The Hanging Tree

by Bryan Gruley

  “We’re done here.” He picked up the papers and stood.

  “You can make a big show out of firing me, wait a few weeks, then tell the good people of Starvation Lake, Sorry, this libel suit is too much for your little rag and its subpar profit margins, we’ve got to shut it down. Then you throw a few hundred grand at Haskell to make him go away—if he’s not in jail by then—and your year-end bonus will be secure. Great plan.”

  “I would fire you this minute if the lawyers would let me.”

  “Go ahead. Stand on principle, Jim. Or is now not really the time?”

  The door behind him opened. A slender young man in a security guard’s uniform stepped into the doorway and stood with his hands folded at his belt. He had a badge but no gun. He also seemed to be trying to grow a mustache, without much success.

  “This gentleman will show you out,” Kerasopoulos said. “You are hereby suspended from your job indefinitely, pending further consideration by the Media North board of directors. In the meantime, you are barred from the Pilot newsroom and any of its facilities. We will arrange for you to collect your personal items in due time. In the meantime, please do not attempt to contact any of the newspaper’s employees, including Mr. Beech. If you choose noncompliance, rest assured we will promptly take appropriate legal or other actions.”

  “Other actions?” I said. “I thought you were just a lawyer.”

  He glared at me one last time and left the room.

  The fuzzy-lipped rent-a-cop placed a hand on my elbow and led me silently to the elevator, down to the first floor, and across the lobby to the glass double-door entrance. Outside, a thin gray sleet had begun to fall. As I started out the door, I turned to the guard. “I hate fucking Traverse City,” I said.

  “Have a good day,” he said.

  My windshield wipers made slurping slaps as I steered my pickup past the fudge shops along the bay east of Traverse. I turned on the radio, thinking naïvely that I might catch a bulletin on Haskell’s IRS troubles. A country song came on. Despite myself, I laughed. I had nearly lost my job and my girlfriend. “Good thing I don’t have a dog,” I said aloud.

  What was I going to do now? A newspaper reporter wasn’t much without a newspaper. Even if I did get to the bottom of Gracie’s death, who was I going to tell? Not Michele Higgins, that was for sure. There was my mother, of course, and Mrs. B. They would listen and tell their bingo and bowling and ceramics partners only those things they wished to believe. And those women and men in turn would translate only those things they wished to believe, until it all became a fiction.

  But there was Dingus, of course, who could do the right thing. And there was Darlene. Maybe. Besides, a man had pissed all over my notebook. I had to know why.

  My phone rang. I snatched it off the console, hoping Darlene was calling to say she had lost her temper.

  “Did you hear about Laird Haskell?” Philo said.

  I didn’t answer right away.

  “Gus?”

  “Yeah. On the libel suit? Or the IRS?”

  “Pardon me?”

  “Never mind. You go first.”

  “All right. I hear he’s going to do some sort of mea culpa at today’s town council meeting.”

  “Who told you that?”

  “Let me put it this way. At first I was told not to bother with the council meeting and instead cover a girl’s volleyball match at the high school.”

  “I remember.”

  “Then I got a call about fifteen minutes ago saying go to the council meeting.”

  Of course, I thought. Kerasopoulos had made his secretary run out and get him a Free Press. Then he called Haskell or Haskell’s attorney.

  “So Uncle Jimbo’s running coverage now, huh?”

  “I didn’t say that, but … Gus?”

  “Did you see the Free Press this morning?”

  “I have it here on my desk. But listen—”

  “I’m afraid I can’t help you any more, Philo. Your dear, fat-assed uncle just told me I’m no longer welcome at the Pilot. I’m reckless and irresponsible. If I were you, I think I might just go to the high school. Tough to be reckless and irresponsible covering volleyball.”

  “Gus, would you please just shut the hell up and listen?”

  It was the second time I had been told to shut up that morning. By members of the same family no less.

  “Sure,” I said.

  “I went through those documents you FOIA’d.”

  He pronounced it FOH-ahd. “FOY-uhd,” I corrected him.

  “OK. You told me to call if I found something interesting.”

  “Right. But I’m not supposed to be talking to you.”

  “I need to talk to you about these documents.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “I can’t now. I have to go take a photo of a new pizzeria.”

  At the Pilot, we routinely published photos of new businesses, the owner smiling in front of a burger stand or a real estate office. They were essentially free ads, handed out in the expectation that the business would reciprocate by buying an ad or two. Some did, most didn’t.

  “What new pizzeria?” I said.

  “Roselli’s, up the hill across the river.”

  “Roselli’s? You mean Riccardo’s?”

  “Well. Yes.”

  “That’s not new. They’re just changing their name again.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Jeez.”

  “It pays the bills.”

  I slowed my truck as I neared the intersection with U.S. 131 in Kalkaska. Waiting at the light, I considered detouring north to the Twin Lakes Party Store for one of their tasty egg sandwiches. What was I bothering with Philo for anyway?

  “Listen, Philo. How do I know you’re not just spying for your uncle?”

  He waited before he answered. “Look. I think I might know something that you probably don’t. You want to know what it is or not?”

  “Fair enough.” I pushed the pickup straight through the light. “Tell you what. I’ll meet you there—Riccardo’s, Roselli’s, whatever—around noon. Don’t worry, it’ll be empty. Bring the documents.”

  “Done.”

  “And, Philo? Could you look up a phone number for me?”

  Felicia Haskell jingled a wine charm on the stem of her half-full glass and gave me an innocent smile. “I am not a drinker, Mr. Carpenter.”

  “Gus. Didn’t think you were.”

  We stood on either side of the butcher-block island in her kitchen with the wall of windows overlooking the frozen crescent of the lake. Beyond Felicia Haskell was a room bigger than a two-car garage. Half of one wall was consumed by a fireplace at the bottom of a tower of cut granite. Muddy boot prints marred the carpet in front of the hearth. There was a hint of smoke in the air.

  Across the room, a grand piano stood before the wall of glass. Outside, the sleet had given way to snowflakes the size of silver dollars. Mom’s house was invisible in the gauze of white.

  “I just—” Felicia Haskell shrugged. “I have to have something that reminds me of civilization.”

  “Understood.”

  “Once in a while. I’m sorry. I know you love it here.”

  “Some of it, yes.” I drank from my glass of orange juice.

  I had waited until I was driving along the lake’s north bluff, seconds from the Haskell house, and called her from my truck, figuring her son, Taylor, would be at school and hoping her husband would be with his attorney, drawing up their strategy for dealing with the feds, plotting whatever form of extortion they planned to present to the town council. I’d told Felicia Haskell that I had been moved by the bouquet she’d sent my mother. Could I drop by for just a minute?

  Of course, she’d said. Maybe she felt sorry for me.

  “Please forgive the smell,” she said. “We had a little chimney fire last night. I’ve been telling Laird to get a sweep out here but he’s been so busy with the rink and everything.”

  I remembered the flashers moving
behind the tree line the night before. “Everybody OK?” I said.

  “Yes, everyone’s fine. It just—you know, scares the heck out of you.”

  “Police come?”

  “They did. Didn’t get much sleep. They were here till almost three.”

  “The cops, too?”

  “Whoever. I was with Taylor in his room. We’ll be fine. Just can’t use the fireplace for a while.” She gave the wine in her glass a swirl. “Now, haven’t I seen you at the rink? Aren’t you a hockey player?”

  “Yeah. Not much of one. But it keeps me sane.”

  “Nice for you. I have to say it makes me insane. Driving here, driving there, practice, workouts, chalk talks, games. It never seems to end.”

  “I remember.”

  “I’ll bet.” She couldn’t have weighed 110 pounds, her fake boobs accounting for everything over 100. She wore a red sweater with the tails dangling over black tights that ended in a pair of fur-lined boots. Her silver hair was pulled back in a black leather catch, bringing the angles of her cheekbones and slender nose into sharp relief. Again, I thought she looked older than she was. She still had the bandage on her left wrist.

  “Thanks for letting me drop by, Mrs. Haskell—”

  “Felicia.”

  “Felicia. I was just thinking that no one has asked your—”

  “Excuse me, I’m sorry.” She produced a cell phone from under the island. “Hi, Tay,” she said, without turning away. She listened. “No. No. Yes, I understand, honey, but you have balance training after … No, maybe this weekend … Taylor … No … No, you need to get your rest.”

  I heard the boy’s voice grow louder, though not loud enough for me to make out what he was saying. “Yes, I understand, honey,” she said. “You can talk to your father, but that’s the way it is until the season’s over.”

  She set the phone down and blew out a long sigh. “Gus,” she said, “did you ever think you would play in the NHL?”

  The question caught me off guard. I chuckled. “No.”

  “Why do you laugh?”

  “Well, I just … my mom. I mean, she was fine with me playing and all, came to most of the games, though she said she thought the game was dumb and she couldn’t bear to watch me. I play—I played goalie. Like your son.”

  “I see.”

  “After games, my mom would make cocoa for me—she makes great cocoa from scratch, with the unsweetened stuff—and we’d sit in the kitchen and replay the game a little. And she’d always say, ‘How come all the other parents have Gordie Howes and I don’t?’ ”

  Felicia furrowed her brows.

  “Sorry,” I said. “He was a big star for the Red Wings back then.”

  “Oh. That seems a little mean.”

  “She didn’t mean it that way. It was our little joke about the parents and how they all thought their kid was going to the pros, but me and Mom, we had our heads on straight.”

  “That’s funny. You did.”

  She set her glass down and walked over to the wall next to the fireplace. I sneaked a look at her cell phone. The area code was 248: suburban Detroit, where she and Haskell had come from. She fiddled with some knobs on a console built into the wall. Piano music filled the room.

  “Do you know this?” Felicia said.

  “Can’t say I do. It’s pretty.”

  “Horowitz. Playing Chopin. Vladimir Horowitz.”

  “Ah.”

  She turned the music down and came back to the island. “I wish I could interest my son in that Russian.”

  It took me a few seconds, but I got it. “Ah, he must like those Russkies on the Wings, eh? Larionov. Fedorov. Kozlov. Fetisov.”

  “His father certainly likes them.”

  “What about Osgood?”

  “Who?”

  “The Wings’ goalie.” Osgood let in a softie every now and then. “Does Taylor like him?”

  “Gosh. I have no idea.”

  “Does he like playing goalie, Felicia?”

  She looked momentarily baffled. “Who?”

  “Taylor.”

  “Oh. Of course.” She looked into her glass, carried it to the sink, poured the wine out. “It keeps him busy.”

  “Yes, but does he like playing goalie?”

  “I don’t know what else he would do here except get in trouble.”

  She didn’t sound too convincing. I decided to change the subject.

  “You’ve certainly had your hands full, with the new rink and the fire and … did you by chance see the Free Press today?”

  “Unfortunately, yes.” She was awfully cool for a woman with fire trucks and cops and the IRS on her doorstep. “That’s why I’m glad you called.”

  “Really?”

  “The man I read about in the papers, Gus, is not the man I know.”

  “No?”

  I probably shouldn’t have challenged her. I couldn’t help but think of what Jason had told me about the happy Haskell household. She backed away from the island now, sizing me up.

  “No,” she said. “I realize Laird’s not an easy man to get to know. I realize a successful attorney is going to make some enemies. But he’s not just a collection of jury verdicts and bank accounts.”

  “It is hard to get to know someone who won’t talk to you.”

  “Don’t take it personally.”

  “If you say so.”

  “I know, I know. For all of his many talents, my husband hasn’t handled things so well of late. I mean, why not just tell your story? Tell the truth, you have nothing to hide. Why let the critics and the naysayers get all the ink?”

  “I’m all ears.”

  “I know what you think. You know Laird Haskell the plaintiff’s attorney, the guy who makes the tear-jerker speech to the jury, who gets up at the press conference and works up the crowd. But you know what? When he’s not on stage, he’s actually quite shy. He doesn’t talk about the good things he quietly does for people less fortunate than him. I’m reading in your paper about how he doesn’t have the money to build the rink and I’m looking at our checkbook and seeing thousands of dollars going to charities. Especially for women.”

  Especially for women. She wanted me to know that. Why? I was feeling good about my hunch about Felicia Haskell. When I had seen the bouquet at Mom’s, I’d had a gut feeling that she felt somehow guilty, maybe because she knew Gracie had been turned down for that job at the new rink. Or maybe not. But Felicia Haskell had reached out, and when people reach out, they want to be heard. So I was there to give her a chance. But women? Laird Haskell had a soft spot for women? It would have been funny if it wasn’t so sad. Especially if that prenuptial agreement was as much of a straitjacket as Jason had said.

  “Why women?” I said.

  “His mother. She married a jerk. Heavy drinker. Liked to smack her around in front of Laird and his sister.”

  “Did she ever get away from the guy?”

  “Yes. When she died. Anyway, I wish I could read about that Laird in the paper once in a while. Something positive. I guess you people have to emphasize the negative to sell newspapers.”

  She couldn’t possibly have been talking about the Pilot. “Could be that people like to read those stories. I will do my best. But Mrs. Haskell—”

  “Felicia.”

  “Felicia. I suppose the Free Press story is, as you say, negative. But would you know if it’s at all true that your husband’s assets have been frozen and he might be looking at bankruptcy?”

  She pursed her lips, then said, “I know Laird’s been under a lot of pressure. I try not to pile any more on by asking him a lot of questions. As I said, someone who does what he does tends to make a few enemies.”

  “I’m sure that’s true.”

  “That’s not for you to quote.”

  “I understand.” I reached into my jacket pocket and pulled out the photocopy of Gracie’s letter to Haskell. I’d stopped at a shop in Traverse City and made a second copy, which was back in my truck. “Got someth
ing here I wanted to show you. Might be bull. Might upset you.”

  “I’m a big girl.”

  I handed it to her. She unfolded it. Her eyes scanned it once, twice. Then they slid up to me. “What is this?”

  “I can’t be absolutely sure. But it looks like a note my second cousin might have sent to your husband.”

  Felicia didn’t move. She read the letter again. “Why?” she said. “Because it says ‘L’? That could be Larry or Lenny or Louie or a million other people.”

  Or it could have been Laurie or Linda or Lucinda. But Felicia Haskell chose not to even consider a woman’s name.

  “We’re thinking it’s your husband,” I said.

  The paper was trembling in her hand.

  “Who’s we, Gus? Where did you get this?”

  “I got it.”

  “What are you trying to say, that my husband was …” Her voice caught. “That my husband was sleeping with her? That little white-trash slut? Who slept at the rink and drove the damn Zamboni?”

  “No,” I said. “I just thought maybe you could—”

  “How dare you show me this. How dare you walk into my home with your ugly insinuations.” She tore the paper in two. I watched. She tore it again. And again. She flung the pieces in my face. “Get out,” she said.

  “So it wasn’t your husband?”

  “Get out of my house. I’m calling the police.”

  I looked around as I walked to my truck, hoping no one had heard her outburst. Not a chance. I hopped in and backed between the snowy walls of pines and out onto North Shore Road. I figured I had the confirmation I’d come for.

  twenty-two

  Hey there, did you try to call me?”

  “Call you? You hung up on me and I’m supposed to call you?”

  I had called Nova Patterson from the parking lot behind the pizzeria that only the day before had been called Riccardo’s. A red, white, and green banner that said “ROSELLI’S—UNDER NEW MANAGEMENT” now covered the Riccardo’s sign stuck in the ground. A corner had come loose and was snapping in the noon breeze.

  “I’m sorry. Got myself in a little trouble. I’m OK now.”

  “I was worried,” she said. “But you didn’t give me your number. And I’m not allowed to make long-distance calls anyway.”