I closed the curtains and turned on the lights, then walked down the hall. The first bedroom was fixed up as an office, with a desk, an old Underwood Standard portable typewriter, and a wall full of thumbtacked photos and mementoes of his years with the city. I pulled the drapes closed and turned on the lights. On a four-by-six foot corkboard hung black and white and faded color pictures of a younger Jeremiah Smith. One showed him and several other men around a huge snow-plow. Yellowed newspaper clippings commemorated record blizzards. Newer articles about forestry, logging, and the passage or repeal of various laws overhung the older stuff.
Here, too, the place had been ransacked. The desk drawers hung open, one actually standing on end on the floor. A tumble of rolled-up white-and-blue survey charts and topographic maps had fallen out of the open closet door.
The bathroom next door had been searched. At the far end of the hall, the bedroom had suffered, too: the mattress of an unmade bed lay half-on, half-off the box springs and the dresser drawers and closet had been plundered. Whoever had made the search hadn’t been looking for something small or easily concealed: the cushions had not been slashed, the coffee and flour packages hadn’t been dumped. None of the framed pictures, mostly of Vermont wildlife, had been taken from the walls. Whatever the searcher had looked for was small enough to fit in the cabinet beneath the bathroom sink, but too large to hide behind a picture or in a box of cereal.
I gravitated back to Smith’s office. The old metal desk with a gray rubberized surface probably dated from the 1950s— town surplus, I guessed—and the top was clear except for the typewriter and three shriveled things that turned out to be dried mushrooms, one black, one brown with small white and pink spots, and a long, thin one that was the pale gray color of a body three hours dead. They seemed in pristine condition. I didn’t pick them up but stooped to examine them closely. What had they meant to Jeremiah? Edibles he’d picked in the forest? Somebody’s gift to him? Rare specimens? In the living room, I had noticed a shelf that held a collection of old bottles, some with faded labels still on them, all neatly arranged so they could be seen. It appeared Smith was interested in mushrooms.
In the open desk drawer on the left I found a stack of typing paper. There was also an organizer with pencils, pens, rubber bands, and paper clips in separate compartments. Jeremiah had been a man who took care of his things, gave each one its place. In the old photos the men around Jeremiah stood close to him, threw an arm over his shoulder. I got the sense of a decent and caring human being, one who knew things most people didn’t, one who loved the long history of the area and his knowledge of the secrets of the forest, of the Abenaki.
But something hit me. None of the photos showed Jerry, none showed Jeremiah’s deceased daughter or wife. I held my flashlight close to the walls and scanned them with a flattened beam. On the wall were five nails with small heads, one centered right over the desk. A faint tracing of dust showed me where five eight-by-ten frames had once hung. I wondered if Jerry had come to get the family photos. I didn’t think Jeremiah would have taken them down. I had the feeling that he would have treasured the reminders of his family, particularly of Rebecca, the wife he’d spoken of with an obvious, lingering love.
I checked the large desk drawer underneath the one that held supplies. Hanging folders were in perfect order, a series of tabs slanting left to right in a diagonal line. The front folders had been labeled with years, starting in 1981. Tax records, I guessed after a look at one folder. Behind them were alphabetically-arranged folders: ABENAKI, and behind that BILLS, CORRESPONDENCE, FORESTS, JERRY, NATURAL RESOURCES AGENCY, REBECCA, SUSAN.
The JERRY file was full of letters, report cards, medical records, and the general detritus of life, as were REBECCA and SUSAN. NATURAL RESOURCES held brochures about hunting seasons and regulations, a guide to wild animal tracks, a half-inch-thick government publication summarizing the state laws concerning the use of resources in Vermont. The FORESTS file included a clipping of Jerry’s article about gene-jumping, and another of his story on genetically modified foods, plus roughly thirty pages of what looked like taxation boundaries superimposed on topographic maps. In the lower right corner of each was the word TRACT followed by a hyphenated number. I put that file on top of the desk.
Jeremiah’s CORRESPONDENCE file went back a little more than ten years. At random I pulled out faded carbon copies of letters Jeremiah had sent to state and local politicians. He advocated the passage of laws to protect Vermont’s wilderness areas. He argued that hunters should be restricted to pre-serves—that areas where hunting was legal should have been posted, not areas where it was prohibited.
I pulled out one carbon that had been stapled to a reply. It was a couple of years old. The address was in Massachusetts.
I read Jeremiah’s letter first:
Dear Genotypes Consolidated,
My old friend Caleb Benson often speaks highly of your products and services, and I may be doing some work similar to his research. Could you please send me a copy of your most recent catalog? Also, could you confirm that Caleb is your customer—I may have mixed up the companies in my addled old head, and don’t want to embarrass myself by telling him I can’t remember which company he’d so highly recommended when he’s probably mentioned them (I think it’s you) a dozen times over the past year or two.
Sincerely,
Jeremiah Smith, PhD
Research Forester
The company’s response letter had been done on a laser printer. Beneath a well-designed logo that incorporated a microscope and an Erlenmeyer flask, the response said:
Dear Dr. Smith,
Thank you for your interest in our products. As you can see from the enclosed catalog, they are among the most advanced for their price in the industry. We’ve outfitted hundreds of small labs around the world, and some have made significant breakthroughs in their particular areas of research. We help them keep their budget focused on research and personnel by supplying basic equipment at a reasonable price, and offering a comprehensive leasing program for more specialized equipment such as our SQ-10L Spectrographic Sequence Analyzer.
Please pass along our thanks to Mr. Benson for his recommendation. As I’m sure he’s told you, his associate Frank Lauser has been a regular customer of ours for years, so no doubt we are the company he referenced. I’ll thank him for the referral the next time I hear from him as well.
If I can be of any service to you, our toll-free number is above and my extension is 3134.
It was signed by Deborah S. Colledge, Associate Director of Marketing, Scientific and Laboratory Products. I looked back in the file and found the catalog she had sent. I could recognize beakers, test tubes, and Petri dishes, but I could only imagine what their comprehensive list of special products and services was about—transcription in vitro, mutagenesis, DNA sequencing, gene screening and purification, and something that sounded comically ominous: mouse knockouts.
Nothing else in the CORRESPONDENCE file seemed meaningful, but I stacked the catalog atop the FORESTS file. BILLS was empty, but the ABENAKI file was fat with years of newspaper clippings, flyers and donation receipts from the Dawnland Center in Montpelier, and a batch of historical and contemporary literature from the Abenaki tribal headquarters up north. I added it to the pile.
Then somebody banged on the trailer’s door. I didn’t realize how edgy I had been until I found myself flubbing a quick draw from my jacket pocket. I grabbed the files from the desk and switched off the lights as I headed toward the door. I put the gun back in my pocket and began to run my story through my head. To my immense relief, the person standing on Jeremiah’s porch wasn’t a lawman. It was a little old lady, hands cupped around her eyes as she peered in through the storm door.
But then, I’ve known little old ladies who were harder to face down than a cop.
18
I took a second, and the woman and I just looked at each other. I made no effort to hide the files I held, or to reach for my weapon. I wa
s in my client’s home, doing work for him. I opened the storm door to a woman in her seventies, graying hair pulled back in a severe bun. She looked upset, and when I stepped onto the porch she took three quick steps back. “Can I help you?” I asked.
“Who are you?”
“My name is Oakley Tyler. I’m a friend of Jeremiah’s.”
“Somebody really tore up his place,” she said, staring past me at the couch cushions.
“Not me. Have you seen anybody over here in the last couple of days besides me and Jerry?”
She frowned, pulling her gray eyebrows together. She had the look of a nineteenth-century schoolmarm. I could picture her marching between rows of desks with a ruler ready to slap knuckles. “I knew I should have called the police,” she muttered.
“Tell me about it. I’m working with the police,” I said, stretching a point to the limit of its capacity.
“A man came by this morning. I didn’t recognize him. Young man.”
“He must have been the one who made the mess, then, Miss—”
“Mrs. Frieda Schmidt,” she said, and spelled it. “I live next door. I saw the lights on over here. What are you doing?”
I showed her the files and improvised. “I came to pick up some work that Jeremiah was pulling together for me. He told me I could drop by anytime. He said if he wasn’t here I could just go in and pick up these files. He told me where they’d be.”
“But he’s dead.”
“He told me earlier this week, when he visited my house. He hired me to look into something for him. I’m a private investigator.”
“Oh.”
“Actually, I was just leaving.” I reached in and turned off the porch light, then pulled the door shut behind me. “Should I lock this?” I asked. “I can set the lock if you think I should, but I don’t know if Jerry has a key.”
She shook her head. “Jeremiah never locked it. He might not even have had the key any longer. To me, that’s asking for trouble. I’ve had a security system installed myself. We’re only four hours from Boston, and you know the kind of people who live there. Murders every day, home invasions, I don’t know.”
I saw that two other neighbors stood silhouetted in their windows, watching us in the glow of the streetlight. It made me itch to get out of there, but I said, “Tell me about the young man you saw this morning.”
She bobbed her head like a pigeon. “It was early, eight-thirty. I was still in my bathrobe. I heard him stop his car and looked out my window and saw him as he went in.” She looked thoughtful. “He was tall, a little taller than you. Blond with an average kind of haircut. I couldn’t see him well enough for much detail. I’m nearsighted, and the window was frosted over.”
“Did you see what he was driving?”
“Oh, yes, a red pickup truck.”
I nodded. “I know who that is. He lives in Northfield, but he wouldn’t have had permission from Jeremiah or Jerry. Could you tell if he took anything from the trailer?”
“He did! It was a plastic trash bag. Not the biggest kind, more like a kitchen bag.” She furrowed her brow. “He carried it in the middle, as if there was a lamp or something like that in it. Or—” she glanced at the trailer door—“could it have been a gun?”
“Was it long enough to be a rifle?”
“No. But it might have been like, what do they call it, like an Uzi. It was long enough for that.” She stepped closer and confided, “But I don’t think it was. Jeremiah never owned a gun that I knew of. Do you think I should have called the police, Mr. Tyler?”
“I can’t say. If he comes again, I’d advise you to call 911. If he goes back inside, tell them it’s a burglary in progress.”
“That young man shouldn’t have made such a mess. It’s not respectful. Jeremiah’s dead.”
“You didn’t tell me—have you noticed Jerry coming to the trailer?”
“I haven’t, but I’m not home all the time, I’m often over at Margaret’s house during the days, which is a full street over. I know Jerry by sight. Never talked to him much. Jeremiah was sociable enough, but Jerry never had much time for neighbors when he lived here.”
“Oh, he stayed with Jeremiah?”
“A couple of times, a year or two ago. Just briefly, like visits.”
“Did he have anyone with him? A girlfriend, any other friends?”
“No, just Jerry.”
I thanked Mrs. Schmidt and walked her to the street with good-byes, put the files on the floor under the passenger seat, and drove back toward town.
On impulse, I drove out High Street, and slowed down as I passed Darryl’s house. In the backyard the pile of little trees blazed red-orange.
Now why was Darryl burning saplings? I decided to ask him. I backed in next to his truck and walked around to the fire. He was leaning against the house, and he held the hunting rifle he’d had this morning. I’d made no effort to be quiet, and he looked at me, his face invisible in the darkness. I knew the fire illuminated me, and I saw him swing the rifle barrel up.
“I told you to get off my property!” His voice held a little more authority, borrowed from his rifle. “I meant to stay off it, too.”
The Police Special was in my right hand. My left, in the pocket, held my cell phone. I raised my revolver so it pointed at his legs, as his rifle aimed at mine. “You going to shoot me, Darryl?”
“Man’s got a right to shoot trespassers!”
“So I could have plugged you on my land this morning, nice and legally? What are you burning, Darryl?”
“Scrap wood,” he said quickly. “Too green for the fireplace or the woodstove.”
“Pretty small, too. Why not just let it rot?”
“I don’t have to answer any questions!” He jerked the rifle up with a suddenness I had not expected. It weaved in a small circle, but it was pointed toward my chest. “I could shoot you on the spot.”
I realized that he had not even registered that I held the pistol. I raised it and said, “Me, too. Self-defense, unprovoked attack during a perfectly civil visit. I don’t see any NO TRESPASSING signs posted. You haven’t registered your property, Darryl.”
“Shit!” The barrel of his rifle was weaving wildly, as if he found the weapon too heavy. “If you shot me on my own property, they’d throw you so deep in prison you’d never see daylight again.”
One step sideways took me out of the firelight. “Darryl, I don’t think you’d shoot me. I don’t think you’d want the police involved.” I swept my revolver to the side and shot out one of his truck headlights.
Darryl jerked. “Jesus! Why the hell didja do that?”
“Let’s call the police, Darryl. I’ve done something illegal, firing a weapon so close to your house, damaging your property. I’ve got my cell phone. Let’s call the police and you can tell them about it.”
He walked to the side, sighted carefully, and shot out the passenger-side taillight of my Jeep. “You want to go on? You want me to shoot you right now?”
“I’ll leave if you’ll tell me what you took out of Jeremiah Smith’s trailer. That’s burglary, Darryl. Two to five on a first conviction.”
“You shot first,” Darryl said, as if trying to talk himself into something. “Whatever I do, it’s self-defense.”
“Do you need to pee?” I asked.
“Huh?”
“I bet I can pee farther than you can.”
To my surprise, Darryl giggled. “I get it. We’re acting like fifth graders.” He lowered the barrel of his rifle. “Shit.” He shook his head. “Look, just go. I don’t think we’re even, but that’s OK. I ain’t gonna talk to you, and you ain’t gonna call the cops. Just go.”
“OK, Darryl.” I got into the Jeep, cursing myself. John Lincoln would be laughing himself silly somewhere. You never get into dumb-ass macho games, never. As I turned toward town I heard the bang of the rifle and the crash as my driver’s side taillight shattered. Darryl was a better shot than I’d sized him up to be.
I was hu
ngry. The CLT had worn off, so I stopped at the market and picked up salad fixings and a fresh loaf of bread. I kind of hoped Sylvia would be waiting for me, and I thought she might like this kind of fare.
I drove up the logging road to within sight of my cabin, farther than I normally do because it’s so much trouble to back down the narrow, rutted path. Kerosene lantern light shone in the windows. I retrieved the files under the seat and swung out with them and the bag of food, eager to see Sylvia again. As I set foot on the porch, I fleetingly wondered what I would do if it were Bill Grinder inside.
But I saw Sylvia look out the window. I felt a wave of relief. She was nutty, by my standards—maybe by common standards—but she had the kind of integrity you don’t find in tobacco execs who brag that they are responsibly marketing their products in the United States, not bothering to mention that at the same time they’re busily addicting preteens in developing nations.
Sylvia opened the door for me and glanced at the files in my hands and the grocery bag clutched in the crook of my elbows. She took the bag from me lightly, tentatively, and I tossed the files onto my bed.
“How are you?” I asked. “Hungry?”
“I ate with my people,” she said. She set the bag down on the counter. “Should I leave while you eat?”
“No. Are your people nearby now?”
She inclined her head, not quite a negative gesture, but it told me she wasn’t interested in talking about her people at the moment. I sat in the bentwood rocker and she took the straight one, as always. “I really don’t know anything about you,” I said. “Are you married? Do you have children?”
“I’m not married,” she said. “I have two offspring.”
“How old?”
She looked as if she were wrestling with the concept of age. “Mature,” she said at last.
Death in the Pines Page 14
