It was a damn fine map. I thanked her and was about to leave when I had a thought.
“Have you lived in Pulaski long?”
“Oh, dear, yes. I was born here.”
“Would you know anyone in the Panetta family? Particularly John Panetta?”
She gave me a curious look.
“Why, yes. Just about everyone in town knows who Gunner was.”
“Gunner?”
“Sure. That’s what everyone used to call him, after he got back from Vietnam. He’s a local hero. Won the Medal of Honor. What’s your interest in him?”
I took out my card, the one that says I’m a consultant to the N.Y.P.D. People can be prickly in upstate New York. I figured I’d better act semi-official.
“Does this have anything to do with his murder?”
“So, you know about that.”
“Of course. We were all outraged. What the hell is the matter with you people in New York City? A man like that not even safe in his own home.”
I could have pointed out that New York had one of the lowest big-city homicide rates in the nation, and that, in comparison, murder rates on Staten Island made the other four boroughs look like Beirut. But what would be the point?
“I came up here to talk to his cousin, Victoria Gustafson. Do you know her?”
“Sure. To speak to. See her at church and at the farmer’s market. Vicki keeps to herself. Doesn’t live in town. Her house is out near the Selkirk Lighthouse, a few miles to the west of the village at the mouth of the Salmon River. Everyone around here knows about the Gustafson place. It’s come up at the city council a couple of times. People complaining about it.”
“What do you mean?”
“Kind of an eyesore, some people say. Not appropriate for the tourist trade. I don’t think it’s all Vicki’s fault. More like her no-account husband’s. Or ex-husband, I should say. You’ll see what I mean when you get there. Luckily, it’s not the easiest place to find and you can’t see it from the road, so I don’t understand what the busybodies are so worked up about. I mean, is something an eyesore if nobody really sees it? Like does a tree falling in the woods make a sound?”
I was afraid Kay was about to launch into an existential debate, but she merely shrugged and said, “I could give you directions, if you like.”
The address was already plugged into my GPS system, but Gladys, that’s the name I’ve assigned to the voice on my GPS, has occasionally steered me wrong in rural areas. And when someone who has lived in an area all her life and works for a Chamber of Commerce says a place is hard to find, it probably is.
“I’d appreciate that.”
“Give me back that map.”
I did and Kay started tracing the route.
“You should visit the lighthouse while you’re out there. Selkirk is only one of four lighthouses in the United States that has a birdcage lantern, you know.”
“Maybe I’ll do that,” I said. “I may be staying a couple of days. Can you recommend a motel?”
“Well, the lighthouse actually has a few rooms. Place is supposed to be haunted, so people are intrigued. Not that you look like someone who gets scared. But no matter, I’m sure they’re all booked.”
Kay looked around like the place was bugged, and then lowered her voice.
“I’m not supposed to recommend one Chamber member over another.” She tapped the map. “There’s a couple of them advertised on this. But for my money the nicest of the bunch is on the road just before the cutoff to the Gustafson house. And Fred and Angie could use the business. Don’t get me wrong, place is spotless and has a nice view of the river. I keep telling them to change the name. I think it turns people off.”
She circled one of the advertisements and handed the map back to me. I looked at what she’d circled: the Salmon Villa Motel.
“Sounds like an intestinal disease,” she said. “Might as well have called it Montezuma’s Revenge, for goodness sake. Thank God, they don’t have a restaurant.”
I thanked her and left. When I got to the parking lot a police car was just pulling out. It hadn’t been there when I arrived.
CHAPTER 14 - VICTORIA
The Salmon Villas Motel was as advertised: badly named, almost vacant and well-kept, with a wide lawn that swept down through the trees to a small inlet on the Salmon River. Adirondack chairs lined the bank and a small sandy beach. A rowboat was tied to a small dock, and two canoes lay overturned and tethered to a tree. At the entrance to the motel office there was a bicycle rack with three bicycles. A sign on the wall said that the bicycles and boats were for the use of guests on “a first-come, first-serve” basis. It reminded me of an inn down the New Jersey shore where Alice and I had spent a weekend. There, the bikes had baskets on the handlebars that the management would fill with a picnic lunch gratis if you wanted. Alice and I were just getting to know each other. We went swimming in the ocean. I’m a strong swimmer, having in the past contended with a pack and a rifle, but I quickly learned that Alice, a swimming coach who once competed against kids who later went on to the Olympics, was a dolphin to my walrus. It was early in the season. The water was cold but later, back at the inn, Alice was warm. It was a good weekend.
There was no one in the motel office when I entered, but when I hit the bell on the desk a man appeared promptly from somewhere in back. He looked both surprised and happy to see me. He identified himself as the owner and I asked for a room. I guess he decided to push his luck because he mentioned that the two end “suites” were only $100 more a night than a regular room. When I told him that a regular room would do, he dropped the suite price by $25. While I thought that over, he chopped off another $25. I’m not a haggler, and I felt sorry for the guy. I took the suite before he decided to pay me for it. I was spending the blood money Vernon Maples gave me. Supporting the local economy in Panetta’s home town seemed the right thing to do.
“You here to do some fishing?” he asked. “You can fish off the dock or take out a boat. And you can wade downstream along the gravel banks. Just be careful. Every year winter ice flow gouges out some new channels near the shore that can surprise you. Water comes over the top of your waders and you might be in trouble.”
“I’m just passing through,” I said, handing over my credit card.
“Too bad. It’s not really good salmon season yet but I hear they’re killing the steelheads.”
“You have a nice place here,” I said, diplomatically, “almost could pass for a little resort. Did you ever think about changing the name to something a bit sexier?”
He gave me a look that told me I wasn’t the first to broach the subject.
“Did Kay down at the Chamber recommend us?”
“Yes. She said she’s not supposed to show favoritism, but she thinks this is a great place.”
He smiled.
“She’s right, of course. But I can’t change the name until I pay off the note. The company that owned the place before me and Angie bought it still has the rights to it. Should be all ours by this time next year. If we last that long.”
I dropped my luggage in my suite, which had a bedroom, a sitting area, small kitchen and a nice view of the Salmon River. Not 50 yards away on the opposite bank two fisherman wearing campaign hats, vests and waders were fly casting. It looked like a scene in an L.L. Bean catalog. I liked to fish and had always wanted to try fly fishing, which looked so elegant. As if reading my mind, one of the fishermen executed a graceful roll cast into a still patch of water that undoubtedly lay above a deep pool. I waited to see if he would get a hit. He didn’t. It has been my experience that you never see fisherman catch anything. But I know they do, just not when you want them to. The other fisherman stripped line from his reel as he whipped his long rod back and forth. The line made long, graceful arcs through the air to his rear and front before he finally let it settle in the water almost halfway across the river. He watched it for a minute and occasionally twitched his rod tip before bringing some line in and starting
over.
I made a mental note to buy a fly rod and then I headed out to see Victoria Gustafson.
The directions Kay had sketched out on the Chamber map were helpful. The unnamed cutoff, which GPS Gladys missed, was about two miles from the motel and just past a sign indicating that the Selkirk Lighthouse was four miles ahead. I drove through thick forest down a barely paved road that dead ended in a clearing and a one-story red clapboard house. The house itself looked fine, but I understood why even a blind man might consider the land surrounding it an eyesore. The entire front yard was a jumble of refrigerators and ice chests; bed frames; rocking and straight-back chairs, couches; deck furniture, washers and dryers, televisions and television stands; cabinets; computers; dressers, window frames; sleighs and kiddie wagons; lamps with and without shades; ornate mailboxes and bird houses, and some things I couldn’t identify. The path up to the porch and front door was clear. As I walked through the yard past all the rusting and molding detritus, I braced myself for meeting Victoria Gustafson, who in my mind’s eye, had to weigh three hundred pounds and would be wearing a shapeless dress designed by Omar the Tent Maker. The front door was open. I knocked on the screen door.
The woman who came to the door didn’t weigh 300 pounds. In fact, she was very thin. And even through the screening I could tell she had fine features.
“Can I help you?”
She had a well-modulated, educated voice.
“My name is Alton Rhode. I’m an investigator from New York City. Are you Victoria Gustafson?”
“Yes.”
“I would like to ask you some questions about your cousin, John.”
“Do you have some identification, Mr. Rhode?”
I took out my wallet and pressed my license against the screen. She glanced at it for a moment then unlatched the door. I opened it and she stepped back.
“Please come in. Would you like some coffee?’
“Yes, thank you.”
She led me into a small dining area. There was a small dark-wood table with a marble top surrounded by four matching chairs with espresso-colored leather backs. On the table were some notebooks, open, with a small coffee cup filled with pencils. There was also an iPad on a stand playing a piano version of a lyrical ballad. She tapped the screen and the song went off. She closed the notebooks and moved them and iPad to the side.
“You didn’t have to shut the music on my account,” I said. “Greensleeves, wasn’t it?”
Victoria Gustafson smiled.
“Yes. Perhaps the oldest traditional English folk song, dating back to 1580. Some people believe that it was composed by Henry VIII for Anne Boleyn. But scholars have pointed out that the Italian structure of the music did not reach England until after Henry's death. It’s more likely that Lady Green Sleeves was a prostitute. The green may refer to the grass stains on her gown that resulted from a tryst out of doors.”
“So it just as easily have been called Mudsleeves. Or Manuresleeves.”
She laughed.
“I will have to tell my students that. They like the hooker version a lot better than the royal version as it is. Please take a seat. I’ll put on a fresh pot. It won’t take a moment.”
She went into a kitchen and I sat. I looked around. The house was immaculate. The furniture wasn’t new, but everything seemed to be freshly dusted or polished. The odor of Pine Sol was strong. More important, I could also smell something freshly baked. I could hear drawers opening and closing, and the sound of percolating coffee.
On the dining room wall under a bay window was a sideboard, also with a marble top, in which two doors flanked shelves for wine bottles. Resting atop the sideboard was a triangular wooden case with a glass front containing a crisply folded American flag.
I walked over to the sideboard. Next to the flag case, but lying flat, was another wooden case, this one rectangular. Behind the cases were two silver picture frames. One held a color photo of John Panetta standing next to Victoria Gustafson in front of what looked to be a church. The resemblance was striking. The other frame contained a faded and dog-eared photo of Panetta in his jungle fatigues crossing a small stream with an M-60 machine gun slung across his shoulders. He was easily recognizable as a younger, and much gaunter, version of the man in the more recent photo. He was just coming up the bank, with other troopers lined up behind him a few feet apart. There was a pack of cigarettes attached by a band to his helmet. The grunts in the middle of the stream were in water up to their chest and all had their rifles held above their heads. When you looked very closely at the photo, you could see that Panetta had the middle finger of his right hand extended. But he was smiling into the camera.
The photo wasn’t very clear. I’d bet it was taken by a buddy. Hence, the finger and the grin. The frames and the cases were highly buffed. The flag case had a small plaque with Panetta’s name engraved on it. The other case contained his medals and service ribbons. The Medal of Honor, with the distinctive blue ribbon, was in the center. I’d seen photos of the medal, but never one up close. I felt a small chill run up my spine. Harry Truman, a World War I veteran, once said he’d rather have won a Medal of Honor than be President.
Victoria Gustafson finally emerged from the kitchen carrying a tray with a coffee pot, two cups, milk and sugar, and dish piled with blueberry muffins.
“You know they call him ‘Gunner’ Panetta around here because of what he did with that machine gun,” she said. “It took me a long time to come to grips with that, being antiwar like I was. But as I got older I realized that Johnny only did what he was told and from his medal citation it looks like he saved a lot of his buddies. He never bragged about it. And he never badmouthed me or anyone else, even those who ran off to Canada or dodged the draft. Said everyone was too young to be held accountable for what old fools in Washington or Hanoi did. He never cut me off. It was me who did that. After I made up with Johnny I asked for a photo of him in the service. He gave me that one. Said a friend took it. It’s a bit grainy because I had it blown up, but you can still see he was a good-looking boy.”
I sat back down.
“Sorry I took so long,” she said. “But I just made these muffins and they deserve perked coffee. Hope you don’t mind.”
“Worth the wait, I’m sure.”
“It may ruin your dinner.”
“I’ll chance it.”
As she poured the coffee I took her in. My first impression through the screen was correct. She was a handsome woman, with dark skin, gray hair cut short and dark eyes. Her lips were full and she had strong cheekbones. She would have been a knockout when young, and wasn’t bad to look at now as a woman presumably in her 60’s. I could tell by the way she glanced up at me when she was pouring that she knew I was sizing her up. I saw her lip curl into a small smile. She liked being admired.
Once they were poured, we each fixed our own coffee the way we liked. It was strong and good, as perked coffee usually is when fresh. I took a muffin. It was worth the wait and I told her so.
“Thank you. Now, perhaps you can tell me why a private investigator is involved in John’s case. Has someone been apprehended? Are you working for the defense?”
Victoria Gustafson was a sharp woman.
“No. In fact, just the opposite.”
I gave her the same version of the truth I’d given Joan Tolentine. She appeared to accept it.
“Well, I don’t know how I can help, but I’ll try. But I’d like to ask you a question first. Why did you ask who I was when I answered the door?”
When I hesitated she said, “Because of the yard?”
“Yes,” I replied. “You don’t seem to be the kind of person who would have a yard like that.” I waved my muffin-free hand. “I mean, this house is spotless.”
I thought that I offended her and was about to apologize when she smiled.
“It is terribly disgusting, isn’t it? Just about all of those things belong to Otto. My ex-husband. He owned a small consignment business downtown that went u
nder and he moved all that stuff here. There was a freak snowstorm before he could put up a tent to protect it all, and he said the hell with it. Then we got divorced and he just left it here. Court wouldn’t let me get rid of it until our divorce was final, since he claimed some of the stuff was still valuable. Who knows, maybe the mailboxes and birdhouses will bring something. He’s been ordered to take it all away but he keeps stalling. I’ll probably have to pay to do it myself.”
Otto sounded like a real winner.
CHAPTER 15 - OTTO
“I’ve taught at the Pulaski Academy and Central School for more than 30 years. I married late. I was 40. Maybe it was a mistake. I miscarried twice and that was that. Otto and I never had children. But the kids at the academy keep me busy.”
We were on our second cups of coffee and Victoria Gustafson was telling me about her life. I was paying attention, but I was also considering a second blueberry muffin. Where food is concerned, I can multitask with the best of them. I thought I’d wait a few minutes. No sense in acting like a hog. I also didn’t want to break her train of thought. Living alone in the boonies like she did, she probably relished the chance to have an intelligent conversation.
“Until his murder, Johnnie was my only living relative. All our people are gone. We didn’t come from archetypal Italian families with a slew of kids. I was an only child, as was he, and his folks had both died fairly young. He came to live with us, so growing up we were more like brother and sister than first cousins. We did everything together. Fished, played cowboys and Indians, you name it. But once we got into high school, we drifted apart. He moved into an apartment with some of his buddies. All they talked about was joining the Army to get out of Pulaski. I mean there wasn’t much work up here. We never got along after that. I was what you’d call a free spirit. You know, peace, love and controlled substances. Anti-everything, especially the war and the people fighting it. I mean I didn’t spit at the guys coming home or anything.” She paused and looked sad. “I might have called him a baby killer, though. Not my finest hour. I don’t know what the hell I was thinking.”
GUNNER (ALTON RHODE MYSTERIES Book 5) Page 10
