Idyll Hands

by Stephanie Gayle

  We walked to the car, the sound of dirt falling on Elizabeth May Gardner’s coffin keeping time with our footsteps.

  CHIEF THOMAS LYNCH

  MONDAY, JUNE 14, 1999

  1600 HOURS

  My Y2K worst-case scenarios were on Mrs. Dunsmore’s desk. She’d done no more than glance at them and said, “Better not be any sci-fi nonsense in here.” Good thing I took out the zombies. “I’ll look it over after I sort through this equipment mess,” she said. Yesterday, somebody had taken delivery for twelve boxes from an electronics company. Turned out they were full of equipment we hadn’t ordered. She was determined to figure out how the mix-up occurred and who’d signed the delivery sheet without checking with her first. I put my money on the new dispatch guy.

  Finny and Wright were hunched over their desks, trying to track down their victim’s ex-boyfriend. Apparently, there wasn’t much to go on. They suspected he’d not used his real name. Or he’d disappeared into thin air after he left Salisbury. Either way, they were feeling it. I’d assigned Billy, Dix, and Halloway to help them. Wright had bitched about their capability, telling me that Dix was a “nice guy,” but he couldn’t make decisions. Not true. What Wright hated was that Dix asked him too many questions. Dix only did that because he was afraid Wright would chew his head off if he made an error. If I tried to point this out, Wright would deny it and we’d have wasted more time, so I kept my mouth shut on the subject.

  Finny lifted his head and scratched his armpit. Then he wadded up a ball of paper and tossed it at Wright. It missed, but Wright looked up, his lower lip in a pout. Finny asked him a question, and Wright chuckled. Then Wright took a ruler from his drawer and smacked it into Finny’s open palm. Finny took the ruler and held it to the front of his pants. Thank God his back was to the door. I didn’t need some citizen with a parking ticket wandering in to see my detective measuring his dick, joke or no joke. Wright reached down and withdrew a tape measure. Pulled it out so it was a yard or more and held it below his desk. Finny howled.

  The other men watched, shaking their heads and laughing. I walked to my office. The detectives were sleep-deprived and annoyed by their lack of progress. I’d let them make jokes, for now.

  My phone rang. I snatched it up. “Chief Lynch.”

  “Mayor Mitchell, please hold.”

  Goddamn it. Mayor Mitchell had figured out that I didn’t answer his calls, ever. Not when they came from his direct line. He made his secretary call me and then she patched him through to me. I hated being outwitted by that country-club-loving moron.

  “Chief Lynch,” he said.

  “Mayor.”

  “What’s this I hear about alterations to the police annual budget? As you know, we already approved next year’s spending plan. Hope you’re not looking to hire.”

  He loved to give me hell for hiring police, when the only times I’d done so was to fill vacancies.

  “We’re just running numbers in case this Y2K virus ends up affecting the community,” I said.

  “Y2K. Can’t those computer nerds figure out how to solve that problem?” he asked.

  “I assume they’re working on it. Doesn’t the fire captain have a plan in place for Y2K?”

  “Perhaps,” he said. Perhaps? Mrs. Dunsmore said he did, and if she said he did, he damn well did. Why was the mayor being coy?

  “Would be terrible if a fire broke out and their software didn’t work,” I said. Not elaborating on what software I was referencing.

  “It would,” he said, concerned.

  Excellent. Now he could call Captain Hirsch and demand details. This day wasn’t a total wash.

  “About that body recovered from the woods,” he said. So much for him leaving me alone. “Are we certain it’s a homicide?”

  “Yes.” Why ask him how he thought the body managed to get into a shallow grave?

  “People keep talking about the ghost,” he complained. “Now they’re saying she’s real.”

  “And what do you tell them?”

  “That there is no ghost!”

  “Sounds good to me,” I said.

  “No, what would be good is no more bodies, no more homicides.” He referred to the murder of Cecilia North in summer 1997, and now this. Two murders in three decades? He had no idea how good Idyll had it.

  “The body had been there for many years,” I said. “It’s not as though we’ve got gangs doing drive-bys on Main.”

  He went silent. Uh-oh. Silence meant he was formulating a response.

  “Chief, the day we have gangs in Idyll, doing ‘drive-bys’ as you call them, is the day you’ll be looking for employment elsewhere.”

  “It’s nice to have job security. Have a great day, Mayor Mitchell.” Click. If he thought I was going to let him make threats about my employment, he was dumber than I thought.

  I stalked outside the office. Stood at the bulletin board, looking for something to distract me. Front and center was a green sheet advertising

  Police vs. Firefighters! Annual Softball Tournament*

  July 10th at NOON

  *All proceeds benefit St. Jude’s Hospital

  For one second I fantasized about ripping it from the board and tossing it in the trash. But I didn’t. I walked back to my desk and read a report about drug abuse and related crimes, or tried to. The report was drier than sand.

  A soft rap on the door.

  “Come in.”

  Wright came in, looking over his shoulder. Did he have an update on Susan? I wondered if anyone had noticed how much time he’d spent in my office lately. Hopefully they assumed he was updating me on the Elizabeth Gardner case.

  “Hey,” he said.

  “Hey. Any news?”

  “We’re trying to get Donald, or Daniel, Waverly’s sister to meet with us. She insists we come to her.”

  “Why?”

  “She’s running a business and can’t step away from it.”

  “What’s the business?”

  “Antiques.”

  “If you have to go to her, do it. Just let Mrs. Dunsmore know, in advance.”

  He said, “Oh, I know. She’s a damn grizzly about driving reimbursements.”

  “Any news on the other case?” He met my question with a blank look. “Susan Finnegan.”

  “No. I haven’t had time. What with the other case and Joshua’s baseball team. Now, Simone wants to take dance lessons. Speaking of family, I need to take time off Wednesday.” He’d finished telling me how busy his caseload was, and he wanted time off?

  “What for? You’re my lead detective on this homicide. And according to you, none of the other men are capable of sifting through evidence, case notes, or finding their asses with their elbows.” He’d said that of Halloway yesterday.

  His face grew rigid. “Janice has another pregnancy test scheduled. I need to be there.”

  “Thought they only needed to test the pregnant person.”

  He crossed his arms. “I have more than enough time accrued.”

  “I’m sure you do, but you’re in charge of a big case that’s stalled. How often will you need to attend these tests?”

  “It’s none of your business what I do with my free time. I came in and asked, as a courtesy. I’m sure my union rep would back me. Should I give him a call?” Great. Pull in the union rep, and soon we’d be talking through lawyers about scheduling time for Wright to attend his daughter’s dance recital.

  “No,” I said. “Whatever. Go to the test. Make sure Finny’s in when you’re gone, though, huh? I want someone who knows the case on call should something come to light.”

  He didn’t acknowledge my request. He left, slamming the door behind him. Great. We were back to square one of our working relationship: mutually hostile.

  DETECTIVE MICHAEL FINNEGAN

  TUESDAY, JUNE 15, 1999

  1130 HOURS

  Rose Waverly’s home, like London Bridge, was falling down. It had once been grand. An imposing two-story house with slate roofing and good,
strong bones. Two columns in front should’ve lent majesty, but the columns looked as if they had rashes, gray spots appearing from below the flaked-off white paint. Knee-high weeds wrestled anemic yellow grass on the lawn. Two long tables, covered with oilskin cloth, stood on the lawn. The tables were covered with junk sporting colored stickers. A rusty egg beater was next to a bent spoon with a Disneyland logo. A roll of purple ribbon was propped atop an old white princess phone missing its cord. Water-damaged paperbacks were cluttered at one end of the table, beside a two-foot-tall doll with blue glass eyes and blond ringlets. The doll wore a blue flower-patterned dress and patent leather shoes. It didn’t have a sticker.

  “That costs twelve dollars,” a voice yelled.

  I looked up toward the house but saw no one.

  “Twelve dollars is a bargain.”

  She appeared around the corner of the house, coiling a garden hose. She dropped it, half coiled, onto the ground. She patted her hands against her slacks and walked to me. Her face was big and round. Her orange lipstick matched her hair, which was askew on her head. She pushed it up and said, “Make a mighty fine gift for a little girl.” When she got closer, I smelled something , strong , floral but piercing.

  “I don’t have a little girl.” My daughter had left dolls behind years ago. Lewis looked at the doll with suspicion.

  “Ah, well then.” She lowered herself into the saggy-bottomed lawn chair by the table’s end. “Just browsing?”

  Two men dressed in suits, whose very bearing screams cop, and she asks if we’re browsing? Either Rose Waverly had a very dry sense of humor, or she’d been born without a clue.

  Wright took the lead. “I’m Detective Lewis Wright and this is Detective Michael Finnegan. We called earlier.”

  She groaned and moved side to side, trying to get comfortable. “That’s right. So much for supposing you’ve got one of them big checks from Publishers Clearing House.”

  “Afraid not,” Lewis said.

  She wiggled in her chair and extended her legs. “What do you want to ask me about?”

  Lewis cleared his throat. “As we mentioned, we want to talk to you about your brother, Daniel.”

  “Daniel? What’s he done now?”

  “Done now?” I asked.

  “He was always getting into scrapes.” She rolled her eyes.

  “You grew up here together?” Lewis eyed the columns. One of them was crooked.

  “Not here. Halfway across town. This house belonged to me and my husband.” She stressed the last word. “He passed two years ago, Lord bless him.” She looked at me from under lowered lashes. Hooboy, no. I was not looking for my next wife. Not here.

  “I’m sorry to hear that. What was Daniel like as a boy? Did he play sports? Or keep to himself mostly?”

  Her laugh was a short, sharp cough. “Daniel? He was always rambling. Liked to explore in the woods. Pretend he was some famous adventurer. He was goofy.” She scratched her ear. “Me? I prefer air-conditioning.”

  “What about girlfriends? Daniel have many of those?”

  That harsh laugh came again. “Daniel liked the ladies. Even from a young age. Used to flirt with the Avon lady when his voice hadn’t so much as cracked.”

  “So, he had girlfriends.”

  “Sure. He was no Casanova, but he always had a date to the dances.” Her tone made me think she hadn’t had it quite so easy. “Of course, after it got out about Bridget, he found himself not so popular.”

  “Bridget?” Lewis asked.

  “Bridget Cutterson. Nice girl. Rode horses. She and Daniel dated. Her sophomore year, his junior year. She got a busted ankle and claimed Daniel did it. He said she had a riding accident. Mr. Cutterson came by with his rifle and made threats. Our parents got involved.” She waved her hands. “It was a kerfuffle.”

  “What happened?” Lewis asked.

  “They broke up. Mr. Cutterson threatened to make it a police matter, but he didn’t.”

  “Why?”

  She rubbed her nose. “Dunno.”

  “What do you think happened?” I asked.

  She flicked her gaze my way. Her eyes were bright green. “He probably did it. Like I said, he was a troublemaker.”

  “He hurt anyone else?”

  “One of the other girls he dated, what was her name? Shauna. Shauna had a couple of bruises. Might’ve been Daniel, but it might’ve been her old man. He was a drunk. Everyone knew it. Sad, really.”

  “Did Daniel ever hurt you?” Lewis asked, his tone gentle.

  “Ha! Me? Not likely. I used to beat the snot out of him when he was little. He was forever going through my things. He opened my diary, and I kept him in the closet until our parents got home. One time, he stole my bra. I found it in his room. I tied his hands together with the straps and locked him in the cellar. Nosy brat.”

  “You locked him in the cellar?”

  “Just for a few hours, though I think he lost control of his bladder. I made him do that load of laundry. What a baby he was.”

  “And now? Where is he?”

  She moved her wig again. “No idea. After our parents died and he left home, we didn’t keep in touch.”

  “Does he ever visit?”

  “Here? Hardly. He can’t stand me. Says I made his life a ‘misery.’ Boy never could take a joke. I haven’t seen him since 1978. What did he do, to make you come here and ask so many questions?”

  “He might know something about a case we’re working. Girl went missing in Connecticut. Turns out she was murdered.”

  “Murdered? How?”

  “Sorry. Can’t discuss details.”

  “Hmmm. You think Daniel had something to do with it?”

  “We’d like to ask him some questions about it.”

  “He used to collect knives,” she volunteered. “Set up a target board out back in our yard and would toss knives at it, hour after hour. One of the neighbor ladies complained it was dangerous. Her car got egged the next day.”

  “Daniel?” I asked.

  “Probably. She called the cops, and they gave him a talking-to. Thought he was gonna wet himself all over again. He was such a scaredy-cat.”

  “Did he ever work in Connecticut?” I asked.

  “I think so. Only because I got some paperwork once with his name on it. IRS looking for their tax money. Said something about landscaping.” Lewis flashed me a smile. Landscaping sounded like our boy.

  “You ever get anything else for him?” Lewis asked. “From the IRS or anyone else?”

  “No.” She shuffled her sneakers in the grass. “Wait. There was one thing. From the Red Cross of all places.”

  A car stopped in the drive, and her head swung toward it like a vulture spotting prey from above. “Might be some buyers.” She set her small hands on the lawn chair arms and heaved herself upward.

  An elderly couple emerged from the car. The man squinted against the sun. The woman looped her arm through his, and they walked up the incline toward the tables.

  “You better scat,” she said. “I don’t want any murder talk scaring ’em away.”

  “We need that Red Cross paper,” Lewis said, crossing his arms. Making it clear he wouldn’t leave without it.

  “I’ll fetch it for you. Promise.” She made a cross over her heart, like a child would.

  “One more thing. Do you think Daniel is capable of hurting someone, badly?”

  She laughed. “That chickenshit? Barely. Only thing he ever truly destroyed was my Barbie collection.”

  The elderly couple skirted around the weeds, making a slow approach.

  “Yeah. Little shit came into my room one day when I was at choir practice and ripped all the arms out of my dolls. You ever try to reattach a Barbie doll’s arms?”

  As a matter of fact, I had. My daughter, Carly, had once removed her Barbie’s arm and then cried when she couldn’t get it back in.

  “Damn thing is impossible,” she said. Experience told me she was right. You could never get the arm back
in the socket. It just wouldn’t fit.

  CHIEF THOMAS LYNCH

  TUESDAY, JUNE 15, 1999

  0920 HOURS

  The birds and sunshine woke me, both too high and bright. I’d fallen asleep in my recliner. My legs ached. I stood and rubbed my lower back, eyes bleary. That stupid dream. Matt kissing Ed Harris and me watching it all from the parking lot of a diner. The same diner I’d gone to with Finny and told him about his sister’s baby. The place where painful secrets were revealed. Jesus. My brain was as subtle as a brick through a window. I stumbled into the kitchen and squinted at my answering machine. No messages. Over four days and Matt still hadn’t called.

  The oven clock read 9:20 a.m. Hell. I’d never been this late to work. Never. My fingers felt the stubble on my chin. I’d also never taken a sick day. Today was a day of firsts. Dix, who took the call, said he hoped I felt better soon. What to do next? I couldn’t be seen rambling about town. People would talk, and it would get back that I had been ‘active’ on my sick day. I spent a long time in the shower’s spray, my thoughts veering toward Matt. So what if he’d had a midnight visitor? I’d made too much of it. He could spend his time as he wished. I wasn’t always available to spend time with him. And we’d never said other people were out of bounds.

  Showered and dressed, I opened the door to a world that looked like it was dreamed up by an advertising executive. Sunshine, fluffy clouds, grass so green it looked fake, and people driving freshly washed cars at a reasonable speed. Lord. Some days it felt like I’d up and moved to a pretend TV community.

  I drove to the gas station, filled up the car, and headed west. Getting home to New York took anywhere from two to three hours, depending on traffic. Stamford was always a tangle of brake lights. I turned the radio on and listened to a story about Boris Yeltsin surviving impeachment. NATO had stopped airstrikes on Belgrade, and Slobodan Milošević was indicted for crimes against humanity and war crimes. Cheerful stuff.

  I drove to my parents’ house, not sure that either would be home. It was a school day. Then I recalled that Mom had taken a sabbatical to write a book about Anne Brontë’s heroes, so she wasn’t teaching, only advising. Sure enough, she was home, a pen stuck in her semi-wild hair. “Tom!” She pulled me forward and down and hugged me like I’d returned from war. “What brings you here?” She pushed me back and peered at my face. “Is everything okay? Is anything the matter?”