by Unknown
“Okay, let’s talk about last night,” Des said. “You told me you saw her car leave the house about nine, then come back again a half hour later, right?”
“Right . . .”
“Then you saw her load up her car and clear out again, this time for good. Mr. Gilliam, are you absolutely sure that’s what you saw?”
Chuckie took a long time draining his beer before he said, “Lady, why are you climbing me?”
“Believe me, I’m not. I’m just thinking about something I learned myself at the art academy—it’s not strictly old ladies and gays, by the way. They get all kinds. And one thing they tell you is to draw what you see as opposed to what you know. Did you really see what you saw? Or do you just know you did? Are you with me?”
“Not even close,” he said, running a hand through his thinning hair.
“How good a look did you get at her? Try to be as specific as possible. Believe me, it’ll be worth your while—if you can help me, I’m in a position to help you.”
“Uh-huh, I get it now,” Chuckie said sourly. “If I don’t help you, you’ll be all over me for every little thing, right? My taillight’s out on my pickup. My dog’s disturbing the neighbors. Sure, I know how it goes. Well, let me tell you something, lady. I don’t got no dog!”
“And that’s not how I go about my business.”
“Bullshit,” he shot back. “You got the law on your side and I got nothing.”
“Here’s the deal, straight up,” Des said evenly. “If you help me I can tell the big bad lieutenant to steer his investigation right around Chuckie Gilliam. Chuckie Gilliam is a cooperative, fully rehabilitated citizen who did everything he could to be of assistance. If you don’t, given your record chances are excellent he’ll be stuffing your frame in a cruiser and taking you up to Meriden. Days and nights will go by. Sandy will have to come get you, if she still wants you. And there won’t be a single thing I can do to help you. Now let’s try it one more time, shall we? Tell me what you saw.”
“Okay, okay,” he said hotly. “What I saw was Melanie getting out of her car and running inside.”
“Describe her.”
“Well, she was kind of hunched over. And she was wearing this big red ski parka like I seen Melanie wear a million times. It has a hood that’s lined with coyote fur or something.”
Des nodded. Melanie was not wearing a coat when she washed up. “Okay, good,” she said encouragingly. “Did she have her hood up?”
“Uh . . . yeah.”
“And so you assumed it was Melanie. Anyone would, right?”
Chuckie frowned at her, perplexed. “Huh?”
“Think about this for a second: Is it possible that the person who you saw wasn’t her?”
“You’re saying, like, what if some other woman was driving her car and wearing her jacket?”
“Yes.”
“I guess it’s possible,” Chuckie admitted.
“And is it possible it wasn’t even a woman at all?”
“What?”
“You saw a hunched-over figure in a big, hooded jacket. You and I both know that Melanie was a good-sized girl, solidly built. This street’s dimly lit. You were standing all the way over here. So I’m asking you: Is it possible that the person you saw was a man? Think hard, please. It’s important.”
“I guess . . .” he allowed. “But why would someone do that?”
“To make it look like Melanie was skipping town, when in reality she was already dead. I think you saw her killer, Mr. Gilliam. The hooded parka was strictly in case a neighbor such as yourself might be watching.” And it might have played, too, if Melanie’s body hadn’t washed up so soon. That couldn’t have been part of the plan. A mistake. Had to be. Des lingered there on the porch, sensing that Chuckie was still holding on to something. He had a semi-foxy look on his mega-dumb face. “You told me that Melanie had no man in her life lately,” she mentioned, taking a stab.
“That I know of,” he acknowledged, scratching at his beard. “None dropped by is all I know.”
“Did anyone else drop by?”
“Like who?”
Des raised her chin at him. “Like anyone else.”
He cleared his throat uncomfortably. “Well, she did get visits from Greta Patterson. Melanie used to do clerical work for her over at the gallery.”
“You mean before she went to work for Superintendent Falconer?”
“Yeah, three, four years back. I recognized Greta on account of I’ve done work for her myself on her house—siding, sill work.”
“How often?”
“How often have I worked for her?”
“How often did she stop by to see Melanie?”
“Pretty often,” Chuckie admitted.
“What, once a week?”
“Twice a week, maybe.”
Des took off her big hat and stood there twirling it in her fingers. “You say Melanie used to work for Greta. Is that all she was to her?”
“I don’t know what you mean,” he answered sharply.
“Yes, you do.” Des stared at him intently. “You know exactly what I mean.”
He looked away, swallowing. “Okay, maybe I do. But I don’t know the answer.”
“You didn’t wonder?”
Chuckie heaved a pained sigh and said, “Sure, I did. I wonder about a lot of stuff, lady. That don’t mean I get it.”
“Now you’re living on my side of the street.” She put her hat back on, flashing a smile at him. “Don’t take it so hard, Mr. Gilliam. We’re not supposed to know all the answers. In fact, we’re lucky if we even figure out what the questions are. Please be sure to tell Sandy that I said good night, will you?”
There were lights on inside the Patterson Gallery. And when Des slowed up her cruiser out front she could see Greta seated in there at her oak partner’s desk, pecking away at a computer in the soft glow cast by her desk lamp’s old-fashioned green glass shade.
Des got out and rapped her knuckles on the glass front door. Greta squinted at her over her reading glasses, then waved and came over to let her in.
“I hope I’m not interrupting you,” Des said, as Greta unlocked the door.
“Not at all, trooper,” she said cheerfully. “I was just trying to catch up on some of my gallery work. I’m afraid that Wendell has hogged most of my time lately. First he had me handling some estate-related matters. Then I had to find a criminal attorney for Jim Bolan. Do have a seat,” she said, filing the work she had on her computer screen.
Des sat in the wooden chair next to Greta’s desk, crossing her long legs. “This estate work you were doing—it wouldn’t have any bearing on Moose’s death, would it?”
“You know I can’t talk about that,” Greta responded with a grin.
“Never hurts to ask,” Des said easily. “What can you talk to me about?”
Greta sat back in her swivel chair, studying her. “Try me.”
“How about Melanie Zide?”
She let out a harsh laugh. “What about that little cow?”
“Somebody shot her. Her body just washed up on Big Sister.”
Greta froze for a second, stunned. Then her squarish, blotchy face seemed to scrunch inward upon itself, like a beer can being crushed in a strongman’s fist.
Des had wondered if she’d get a reaction. She got one. She got pain. Definitely pain. “I’m told that Melanie used to do clerical work for you.”
“That’s true,” Greta said hoarsely. “She’s . . . she was a good little worker. But she needed more hours than I could give her, so I helped her get that job with the school district.”
“You two were close?”
“If by that you’re wondering whether we were mixed up in some form of unwholesome, incorrect, same-sex physical relationship, the answer is yes,” Greta said bluntly. “And in answer to your next question: Yes, I did care about her. What else do you want to know?”
“Did Colin know about you two?”
“We have no secrets from ea
ch other.” Greta’s voice suddenly sounded very tired and old. “I told you that already.”
“And I didn’t believe you. Everyone has secrets.”
Greta got up out of her chair and went over to a landscape painting by Hangtown’s grandfather that hung over the fireplace. It depicted the tidal marshes near Lord’s Cove at dawn, with the steam rising off the water and the early-morning sunlight slanting low. “I love the light in this painting. Every time I look at it I feel as if I’ve never truly seen the dawn before.” She gazed at it a moment longer, then shook herself and turned back to Des. “I was devastated when Colin moved out. It made me realize that you really can’t count on anyone else in this world. We’d had our ups and downs, naturally. But I’d still expected that he’d be there by my side when I got old and decrepit. Now . . .” Greta trailed off, shaking her head. “Now I’m not so sure. He’s not sure. And so I find myself living these days in a constant state of paralyzing fear, I’m ashamed to say.”
“Fear’s nothing to be ashamed of.”
“I’m one of the reasons why the school board wants Colin out, you know,” Greta pointed out bitterly. “I didn’t want to say anything to you about this last night, in front of him, but they don’t approve of me—the concerned young mothers. They don’t think I am a suitable school superintendent’s wife. It’s the Salem witch hunt all over again, you know. The intolerant and self-righteous are taking over, and they’re imposing their mean, narrow vision of correct behavior on everyone else. If you’re not one of them, then you are someone to be shunned, someone evil. The new school building is just a smoke screen. The real reason they want Colin out is that he’s a bisexual depressive with an aging bull dyke for a wife. They don’t want him or me anywhere near their dear, precious kids, twisting their dear, precious minds. These are scary times, trooper. These are not the enlightened sixties and seventies of my youth. I was fooled. I thought we had become more open-minded, more accepting of other people’s differences. We didn’t. The pendulum has swung back the other way, and now we are hurtling back to the dark ages all over again, fighting the same old battles. Only now we’re losing.” She came back to her desk and sat down again, her eyes beginning to puddle with tears. “Poor Melanie . . . Poor cow.”
“Where did you go last evening after the lieutenant and I spoke with you at your house?”
“I was home with Colin all evening,” she answered, cocking her head at Des curiously.
“You didn’t leave?”
“No, I didn’t leave. I was concerned about him. So we threw another log on the fire and we worked on a jigsaw puzzle together—Fountain Head. We do that one every year. We went to Hawaii on our honeymoon, you know. Doesn’t that just quaint you to death?” Greta broke off, her chest rising and falling. “Now if you’ll please excuse me, trooper, II have a lot of work to do.”
Des thanked her for her time and started for the door. By the time she had closed it behind her she could hear Greta Patterson sobbing.
“Can I buy you a round, trooper?”
Dirk Doughty was drinking hot cider all alone at a tavern table in front of the fire in the Frederick House’s wood-paneled pub. On the table before him was a copy of The Sporting News, opened to the waiver-wire page with its long columns of agate type detailing which teams have signed or cut which players. In the world of journeymen ballplayers, old habits apparently died hard.
“I think I’d like that,” said Des, taking a seat across from him. An older couple was sipping brandy at one of the other tables. Otherwise, they were alone in the pub. “But let’s put it on my tab, because I never did get my dinner tonight.” She ordered a roast turkey sandwich to go along with the cider, then said, “I’m real sorry to bother you again, but there are some other things I need to ask you.”
“That’s okay by me,” he said, squaring his broad shoulders. “I’m always better off when I’m talking to other people. I don’t do well if I sit by myself for too long. I think too much.”
“I guess we can all do that.”
Dirk sat back in his chair, folding his arms in front of his chest. He wore a navy-blue fleece top emblazoned with the logo of a sneaker maker. “How can I help you?”
“By telling me what you know about Melanie Zide.”
Dirk reddened slightly. “Melanie? Well, sure. We went to high school together. In fact, I ran into her just the other day over at Doug’s Texaco. We stopped and got caught up. She was real glad to hear I’ve remarried and I’m staying sober and all.”
The pink-cheeked barmaid returned now with Des’s sandwich and cider.
Des dived in hungrily. “Were you ever involved with Melanie?”
“Why are you so interested in her?”
Des told him why. “Naturally, the lieutenant’s asked me to find out as much background about her as I can,” she explained.
Dirk sat there staring grimly into the fire for a moment, a thumb absently stroking his square jaw. “I can help you out, I guess. But I want you to know this is not something I would talk to you about under normal circumstances, and I take no pleasure in doing so now. I always liked Melanie, understand?”
“I do.”
Dirk shot a furtive glance over his shoulder at the other couple in the pub, then leaned across the table toward Des, lowering his voice. “The real deal is that everyone was involved with Melanie—me, Timmy Keefe, Timmy’s brother, Will . . . Back when we were fifteen years old, Melanie was a rite of passage, I guess, you’d call her. Everybody’s first. You got yourself a couple of joints, a six-pack, and you hit the beach after dark with Melanie Zide. It wasn’t like she’d do just anybody. If she thought you were stuck-up or phony, she wouldn’t let you anywhere near her. But if she thought you were okay then, well, you were in.” He trailed off, shifting uncomfortably in his chair. “I can’t believe somebody shot her. You say her body washed up on Big Sister?”
“It’s possible that someone took her out on their boat and dumped her.” Des took another bite of her sandwich, dabbing at her mouth with her napkin. “You mentioned you’ve been out on Tim’s Boston Whaler.”
“That’s right. He and I . . .” Dirk’s eyes suddenly widened in alarm, his body tensing. “Wait, you don’t think I did it, do you? I swear I didn’t. You’ve got to believe me.”
“It’s not my job to believe or disbelieve you, Mr. Doughty,” Des said, calmly sipping at her cider. “I’m simply recanvassing, that’s all. Since I’m the lowly resident trooper, I’ve been given the longest of the long shots. But I have to do my job, understand?”
“I guess.” Dirk relaxed a bit, although his big calloused hand was still gripping his cider mug so tightly that his knuckles were white. “As long as you understand I had no reason to kill Melanie. I mean, hell, why would I?”
“In theory? Because she knew something that could hurt you.”
“Like what?”
“Like, say, the identity of Colin Falconer’s male cyber lover, Cutter.”
“Why the hell would I care about that?”
“Because you’re Cutter.”
Dirk gaped at her in shock. “Now look, I know I use a laptop, but that’s to keep track of my billing, not to carry on some . . . some . . . Hey, we are still talking theory here, right?”
“All we’re doing is spitballing,” Des assured him.
“That’s good,” he said, pausing to sip his cider. “Because I honestly can’t think of a single reason why I’d want to carry on with Falconer that way.”
“I can—to ruin his career.”
“Why would I want to do that?”
“Because he was having an affair with Moose Frye, and you still loved her. You never stopped loving her. That’s why you came back to Dorset—to try to win her back.”
“Whoa, I’m calling time-out here . . .” Dirk furrowed his brow at her, bewildered. “Are we still spitballing?”
Of course they were. But there was no reason he had to know that. So Des said, “You tell me. She got you that job with
the Leanses, didn’t she?”
“Well, yeah,” he admitted. “But what does that mean?”
“That you were still in touch with her, maybe.”
“She was like a sister to me,” Dirk insisted, his voice catching slightly. “We all grew up together—me, Moose, Takai, Timmy, Melanie—all of us.”
“And your wife, Laurie?”
“What about Laurie?”
“Is your life together back in Toledo as solid as you’ve been portraying it?”
“It’s rock-solid,” Dirk said, his face a tight, angry mask.
“Would she echo that if I called her up on the phone?”
“Okay, so we have some issues,” he said defensively. “Name one couple that doesn’t. I want kids. A whole bunch of kids. She wants to keep working full-time. My work takes me on the road a lot. She hates the road. She loves Toledo. I hate Toledo. But the important thing is I’m staying focused and sober. We can work this stuff out. We can work it all out.”
“When was the last time you spoke to Laurie?”
“Three weeks ago,” he admitted, ducking his head. “How did you know about us anyway? Have you already called her?”
“No, but you should. The more you talk, the better.”
“You sound awful sure about that,” Dirk observed.
“Only because I’ve been through it. He was in Washington. I was in New Haven. Our marriage died somewhere on the New Jersey Turnpike, just outside of Trenton. You have to stay each other’s best friend, Mr. Doughty. The day the friendship stops, the marriage stops. So call her. Call her to say good morning. Call her to say good night. Damn it, just call her, will you?”
The charred remains of the feed troughs and livestock had been cleared away from the ditch out in front of Winston Farms. But a foul stench still lingered in the air, just to serve as a reminder of what had happened there—not that Des or anyone else in Dorset would ever be able to forget.
She cruised another half mile past the crossroads before she turned at the fire station onto Mill Road. Tim Keefe’s was the third house on the right, an old wood-shingled farmhouse with a sagging porch. His pretty blond wife, Debbie, was finishing the dinner dishes in the kitchen. Tim was out in his shop, she informed Des cheerfully.
