CUTTER'S GROVE

by Patrick Dakin

  I shake my head in dismay. “Help me, Lord.”

  When we get back to town I’m in no mood to accept Beth’s offer to come in. I go immediately home, crack open a beer, and put a serious effort into beating Sonny’s guzzling record. Before I’m able to accomplish this admirable goal, the phone rings. “I have to see you,” Deborah tells me. “There’s something you need to know.”

  Just great. No sooner do I get rid of Nancy Drew than Miss Marpole beckons. “I don’t think my heart can take any more excitement for one night,” I reply.

  She doesn’t even ask what I’m referring to. “Please, Lucas,” she says. “It’s important.”

  I moan inwardly, trying frantically to think of a good reason for not being able to make it, despite the urgency in her voice. Nothing comes to mind. “All right,” I sigh, this time audibly, “I’ll be right over.”

  When I arrive at Deborah’s place she’s waiting for me outside on the porch, looking extraordinarily distraught. “Can we go somewhere?” she says. “Harold’s home and I don’t want him overhearing this.”

  “All right, sure.”

  She’s fidgeting, wringing her hands, and looking around nervously as we walk to the Jeep. We get in and I glance over at her as I pull away. “You look scared, Deborah. What’s wrong?”

  “I’m sure I know who did it,” she says with ragged breath.

  “Who?”

  “Herb Kripps,” she says.

  A little chill runs through me. “What makes you think it’s Herb?” I ask.

  “He came in to the post office today. I was in the back doing some things when he arrived, and he was waiting with his back turned to me when I came out. He didn’t know I was there at first and I saw him looking at a young girl who was with her mother. It was the Getty girl. Shirley’s daughter, Rhonda. She’s twelve I think. Anyway, the look on his face was so strange. Kind of like lust, but mixed with hate. And then I saw Rhonda’s aura. It turned completely black while he looked at her.”

  “Like Anne Marie’s,” I say.

  “Exactly like Anne Marie’s.”

  I’m stuck for a response. I can’t deny Deborah’s reaction might be important, but who knows? “So, what do you think we should do?”

  “What if the same thing happens to her and we haven’t done anything to prevent it?” she says. “I couldn’t live with myself if I let that happen again, Lucas. I couldn’t.”

  Suddenly my little visit to Herb’s tonight takes on a whole new dimension. Now I’m wishing I had listened to Beth and checked out whatever it was that was dragged into the basement. I point the Jeep in the direction of the garage. “Deborah, I want you to phone Shirley Getty.”

  “Why?”

  “I’ll explain in a minute. But first we need to know for sure that Rhonda is okay. That she’s not missing.”

  “But what’ll I say? Won’t it sound awfully strange if I phone a woman I barely say hello to and ask if her daughter is okay?”

  “Think up some pretext. But do it, Deborah.”

  “All right,” she says. “But why? What’s happened that makes you think she might be missing?”

  We pull up at the garage. “You can use the phone in the office. Please hurry,” I beg her.

  Deborah does as I ask without further question. She looks up the number in the directory on Sonny’s counter and dials. In a moment there’s an answer. “Hello,” Deborah says. “Is this Shirley? Hi, Shirley, it’s Deborah Miller calling. Fine, thanks. And you? Uh, Shirley, I found a young girl’s watch in the pharmacy today not long after I remember seeing you there with your daughter. I was just wondering if it might not be Rhonda’s. Yeah? Oh, well, would you mind just asking her anyway, just to be sure. Sure, I’ll wait.” She looks at me and whispers, “She’s obviously home.” Then: “Oh, great. Okay then Shirley, you take care now.”

  “She’s definitely there?” I ask.

  “Yes, I could hear her talking.”

  “Thank God.”

  “What is it, Lucas? Why were you thinking she might not be at home?”

  I tell Deborah then about what Beth and I did earlier, culminating with our hearing something being dragged into Herb’s basement.

  “That’s creepy,” she says, her eyes as big as poker chips. “What if it’s another victim? What if---”

  “Who knows what it was? It could have been anything.”

  “You’ve got to go back to Herb’s and check out that basement.” Deborah says.

  What is it with these women? I notice she suggests I’ve got to go check it out, not we. “I’m not going back there again, Deborah. It’s too risky. What if he comes back?”

  “But Beth said he’s in Barstow.”

  “Maybe he is and maybe he isn’t. Maybe that wasn’t even Herb we heard at his place. For all we know there’s …”

  “What? An accomplice?”

  “Hey, I don’t know. But I think we need to calm down and think things out better. We can’t just go breaking into the houses of everybody we might suspect of something.”

  “You’ve already broken into his house,” she elucidates. “You’d just be finishing the job.”

  “Thank you so much for refining and clarifying that point for me,” I say.

  “We have to do something, Lucas.”

  21

  “Let’s go inside and think this through,“ I suggest.

  This is the first time Deborah has seen my place - what Sonny laughingly refers to as ‘Tunney Towers.’ As with Beth, I sense an internal grimace as she inspects my sparse furnishings and modest accommodations. She doesn’t bat an eye when she sees Victor. I’ve come to believe that everyone - Deborah and Harold included - now simply regard him as my dog.

  Ever the organized one, Deborah pulls a small notepad and pencil from her purse and sits down at the kitchen table. “All right. Let’s make notes on what we’ve got on each of the suspects so far,” she says. “No matter how minor it might seem.”

  As long as we’re here talking nobody is asking me to commit any felonies, so I’m happy to oblige. I sit opposite her at the table. “We really don’t have anything that could be considered incriminating evidence on anybody,” I say. “Just some random bits of information.”

  “That’s okay,” Deborah says, “we’ve got to start somewhere.”

  “Well, we know Paco is not Anne Marie’s real father. And, for what it’s worth, I saw Paco and Bonnie at the hotel recently and it looked like they were arguing. Not long after that I saw Bonnie going into the general store and she looked upset about something.”

  “Good, good,” Deborah says, scribbling madly away on her notepad. “What else?”

  “There’s the fact that Mel Hocking married a plain looking woman ten years older than him, and that she has the money in the family,” I add.

  “Okay,” Deborah says, still scribbling. “Keep going.”

  “There’s the strange activity out at Herb’s place. And the fact that it looks like he wasn’t out of town when he said he would be.”

  “Yeah, okay.” More scribbling.

  “And Sonny tells me Herb had three daughters and didn’t get along well with any of them.”

  Scribble, scribble.

  “Then, of course, your sighting of the Getty girl’s aura changing when Herb eyeballed her.”

  “Right,” Deborah says, bringing the scribbling to an end. “What else?”

  “That’s about it, so far,” I say.

  She looks pensive. “Except for the stuff about Herb, none of the rest of it means much. It’s just …”

  “Random information, like I said.”

  “Herb is our only real suspect, Lucas.”

  “I guess. Oh, there's also the fact that Sonny had a bad childhood. His old man beat him and his sister. They were abandoned by their mother.”

  Deborah looks at me in a ‘you’ve got to be kidding’ posture. “Sonny?”

  “Hey, it’s information.”

  “Yes, but Sonny?” She’s deep i
n thought for a moment. “We’ve got to find out what’s in Herb’s basement.”

  I’m heartened only by the mention of ‘we’ rather than ‘I.’ “I’ve had it for tonight, Deborah. I’m not up to another episode out at Herb’s.”

  “But he’s only away for tonight,” she pleads. “It’s our only opportunity to get in there.”

  “Oh, man.”

  “Please, Lucas.”

  How do I get myself into these situations. “Shit. Let’s go.”

  Once again, we’re out on the highway west of town, bearing in on Herb’s secluded abode. This time, however, the decision to illegally enter his home is taken out of our hands. There’s a light burning in the kitchen, and I see the back end of a pickup I don’t recognize parked behind the house.

  “Well, that’s that,” I say as I motor past.

  “Pull up over here,” Deborah orders me. “We can sneak back on foot and peak in the window.”

  “Listen to me, we’re not peaking in any windows. Alright?”

  “Lucas, how else are we going to find out what’s going on in there?”

  Why is it I'm constantly being talked into doing things I don’t want to do by the women in my life? I don’t have an answer for that one but, somehow, I find myself pulling off the road, parking the Jeep, and cutting the lights. The road dips a little just past Herb’s house so we can’t be seen from where we are.

  “You stay with the Jeep,” I say. “I’ll have a look. If I come running, get this thing ready to go.”

  “I’ll come with you,” she says.

  “No, look at the shoes you’re wearing. If we were spotted, you’d never make any time in those. I go, you stay.”

  Deborah ponders her poor choice of footwear. Not too reluctantly, she agrees with my plan of attack. “Okay, but be careful.”

  “Don’t worry, I will be.”

  Fortunately there’s a bit of moonlight and I can make my way across the rocky soil without any painful encounters with thorny bushes.

  I approach the house from the rear and cautiously make my way to the window from which light is being emitted. I hear a man speaking. The voice is vaguely familiar but it’s definitely not Herb’s. As I crouch beneath the window I hear a woman’s voice. She sounds young. There’s no urgency in either of the voices, no indication that there’s any problem. My heart is hammering wildly but I feel compelled to identify the source of the voices I'm hearing. I chance a glance through the window. All I see is a young woman’s back and she’s on her way up the stairs to what I assume are the bedrooms. I wouldn’t bet my life on it but if I had to guess I’d say it’s Mel Hocking’s daughter, Alicia. The man she’s with is ahead of her on the stairs and all I can see of him are his jeans and boots.

  I have a good look at the pickup, memorize the license plate number, and retrace my steps back to the Jeep.

  “Well?” Deborah says, as I climb behind the wheel.

  “I wouldn’t swear to it but I think I saw Alicia Hocking with a man.”

  “Alicia?” she says, like I must be mistaken. “Who was the man?”

  “I could only see him from the knees down. They were going up the stairs. But I had a good look at that pickup and I’ll know it if I see it again.”

  “Was there any indication that Alicia was there against her will?”

  “No, definitely not. She was following whoever the guy was voluntarily, if not eagerly,” I say.

  “Then I guess there’s nothing else we can do for now,” Deborah says.

  I fire up the Jeep and we return to town.

  After I drop Deborah off at her house I return home to a ringing telephone. It’s Beth. “Oh, you’re there,“ she says. “I was just about to hang up. Were you out?”

  I take a big breath. “Yeah. Back out at Herb’s,” I admit.

  “What?” she says, a little more than mildly astonished. “I can’t believe you’d go back there again.”

  Understandably, I’m somewhat reluctant to admit to the circumstances under which I undertook this last little escapade. “Well …”

  She’s waiting for a little elaboration on my ‘well’ explanation. “Well, what?” she says.

  “Deborah called, and---”

  “Deborah called.” Although spoken calmly, this is not said with a great deal of love or affection. “And so you … what? Jumped at her beck and call? Rushed back out to Herb’s after taking me home?”

  “Beth, it wasn't like that. When I got home, Deborah called to tell---"

  “I can’t believe you’d treat me this way.”

  “Listen to me, please. I’ve already told you my relationship with Deborah is strictly as a friend. There’s nothing---”

  “This is not going to work, Lucas.”

  “Beth---”

  “Why don’t you just leave me alone, okay?” This is followed by an ominous click.

  That makes the fifth time in the last two days she’s hung up on me. I don’t need a boulder to fall on my head to know things are not going particularly well on the relationship front.

  But why is it, I wonder, that Beth has such difficulty believing there’s nothing sinister going on between me and Deborah? Oh, I know that my every move must make it look like I’m some kind of snake-in-the-grass but there seems to be more to it than that. She seems totally unwilling to give any credence at all to my heartfelt explanations. Surely there isn’t more to my relationship with Deborah than even I realize. No, no way. Deborah is nothing more than a good friend and confidant. Even though it’s perfectly obvious that she has a romantic interest in me, I have given her absolutely no reason to believe I share her feelings. Right?

  Right. Absolutely, no question about it.

  I’m totally positively almost pretty sure.

  22

  Sonny and I are having coffee in the shop the next morning. A few minutes earlier he invited me to join him at the diner but I prudently declined, citing an unfriendly waitress in residence. He’s intrigued, hoping I’ll fill him in on all the juicy details of my stormy love life, so he stays and keeps me company. Although he acts genuinely concerned at the prospect of my impending romantic doom I have a sneaking suspicion he’s secretly pleased with developments, or the lack thereof, depending on how one chooses to view it.

  “Don’t know how you keep managing to piss that woman off,” Sonny says, “but you gotta be the stupidest son-of-a-bitch ever born to let her slip away. Far as I’m concerned she’s the perfect woman.”

  “She’s not so perfect,” I mutter.

  “Oh yeah?” Sonny says. “How do ya figure?”

  “She can’t cook worth a shit,” I announce sullenly.

  Sonny ponders this statement for a moment. “How is she at openin’ beers?” he asks.

  “Seems very adept,” I admit.

  “Like I said,” Sonny says. “Perfect. So how come she’s mad at you now anyway?” he wants to know.

  “Who ever knows why a woman is mad,” I say in an effort to deflect further discussion on the matter.

  “Deborah Miller got anything to do with it?”

  “Why would you think that?” I ask.

  “Hell, boy, a blind man could see she’s got the hots for ya.”

  “You’re crazy, old man.”

  “I am, huh?”

  “Yes, you are.”

  “Suppose you haven’t noticed she’s been givin’ a lot more attention to her appearance lately,” he says.

  “That’s right, I haven’t noticed.”

  “Uh huh.”

  I am utterly dismayed when I look up to see Deborah walking into the shop. She’s wearing a pale green dress with a neckline cut low enough to reveal an enticing bit of cleavage, flesh-colored nylons, and black three-inch heels. Her makeup has been applied to enhance her eyes, with just a hint of blush to give definition to her cheeks. Her dark, chestnut-colored hair, normally worn in a prissy kind of bun, is cascading in loose waves around her face and comes to her shoulders. In short, she looks absolutely stunni
ng.

  Her appearance probably wouldn’t draw a crowd in a Las Vegas casino but here in Cutter’s Grove she might just as well have walked into the shop wearing a pearl necklace and a bikini thong for all the attention she’ll garner.

  Sonny gets up from the stool he’s been perched on. “Uh huh,” he says again. “Well, if you’ll excuse me I think I’ll head on up to the diner.” He gives me an exaggerated wink and hobbles out. “Mornin’, Deborah,” he says as he passes her.

  “Sonny,” she says.

  Even if I were to somehow find a way to make her disappear immediately, there is no way her arrival here will not be the news of the town within five minutes.

  I’m cooked.

  I’m sitting on a three foot high stool in front of my work bench as Deborah approaches me. Despite my anxiety about how her visit here will be interpreted, I can’t help but feel a stirring of animal attraction for her. I am, after all, only human. A stupid human I admit, but human.

  “Lucas, is everything all right?” she asks in an uncharacteristically sultry voice. “You look a little nervous.”

  “I’m not nervous, don’t be silly,” I say. But the repetitive swallowing and eye twitching are not convincing evidence of my lack of angst. She’s now close enough that I can identify the smell of jasmine-scented shampoo in her hair. I’m growing increasingly uncomfortable with her presence here and particularly with how Beth will react when she hears of it. And hear of it she will. Of that I have no doubt whatsoever.

  “Mr. Tunney?” a man’s deep voice calls out.

  I jump off my stool like a kid caught watching dirty movies. “Yeah,” I call out.

  Sergeant Yates is standing in the doorway leading from the office into the shop.

  “Sergeant,” I say, walking toward him, relieved that whatever was about to take place in the shop has been interrupted, “what can I do for you?”

  “Wonder if I could have a moment of your time,” he says.

  “Sure.”

  He glances over my shoulder to where Deborah waits. “Maybe we could step outside,” he suggests.

  I follow him out to his patrol car. He leans his butt against the hood of the car and reaches into his shirt pocket, extracts a pack of cigarettes, and shakes one loose. He looks at me over the flame of his lighter as he lights up.