Cliff added his sugar and stirred. “What do you think of him, Adli? You’ve worked with him more than anybody else in town.”
Adli rubbed the gray stubble on his long chin with his fingertips. “If you’d asked me when he first made the offer, I’d have told you he was up to no good. He’s surprised me. This guy is used to getting what he wants, but he’s not unreasonable. Seems to appreciate the things we offer as a small town. Doesn’t buck the system.”
Adli’s assessment left Sophie relieved. Her instinct to believe Duncan suddenly stood on more steady footing.
“Buzz is really cranky over this project.” Sophie broached the next question with caution, as Cliff had coached. “You think he’s behind the bribery rumor going around town related to RGI’s project?”
Adli’s willowy fingers slid along the rim of his cup. “Buzz has never been considered a moderate politician. Just because he wants this, doesn’t mean he’d do anything illegal. Although, I’d swear he thrives on the drama.” A guilty look spread across Adli’s face, the gossipy statement not his usual style.
The loud clearing of Les’ throat couldn’t be missed. “Speaking of drama…” He waited until everyone looked in his direction. “Seems Buzz has a bit going on behind the scenes.” He turned to Sophie. “Your pal Meg McNeil asked some strange questions about Buzz the other day. About something that happened in town a long time ago.”
Les had taken the bait, as they’d hoped. She worked extra hard to keep every muscle neutral.
“Hmm.” Cliff acted uninterested, his poker face bar-none. “Soph, could you pass me a napkin?”
She did as asked but furrowed her brows and glanced at Les. “Are you sure? Why would Meg stick her nose into Buzz’s business? Maybe you misunderstood.”
“Well, she did.” Les sounded annoyed and his wobbly chin and cheeks quivered. “Asked me if I remembered when the Jamiesons sold the house they’d owned for close to seventy-five years on the upper eastside.” He sneered. “How could I forget? The gossip mill worked harder than a butter churn as those rumors started flying about a problem at Buzz’s house.”
“Rumors?” Cliff probed. “I don’t remember any rumors.”
Sophie peeked at Adli, who stared into his coffee, his lips pressed tight.
Les looked over his right shoulder with the paranoia of a covert agent ready to swap a military secret. He leaned into the tabletop. “Don’t you remember the time—” He clamped his mouth closed when Stan rounded the corner.
“Here you go.” Stan put down Sophie’s and Cliff’s egg sandwiches then plunked an issue of the Hartford Courant next to Cliff’s arm. “Paper’s on the house.”
Les waited until Stan moved far enough away and lowered his voice. “Before the Jamiesons listed the house, the year before, someone reported a gunshot at Buzz’s place to the police. The paper said he’d been cleaning the gun and it went off by accident.” He sat back and rested his hands on his stomach. “Word around town claims that’s false. Seems the original police report told the real story, but those records were changed.” His vision bounced between them. “Someone made a generous offer for the amended version.”
“Les, don’t go any further.” Cliff held up his hand like a cop stopping traffic. “May I remind you what Mark Twain used to say?”
Les squinted. “Mark Twain?”
“Yup. He said ‘Better to be thought a fool than to open your mouth and remove all doubt.’ I can’t believe someone would—”
“Now you hold on!” Les slapped a palm on the tabletop. “I’m no fool. This came from a reliable source.”
Cliff bit into his egg sandwich and chewed.
Les glared at him while Cliff slowly swallowed.
“Okay. What’d you hear?”
“The offer was from none other than Frank Jamieson himself. Duncan’s father.” A satisfied smugness settled on his face. “I can’t say who told me.”
Cliff chortled. “No offense but how would you alone be privy to such news?”
Les puffed his thick chest. “I have my sources.”
Cliff shrugged, offered a doubting shake of his head. “I’m simply saying that’s quite an accusation. Without knowing where the story originated, I’m not sure I buy it.”
Adli now watched Les with interest.
Les leaned close and folded his forearms on the table. A lethal mixture of guilt and anticipation shined in his eyes. Bait taken. Cliff was right. Sophie got the same rush she got when a trout grabbed hold of her line.
“Well,” Les paused. “I shouldn’t repeat this, but it happened so long ago nobody will care.”
* * * *
Sophie yanked up the sleeves of her thick wool sweater and scrolled on her computer to the latest remark from a reader. Three days after Cliff had given her the go-ahead to write a rebuttal to the Hartford Courant’s slanderous comments about Bernadette, people were still posting to the Gazette’s online conversation.
Many readers’ complained Sophie’s piece had shown favoritism toward Bernadette and her lake-saving political action committee. Thank God others believed the Hartford paper had overstepped their boundaries and came to her rescue. The negative remarks, however, played to every concern she’d had about Duncan’s request. Today’s single comment spoke in her favor.
She reread her after-meetings notes from this morning’s breakfast at Polanski’s, which had been a great use of time. Les’ face had glowed with tall-tale teller’s glee when he recounted a tale of gossip over thirty years old.
All his information came from Jack Carney, the dispatcher in those days for the Northbridge Police Department, and Les’ next door neighbor. During an afternoon break from their yard work, Les had mentioned his office had received a few nibbles on the newly listed Jamieson property. Jack, who possessed a cynical attitude on a good day, had been all too happy to trash the police chief and flat-out said the house sale had to be because of what happened the previous summer. When Les had asked, “What happened last summer?” Jack hesitated then blurted out, “Money talks and BS walks. Jamieson forked over some cash and next thing I know, the chief is making me revise my paperwork like certain things never happened.” He’d then clammed up, despite Les’ best efforts for more details.
As they’d driven back to the paper, Sophie considered asking Cliff if they could drop the matter, even though it would sound suspicious. Before she could, Cliff had glanced at her from the driver’s seat. “Looks like Jack Carney is our key to finding out what happened at Buzz’s house.”
“Yeah. I’m not sure what we’ve learned is enough to warrant continued digging. I mean, it doesn’t look like Duncan or RGI has done anything here.”
Cliff’s lips had pursed while he stared ahead at the road. “Something’s strange, though. That new reporter slandering Bernadette didn’t just happen. Why would someone go through all the trouble to leave you those notes without having a damn good reason? How ’bout we try to talk to Jack Carney. If it’s another dead end and RGI is in the clear, we’ll drop the hunt.”
“Sounds good.” She’d studied Cliff’s profile and he hadn’t shown any signs that indicated he knew about how close she’d gotten to Duncan, much to her relief.
The phone on her desk rang and she answered.
“You won’t believe this,” Veronica murmured into the mouthpiece.
“Try me.”
“Remember over a month ago when Mrs. Payne couldn’t recall who asked for the microfiche?”
“Sure. Our only clue, lost in the recall of a senior citizen.”
“This morning she walked in with the answer.”
“Better late than never. So? Who’d she see?”
“Jane Dougherty. Her husband’s on the zoning board, right?”
“Yes, ma’am. Joe.” His nervousness at the last zoning board meeting took on new life. “Interesting. Did Mrs. Payne say anything else?”
“Yeah. Want to know about her sister’s cataract surgery
?”
“No. Thanks for the other information.”
She hung up and pounced up the stairs to Cliff’s office. “Got a minute? I found another puzzle piece for our mystery.” The strong aroma of fish blasted her senses.
Cliff held half a tuna sandwich in one hand and the latest issue of American Angler in the other. His chin motioned to the empty seat across from him. “Sure. Have a seat.”
She divulged the details Veronica provided à la Mrs. Payne. “Joe has never done anything to defy Buzz. Yet, at the last zoning board meeting he voted against Buzz. I’ve never seen Buzz so ticked. Do you think Jane’s involvement is a coincidence?”
“Not one bit.” He popped the last of his sandwich into his mouth.
“Buzz and Joe are registered in the same political party. Jane sits on the town committee for the party. Her handing me dirt on Buzz makes no sense.”
He finished chewing and dabbed his lips with a napkin. “Maybe this isn’t about Buzz. After what Les told us at Polanski’s this morning, something weird happened here years ago and it involves the Jamiesons. For once, I think one of Les’ yarns holds the key. Told you I know what makes him tick.”
“Sometimes you scare me. Glad you’re on my side.”
The corner of his mouth lifted as he tossed the napkin into his wastebasket and made the shot. “Two people from Northbridge know the real story. Jack Carney and—”
“Buzz,” Sophie finished for him.
Did Duncan know?
“Buzz isn’t talking. I think Jack’s in the Southbridge Nursing Home. I’ve already left a message with his son to give me a call. We used to bowl on a league at Lenny’s Lanes in New Scotland. Want to join me if I get can him to set up a meeting?”
“Yeah.” Sophie’s fingers drummed the chair arm. “Do you really trust Duncan Jamieson?”
Cliff shrugged. “For some reason, we all seem to trust the guy.”
Sophie teetered on the edge of telling Cliff how her path with Duncan now wove an intricate line between business and personal and threatened to hamper her usually spot-on radar. He’d probably yank her from this story so fast she’d get whiplash. It wouldn’t matter, except now she wanted to stay on it for one reason: to act as guardian to this rumor, in case what they turned up had nothing to do with the land deal.
Disgust with her silence to both Cliff and Duncan settled like bile in the back of her throat. At the start of the assignment, her stake in the land had threatened her as a reporter. Everything had changed. She’d officially become the kind of journalist she despised.
Chapter 20
John Lennon’s opening scream in “Revolution” blared in Sophie’s iPod earbuds during her morning run at the exact moment a shiny, red Audi TT with New York plates whizzed past, in clear violation of the thirty-five mph speed limit.
The brake lights flashed and the car stopped, performed a three-point-turn and returned toward her. It slowed as she approached. The driver’s darkened window rolled down and she stared at a man with black disheveled hair. His lips moved, but all she heard were the Beatles, letting her know things would be all right.
She removed her earbuds but kept a safe distance. “May I help you?”
He wore sunglasses, the reflective kind. Always a little creepy. An image of her, wearing a knitted cap and knockoff Ray Bans, stared back from his lenses.
“I’m looking for Clear Brook Lane.” Crabbiness oozed from his tone. “Things aren’t marked very well around here.”
The street he wanted was near the expensive homes in Northbridge, not surprising given the snazzy vehicle.
“Another runner a few miles back said to turn at the red school building. All I see are houses.” He lifted his glasses and grazed her from wool cap to running shoes.
“That’s because the school is white.”
“White? Jesus. Why’d he say red?” His unzipped black leather jacket, plain dark T-shirt and snug leather driving gloves that gripped the steering wheel satisfied his hip theme. “Don’t they teach the color wheel around here?”
She was tempted to give this jerk another set of wrong directions. “The structure is a single-room school house, like the kind they used back in the olden days. Not a large building. It used to be red.”
His eyes flowed into an exaggerated roll.
Any interest she had in being polite to the outsider disappeared. Sophie lifted her sunglasses to the top of her head. “You can afford a car like this but no GPS?”
He flinched, visibly shot down a notch from the direct statement. “I lost satellite.” His lips pressed tight and he studied her for several seconds. “Sorry. I’m just frustrated.”
Something was familiar about his face, but she couldn’t figure out what. Guess she’d cut him some slack. Anybody could have an off day.
Sophie pointed down the road. “Head back this way. The schoolhouse will be on your left. A small wood-framed building, not a modern day school. There’s a little glass and wood display near the entrance, the honor roll for the last graduating class.”
“How quaint.” His brows huddled and he studied her more closely. “You’re Sophie, right?”
“Have we met?”
“Trent Jamieson. Duncan’s brother. My dad used to take us to your family’s tackle shop.” He threw the car in park, lifted a large super-sized Starbucks cup from his console, and sipped. “A long, long time ago. You have an older brother, right? I used to talk to him.”
“Yes. Jay.” His remark jarred a new memory. The summer before ninth grade, Meg had developed a serious crush on a visitor, a brooding high school sophomore who came in with his father and brother then ignored them while they shopped and he talked to Jay. Meg had noticed him instantly. In contrast to her positive perkiness over life, Meg’s sonar often veered toward difficult men.
Suddenly, the entire Jamieson family crystallized in her mind. Even in those days, Trent’s miserable attitude glowed as if dotted in neon lights. He hadn’t changed much.
“I remember you.” She also now had a distant visual on young Duncan, short with freckles and bright copper hair, like Patrick’s.
“Duncan tells me your dad hasn’t retired and Jay still works at the shop. Doesn’t anybody ever want to leave this place?”
His comment pinched, as if someone had clamped the sensitive skin near Sophie’s upper arm. “This is a great place to live. Why do you keep knocking it?”
“I just prefer the city.” Trent’s jaw hardened. He crossed his arms and rubbed his biceps, “Jesus. Is it always this cold here?”
“Not in the summer.”
“Ha. Ha.” His lip curled upward as he reconsidered her.
Veronica’s comment on ladies’ night suddenly carried more weight. Had one of the Jamieson sons caused them to sell the house? Duncan didn’t act like a troublemaker, but Trent sure had the attitude for one. Had he caused enough trouble that their father felt a need to bribe police to clean up the records?
She crossed her arms to stay warm. “Being back in town must be interesting. Have you caught up with anybody you knew back then?”
Trent frowned. “No. We really weren’t close to anybody.”
“Hmm. Well, your project has a lot of support from some people in high places. Our Selectman, Buzz Harris, can’t stop extolling its virtues for our area.”
Trent shifted in his seat then wrapped a gloved hand around the steering wheel. He stared past her in the direction of Sunnydale Dairy Farm, his thoughts unreadable. “Yes. Seems like a decent place for a resort.” He looked at her. “Guess I’d better get going. Thanks for the directions.” He revved the engine and pulled out.
The car disappeared over the picket-fenced ridge near the farm. She turned to head back toward home. Time to do a little research on Trent Jamieson.
* * * *
Matt shuffled into the kitchen, rubbing one eye with a rounded fist, clad in a wrinkled AC/DC T-shirt with navy sweatpants. He stumbled on Sophie’s
running sneakers, left near the sink when she downed a glass of water after her run. There were days she was no better than her kids.
“Mom? On Sunday afternoon—”
She held up her index finger and pointed to the phone handset next to her ear. The loosely followed rule in their house was that unless the place caught on fire or the zombie apocalypse had actually started, they were not to interrupt while she was on the phone. The odds were about fifty-fifty they remembered. Matt left the room.
Since coming back from her run, she’d scanned Google for any character-revealing fact she could find on Trent Jamieson. She’d learned he had worked at Jamieson, McDonald & O’Reilly as an attorney for several years, the father’s firm in Manhattan. There was no reason given for his leaving, but he now showed up on the web pages of RGI as a senior project manager. The lawyer angle had prompted her call to Marcus, whose brother-in-law was a big shot lawyer in Manhattan. The chance he knew Trent was slim, but worth asking.
On the second ring, a wave of guilt walloped Sophie. This call to her friend defied Duncan’s request to trust him.
Ring Three.
This could be classified as grade-A snooping.
Ring four.
Going behind Duncan’s back showed a lack of faith in his ability to investigate any manipulation at his firm, like he said he was doing.
On the fifth ring, she had convinced herself to hang up but Marcus answered. “Hey, Soph. What’s up?” Voices filled the background.
“Catch you at a bad time?”
“Yeah. I’m at work, but I’ve got a quick second for you. Hope you’re not calling about another slanderous article by my employer.”
“No, well, uh, I called because…” With a swift calculation of her dilemma, she concluded Duncan would never know she’d spoken to the other reporter. “I ran into Trent Jamieson this morning.” She gave him the details. “After meeting him, he made it to my list of suspicious characters at RGI. This is a long shot, but do you think your brother-in-law, the lawyer, might have any scoop on him?”
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