Body in the Bog ff-7

by Katherine Hall Page

  Anyway, he’s been after me to put money into the Estates, but I don’t want to, and he’s hopping mad.” Faith’s curiosity was beginning to resemble Alice’s.

  And Lora’s tale was making Faith feel as if she were growing and shrinking in turn. Where would Lora, a nursery school teacher—and Faith knew exactly how underpaid she was—possibly get the kind of money Joey would be interested in? This wasn’t a question of piggy banks.

  “You see,” Lora continued obligingly, “Grandfather gave us all a lump sum of money when we turned twenty-one. We’re supposed to use it to make more—

  that is, start a business, whatever. My dad used his to buy the dealership.”

  Deane Toyota was now in the hands of Cyrus junior’s son Bobby, and it had always been a profitable venture. Faith was beginning to get some idea of the size of the nest egg. She’d found that New Englanders were remarkably reticent when it actually came to discussing dollars and cents in figures, as opposed to thinking about them, and she doubted Lora would tell them how pretty her penny was, but there were ways around this. Millicent probably knew.

  “I have told Joey a million times that I need the money for tuition. I want to get my master’s in early childhood education, but he thinks that’s not what Grandfather had in mind when he started the whole thing.”

  “But that surely wouldn’t cause him to threaten you.”

  “It also goes back to my mother. I get along fine with Bonnie. She was almost like a little mother to me when I was growing up, since she’s so much older.

  But she never liked my mother.” Lora put on a professional air. “For a child to lose her mother at that critical age—the onset of puberty—is particularly devastating, and especially since my mother was so young. I’m sure Bonnie resented her and saw her as trying to take her own mother’s place.” She went back to her conversational tone and reached for another piece of bread. “But what they’re really angry about, all of them, is that Daddy left his money to Mom—except for what had to go back into the family pot.”

  “The family pot?” Faith was learning more about the Deanes than she had ever imagined possible, and it was fascinating.

  “You have to give Grandfather back what he gave you, plus five percent of the profits you’ve made by the time you’re forty.”

  “But what if you don’t make a profit, or lose the money?” Tom asked.

  Lora was aghast. “I have no idea. That’s never happened.”

  Faith steered her back to Joey. “So your brother-in-law thought your father should have left some of his money to his family and not just to his widow?”

  “Yes. Daddy left some money for me to finish college, and my mother has loaned me some more. Nobody liked that, either. But after all, she was married to him for all those years and raised them. I would have thought they’d be grateful to her.” Faith was beginning to think it was more than the climate that had attracted Carolyn Deane to California. Something about being on the opposite side of the country. With a chorus of disapproval, or worse, every time you bought a new pair of panty hose, it was no wonder Carolyn wanted to put as much distance as possible between herself and these serpent’s teeth.

  “You didn’t want to move with your mother?” she asked.

  “No. Aleford is my home, and I’d miss my family.

  I’m especially close to the twins.”

  Cyrus junior’s youngest children by his first wife had been twin boys, Cyrus III and Eddie, now thirty years old. They were Deane Construction Company with their grandfather, having purchased partnerships with the eggs in their nests. This Cyrus was called

  “Terry”—short for tertius, meaning “third” in Latin—to avoid any possible confusion over two men with the same name in one family. He couldn’t be called “Gus”; everyone knew there was really only one.

  “Maybe I’m not getting this,” Tom said, shaking his head. All these Deanes were beginning to addle him.

  “Why would Joey want you out of town if he wants you to give him money? Wouldn’t he try being nice to you?”

  “Oh, he did do that. Remember when he let the kids climb all over his excavator, his steam shovel, after we read Mike Mulligan? And he was always inviting me over to the house for dinner. But once he understood that there was no way he was getting my money, he stopped. Telling me to get out of town is the threat.

  He wants to scare me into giving in.” Faith thought back to some of the scenes she’d witnessed in the past. Joey Madsen was noted for his violent temper. At last year’s Town Meeting, he’d started screaming at a fellow member over a line item in the budget and then later, outside, he’d engaged in a shoving match with the man. It would have gone further had Charley MacIsaac not promptly put a stop to it.

  “I’m afraid Lora does have a reason to be afraid of Joey. You should have heard him tonight, Tom. This project means everything to him, and he already must have sunk a fortune into it.”

  Faith made a note to herself to find out how close Joey was to forty and how soon he’d have to be thinking about putting his percentage back into the pot. It could be he was in need of cash for more than Alefordiana.

  “We can’t talk you into going to the police, Lora, so we have to come up with something else. I’d like to think there won’t be any more calls, but that’s not how people like this operate. Whoever it is will keep on.” Tom looked solemn. After a while, calls did not satisfy whatever aberration was motivating the caller, and the next step was something he didn’t want to think about.

  He wished the young woman would be sensible.

  “Okay. Since I’m not going to the police, what should I do?”

  Faith answered. “I’ll try to find out more about Brad. Maybe we can get an idea of how badly he really is taking the breakup.”

  “Badly. Believe me.” Lora seemed more than a little pleased.

  “And you should go to your grandfather and tell him you suspect Joey is harassing you. I know Gus, and he wouldn’t be at all pleased at Joey’s behavior—if it is Joey,” Tom advised.

  “Grandfather! No way! He’d go through the roof and be mad at me for causing problems. We’re supposed to be the perfect all-American family with no disagreements. In fact, if he knew I was telling you about this, he’d be furious.”

  Faith had suspected as much. The Deanes were not known for airing their dirty, or even clean, linen in public.

  “How about Bonnie?” she suggested. “You said that you’d been close growing up.”

  “That’s possible,” Lora said slowly, mulling it over.

  “Bonnie’s the boss in their house, and if it is Joey, she’ll put a stop to it right away.”

  “I think you ought to talk to her as soon as possible,” Tom said. The seriousness of his tone seemed to impress the young woman.

  “Tomorrow’s Thursday and Joey will be off working somewhere. He still hasn’t finished that house on Whipple Hill Road.”

  Faith knew the house. It was an eyesore wedged between two beautiful turn-of-the-century grandes dames, completely destroying one of Aleford’s prettiest corners. Now instead of a long stretch of rolling lawn with huge ancient oaks and locusts, you saw a two-car garage almost as big as the house itself—a house boasting two decks and a gazebo.

  “Bonnie is home with the baby for a few more weeks.” Lora was thinking out loud. “And I can go over there after school. I haven’t seen the baby in ages.”

  “Good.” Tom sounded satisfied. He wasn’t convinced Joey Madsen was making the calls, but this way, someone related to Lora would know about them and perhaps be able to get her to take action. If by chance it was Joey, Bonnie would indeed put a stop to it immediately. Bonnie Madsen resembled her patriar-chal grandfather. And there was no question who would assume his role in the future, despite the number of aunts, uncles, cousins all within shouting distance. Bonnie worked for Deane Properties, too, and her latest coup was a new mall development project in nearby Byford. She’d gone into labor an hour after the papers were sig
ned. Gus was still telling the story proudly all over town.

  “I’m sure she’ll understand,” Faith said. “Women have moved far beyond the stage where their financial decisions are dictated by men. If you don’t think Alefordiana Estates is a good investment, then you shouldn’t be pressured—even by someone in your own family.”

  “Oh, I think it’s a good investment,” Lora said.

  “Joey’s going to make a ton of money. I have nothing against the idea personally. I just don’t want to put my money there right now.”

  Faith looked at Tom dismally—a politically incorrect damsel in distress.

  Lora left, thoughts apparently back to circle time and “If You’re Happy and You Know It, Clap Your Hands.” Faith and Tom were less sanguine.

  “Were you being discreet or do you really not know much about Brad Hallowell?” Tom asked his wife.

  “I really don’t, but the more I think about this whole thing, the more likely it seems that the calls are from him.”

  “Hell has no fury—in this case—like a man scorned?”

  “Exactly, and I’m worried about where that fury might lead next. Eventually, he’s going to be driven to make good on his threat,” she added.

  “Lora was genuinely frightened when she arrived, quite hysterical.”

  “But you calmed her down,” Faith commented somewhat archly.

  Tom thought it was time to change the subject. He was getting a little tired of Miss Lora. He yawned and reached for Faith. “It’s getting late. Sleepy?”

  “Not all that much,” she answered, fitting her head into the place just below his chin that seemed to have been designed for it.

  Later, when she was drifting off to sleep, Faith realized she hadn’t told Tom much about the selectmen’s meeting. Now that Town Meeting had adjourned, Aleford, formerly glued to the local-access cable channel, had had nothing to watch on TV. Seinfeld was into reruns and all those stacks of must-read books next to the bed weren’t as enticing as they had seemed during the cold of winter. It was the itchiness of spring.

  Then, just when Aleford was ready to give up and pick up their tomes, Alefordiana Estates came along.

  As a saga, it was more riveting than Melrose Place and the Nibelungen rolled into one. It was enacted not just at selectmen’s meetings but also at the planning board’s. Then there were all the behind-the-scenes scenes at the Minuteman Café, Shop ’n Save, the library, Patriot Drug—wherever two or three Aleford residents happened to gather. Tonight’s selectmen’s meeting was the first of Joey Madsen’s final presentations of his plans, his dreams. He’d already run the gauntlet of the planning board and various town commissions. Even he was not naïve enough to think they would be approved on the first go-round, and he was right.

  Joey and his lawyer had dressed appropriately in dark suits. But the resemblance ended there. Joey was a large man with a thick mat of curly brown hair, beginning to show a dusting of gray. His round face was tanned and his skin was rough. He always seemed to need a shave, even tonight, when a fresh nick in his chin had indicated a recent encounter with a razor.

  But it was his hands that stood out—enormous hands, with fingers easily equaling two of Faith’s. Strong, very strong hands. His lawyer had the look of an old Yankee family in need of fewer cousins marrying.

  Everything about him was bleached out, from his complexion to his thinning blond hair. He wore a signet ring. Joey’s hands were conspicuously bare of even a wedding band.

  Joey had done the talking, flinging over the large blueprints, citing drainage studies, setbacks—all according to code, and with minimal wildlife impact. At home, he’d said to his wife, Bonnie, “When the rac-coons are in their garbage, they’re on the phone to Charley MacIsaac right away. But put them in a god-forsaken bog that nobody’s thought about for years and suddenly it’s like they’re about to become extinct or something.”

  In front of the camera at the meeting, however, his tone had been measured and controlled. He spoke in glowing terms of the new families the Estates would bring to Aleford, contributing their talents to the community and enriching everyone’s lives. At one point, he seemed to get a bit choked up as he spoke of “a new generation of children waiting to enjoy the riches of our historic community.” Viewers at home were able to hear, although not see, a speaker who commented audibly that there weren’t too many families with young children around who could afford $900,000 mansions. Of course, it was Millicent Revere McKinley’s unmistakable voice, and people began to get excited. The show was about to begin. Joey had frowned but hadn’t missed a beat as he segued into a paean to those older occupants who had worked hard all their lives just so they could spend their golden years in a place like Alefordiana. “And their gold,” said the voice. The chairman called for order.

  When Joey’s presentation was over, it was time for questions from the board, but before any of them could open his or her mouth, Millicent hopped up and cried, “Point of order!” in a manner worthy of her “The British are coming” ancestor, if indeed that was what he’d said. As with most things, there were several opinions on this in Aleford.

  Penelope Bartlett, the current chairman of the board, looked a bit piqued. Millicent was a friend, but toying with the selectmen’s agenda was pushing the boundaries of friendship.

  “Yes, Miss McKinley?”

  Citing precedent, a 1912 discussion of new shrub-bery on the village green, Millicent demanded equal time.

  “But equal time for what?” Penny asked. “It is the understanding of the board that only Mr. Madsen is submitting building plans tonight.”

  “Equal time to oppose his plans.” Millicent had been Penny’s campaign manager, and now she shook her head sorrowfully. Once they get in power . . .

  “Madam Chairman,” Morris Phyfe, one of the two liberals on the board, spoke up, “I believe Miss McKinley is within her rights.” Historically, the board comprised two liberals, two moderates, and one conservative. This kept things nicely in balance, the town believed, and campaigns not in accord had little chance.

  Millicent made a motion from the floor to vote on the issue. Penny was now seriously annoyed and forgot her Robert’s Rules. “Millicent, you know you can’t do that.”

  Morris came to the rescue and made the motion himself that the board vote on Miss McKinley’s point.

  Faith noted that Morris was fulfilling his duty not only as protector of free speech but perhaps also as protector of his own property, which abutted the land in question. It could well be the Phyfes were not eager to have a multimillion-dollar complex-cum-pool and putting green in their own backyard.

  To no one’s surprise, Morris’s motion passed. Sanborn Harrington, the conservative, voted against it.

  Penny abstained—and would hear about it, she knew.

  The rest voted to let Millicent offer a rebuttal before the board. Joey Madsen swept the room with a look that had it indeed been daggers would have resulted in wall-to-wall gore. He acidly asked again for questions from the board and Morris Phyfe spoke, after taking an unusually long amount of time looking for a single sheet of yellow lined paper upon which he had apparently written his query.

  “Mr. Madsen, it is my understanding that a building of historic significance, known as the Turner farmhouse, is included in this parcel. Parts of the structure date back to the early eighteenth century and it is listed on the town’s Historic Register. What are your plans for the dwelling?”

  Joey smiled. Faith had wondered why he seemed so relieved. Perhaps it was not one of the questions he’d been dreading? She, for one, planned to look at his proposal with whatever the visual equivalent of a fine-tooth comb was to ferret these out.

  “The whole premise behind our proposal is uniting the best of the past with the best of the present to create a perfect future.” Was the man running for office or trying to build some houses?

  “The Turner farm is what drew me to this treasured part of Aleford in the first place. The farmhouse will be lovi
ngly restored as living history, not an inch of the original structure changed in any way. It will form the jewel in the crown of the community, its simple clapboard reminding us of those who toiled here before we did.”

  Morris interrupted Joey before he started reciting Longfellow. “So it is not true that you plan to appeal to the Historic Commission for a waiver to raze the house?”

  Joey looked for a moment as if he might lose it.

  Millicent smiled a slow, little smile that did not show her teeth. “Absolutely not,” he shouted, “And if that’s what’s being said in town, it’s a damned lie.” Penny rapped her gavel. “I must remind the speaker to contain himself.”

  He did, quickly. “The plans for the preservation of the Turner farm are included in the packet the board has received. Over the years, certain necessary repairs haven’t been made and I could not in good conscience put the house on the market without these, but I repeat, nothing of a historic nature will be altered. And you can stand and watch us if you want.” Joey was still fuming and barely in control. He bumped into the easel he’d been using and the fancy visuals the company had prepared slid to the floor.

  While he and his lawyer were on their hands and knees picking things up, Morris Phyfe spoke again.

  “Madam Chairman, I’d like to review the material Mr. Madsen has prepared for the board and request that I be allotted additional time for questions at the next meeting.”

  “I’m sure we shall all benefit from reviewing these documents, and it is not my intent to limit questions to this evening.” Penny sounded cross. Millicent had already stood up in readiness for her presentation—or assault. Joey sat down. Both the audience at home and those in attendance took a deep breath. Millicent had marched to the front and was staring directly into the camera.

  “Madame Chairman, in view of the lateness of the hour, I suggest we adjourn the meeting until next week, placing Miss McKinley’s item of business first on our agenda,” Sanborn Harrington spoke sternly, in a voice that was oddly languid and nasal, the mark of his Boston Brahmin upbringing. He was determined to carry the day in this one regard, at least.