall back, hitting her head against the low shelf of tchotchkes; three porcelain figurines – one of Alice, one of the White Rabbit, and one of the Dormouse – all hit the floor with a sound that made Allie wince.
Del sat up quickly, holding her head. "Ow! What the hell?"
And Allie Griffin lost it.
For several minutes, she was unable to recover from a crazed fit of laughter that had her head in her hands in her lap, shaking uncontrollably.
"Yeah, that's hilarious," said Del with enough acid in her voice to disintegrate steel. "Look at you. You're pathetic."
This made Allie laugh harder. Something she didn’t think was possible.
"That's great," said Del. "Your beloved Alice figurines are now in about fifty-three pieces all over the floor. What do you think of that?"
She couldn’t respond.
"Wonderful. Go on. Laugh it all out."
She did. It took a trip to the bathroom, a pause brought about by the human body's natural need for respiration, a splash of water in the face and over swollen eyes, and then it all started up again.
When she finally recovered, her stomach ached and her eyes felt like the puffy pastries they'd just finished. "That was the funniest thing I have ever seen in my life."
Del stared at her with the straightest expression she'd ever seen on the girl. "Are you quite finished?"
She took a long, uninterrupted breath, and exhaled with a sigh. "I think so. How's your head?"
"I don’t need stiches, thank you. Although I suppose if I did it would send you into another raging fit of laughter."
She covered her mouth. "Don't start me off again."
Del walked over to Allie's laptop and squinted at the screen. "So you found a Robert Jessup in Charlotte. Very nice."
"Yeah, that's not far. Want to take a ride?"
"No I'm going to take some Tylenol and lay down. You can fly this one solo."
"You're not mad, are you?"
"A little," Del said hurtfully. "Look at your damn floor!"
"I'm sorry. Really."
"It's alright. But I'm gonna get going.
I have a rehearsal tonight for the new show and I feel a headache coming on."
Allie gave her friend a long, tight hug. After seeing Del out, she went and got a dustpan and brush and went to work lamenting the loss of her favorite set of figurines. These were a rare find: A collection she happened upon by chance on a meandering shopping trip that took her to the Wayne's Creek thrift store, where the collection sat on a low shelf next to a junky set of candles on a charger and a cream-colored recorder with a stained mouthpiece. She had no idea what the set was worth, but she didn’t care. How she would ever replace it was the real issue.
She thought of Honey Reilly, scouring thrift shops for collectibles.
Brushing the pieces of broken sculpture together was a slow process, for Allie Griffin's mind had begun to work the details. Like so many shards in her head that needed sweeping together, details sat in pieces waiting for her. They gnawed at her. Since her visit to Bennett Reilly's home, a picture had stayed with her. The knick-knacks on the shelves, the beautiful architecture and interior design, the kitchen where Bennett himself came in and discovered the body. The kitchen.
Something was incomplete about that picture. She walked into her kitchen and looked around as if contrasting it with the image of the Reilly kitchen in her head. What was different, besides the apparent net worth of the occupant?
She let that last thought drop in her brain and shatter alongside the other parts of the puzzle. All in good time, she thought. Curiouser and curiouser.
2.
Driving into the heart of Charlotte was essentially, for Allie, proof that one could get lost in one giant, wide-open space. Miles of flatness sprinkled with cows extended before her and behind her, with several nondescript roads branching off this main one. Here and there a farmhouse resembling a thousand others just like it sat in the middle of a field like it had been dropped there by a twister. Then more land, more cows, more nondescript roads, and another farmhouse. Finally, she hit civilization. And one road with an actual sign shined like a beacon. This was Robert Jessup's street.
On her left, an open field stretching the length of the road; on her right, three houses spread out evenly across. The middle one had some kind of rusted machinery on the front lawn. On close inspection, it looked as if it may have once been a sculpture. Or perhaps it had served some practical function only to peter out and die and become one with the elements, slowly digested by the wind and the rain, and now it spent its life here with weeds threatening to eat it as well.
The mailbox was large enough to fit a dog into it and still have room for mail. The name on it said, "Jessup.”
A man walked out to meet her. He looked to be in his early sixties, sixty-three or four. If the ring indeed belonged to him, its date would pin him around that age. He was thin and handsome and he walked very deliberately, taking utilitarian steps. He had a stare that was focused and hard, yet benevolent, like a doctor. Her husband, Tom, had had that stare. It was one of the things she missed most about him.
"Mr. Jessup?"
"Ay-yuh."
"Allie Griffin. How are you?"
He nodded and shook her hand. "Hello."
"I want to thank you for agreeing to meet with me today."
The man nodded in response.
Allie looked up and around. "Beautiful out, huh?"
He nodded, looked around. "You're right on the tail of a squall just come through here."
"You’re kidding."
"Nope."
"It looks almost dry."
"Ay-yuh. That's how it goes sometimes."
"Is it ok if I come in?"
"Well I got some work to do, but hell, I'm not going to be around long, so sure."
The trouble with Vermonters is that even fellow Vermonters don’t know when they’re kidding.
The house was a quaintly furnished domicile with crocheted throw pillows and sweetly scented tea candles in ornate glass holders. Paintings on the wall were of cows in bucolic fields with sweet little farmhouses photobombing in the distance. The pictures could have been substitutes for windows and no one would know it. Robert Jessup appeared to live alone, and yet the place had what can only be anachronistically described as "a woman's touch.”
As if reading her thoughts, Jessup said, "The little woman passed away two years ago. I can’t think of how to do the place up except how she used to keep it."
"I'm sorry to hear that. Mr. Jessup, this will only take a couple of minutes."
"Someone's been murdered you said?"
"That's right."
"Ay-yuh. And you think I did it?"
She chuckled. "No sir."
"Ah."
"But...this is a little awkward...there was a payment made to someone who was close to the victim. A large payment, in cash. It was delivered in a paper bag, and I was wondering how a class ring that seems to have belonged to you made it into that bag."
Jessup stared at the floor, nodding and breathing calmly through his nose. After a moment in thought, he looked up. "I don’t know."
"Ok."
"Is that all?"
"No."
"Do you have another question?"
"Yes. Why won’t you answer the first question?"
"I did."
"You gave me an answer, true. But you didn’t answer it."
"Technically it wasn't a question."
"Mr. Jessup."
"Yes?"
She smiled and cocked her head to one side. "Can you please give me a better answer to my question of 'How did that ring get into that bag of money?'"
He stood up from his chair and Allie heard his bones cracking like walnut shells. He rubbed his legs for a moment and went to a painting that was situated right above where Allie was sitting and straightened it.
"The missus used to do this. I don’t know how they get crooked in the first place, but they always do."
"Mr. Jessup."
"I was wondering what had happened to that ring. Had a feeling it fell in there. Thought maybe it fell into the garbage. Actually, it's more like hoped; I’d hoped it fell into the garbage. I felt a bit shady about that deal and really wanted nothing to do with it."
"Did someone make you go through with it?"
"What do you think?"
"It sounds like someone made you go through with it."
He sat down again, and there was that same sound, accompanied by an automatic groan from the man's throat.
"Are you familiar," he said, "with the concept of channels?"
"What do you mean?"
"Going through channels. There are lots of reasons to go through channels when you want something done. Sometimes you have to narrow the window of accountability step by step. The government does this. But sometimes what happens is that the further you go, the more channels you go through; if there are enough of them, no one knows where exactly you were two channels ago. You understand?"
"I think so. Go on."
"Well there's nothing really more to say. Except that channels can be exploited by their obscurity, and established in order to cover one's tracks." This last sentence he said with something of a verbal wink.
"Mr. Jessup, what did you do before you retired?"
"I was a solar engineer."
"Interesting." She thought for a moment before adding, "And what did you do before that?"
A wry smile made its way onto the man's face. "I was studying to be a cop."
She looked him in the eye. "And who told you to deliver that cash?"
"One of my buddies from the academy," he said matter-of-factly.
"Did this person go on to become a cop?" She felt awkward with this line of inquiry, as if it were an incredibly serious game of twenty questions.
"He did indeed."
She didn’t want to ask the next question, for a feeling of unease began to creep up through her. But she had to ask it. "Is this person still on the force?"
Jessup sat back in his chair and closed his eyes. "Yes he is."
A slight hit
ch caught her breath. She swallowed to give her voice some strength. "Can you tell me his name?"
"Roy."
"Roy what?"
He seemed to fight against an instinct as old as human civilization, one that served as a bond between tribes: an instinct to keep one's word. In modern times, it meant to keep silent when necessary, not to be a rat. But she knew that he must have known, with his experience, that sometimes people are put in the unfortunate position of being a righteous whistleblower, suffering the blows of a pounding conscience for the greater good. The luck of the draw deemed it necessary that, this time around, that person was to be him. She watched the man slump ever so slightly in his chair, as that greater instinct prevailed. He straightened himself up, but kept his eyes closed, and softly uttered the name.
"Roy Dupond."
It took a moment for her to absorb the blow. She needed to remain calm in this room, where the Chief of the Verdenier Police Department was being named in a conspiracy to silence the colleague of a murder victim. It didn’t tie him to the murder, but the whole business of hush money was ugly, and it gave ample reason for the Chief to put the kibosh on any investigation that might reveal it.
