StoneDust

by Justin Scott

  “So what do you say?”

  “I don’t know, man. You gave Fred an exclusive.”

  “I told you, Fred’s history. I’m firing him.”

  “Yeah, but if Fred couldn’t sell—”

  “Fred’s got his head in the clouds. Says I’m asking estate money for—You know what he called this? He called it a suburban house without a suburb. You believe the nerve of the guy?”

  My ablest competitor had hit the nail on the head. Bill Carter needed a corporate buyer heading up the ladder so fast he didn’t care where he lived for the next two years. But that sort didn’t buy houses in the woods. They flocked with their own around cul de sacs like Rick and Georgia Bowlands’.

  “Hell, Ben. You could sell this place in a week.” He punctuated this compliment with a hearty slap on the back, which, from a former all-state guard, sent me reeling with camaraderie. Back in grade school, you could count on him to scare off bullies.

  Doubting Donald Trump could have sold it in his best year, I said, “Not for six hundred thousand.”

  “Okay, I know that. Get me five-fifty.”

  “I don’t get a lot of customers for such…But I’ll see what I can do.”

  “Advertising! You’ll want to do a lot of advertising.”

  “Costly,” I said.

  “Blank check, fella. Pay you out of your commission.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  His face fell. He knew better, but he’d been surfing on hope again. Frustrated, he grouched, “And I suppose you’ll hold me up for the full commission, too?”

  I’d been waiting for that opening and said, with a most generous smile, “No. I’ll knock off a point. Charge you five percent.”

  “Fred was working for four!” he protested indignantly.

  That was patently untrue, but I had no intention of alienating Bill by calling him a liar, so I said, “Ordinarily I charge six. Five for old times’ sake.”

  Bill tried an ursine scowl, but he was too amiable to give it teeth.

  I said, “Go ask Duane and Michelle what I charge ’em on their land deals. Or ask Janey Hopkins what Fred was charging Reg. Five for good customers. Five for friends.”

  Bill hunched up even more bearlike. It still didn’t work, as the bear he was like could have entertained in a petting zoo.

  I said, “Come on, Bill, you were in with Reg on that little office conversion you did on Church Hill Road. What did I charge you?”

  “Five.”

  “Did I sell it?”

  “Yeah. You sold it.”

  “How long did it take?”

  “Three months.”

  “Did you get your price?”

  “Yeah.”

  “How’d Reg look when he left the party the other night?”

  “Oh, he was fine. No probl—”

  “What time did he leave?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I just wondered what time it was when Reg left the Fisk party. Was it after midnight?”

  The bear now looked like he’d frozen solid in a snowstorm. Only his eyes moved and they moved slowly, sliding at me, down at the knotholes in the number-three-grade maple floor, back up at me. “What are you talking about, Ben?”

  I wandered away from him, into the family room. Bill followed, looming uncertainly. Outside the sliding glass doors was a handsome flagstone terrace set in stone dust.

  “Did you lay the terrace yourself?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Nice work.”

  A stone dust base cost less than a concrete slab, but it’s one economy I applaud. Strong, yet porous, it makes a more forgiving bed. There’s nothing rigid for ice to crack—no small matter in New England winters—while in barefoot weather it lets the cold ground absorb the heat of the sun. You’d best be sure of your mason, however, as wide joints invite weeds. Bill’s were narrow as Sherry’s pinky.

  “Did Reg leave after midnight, or before?”

  “I didn’t see him.”

  “You said he looked fine.”

  “I didn’t see him leave, is what I meant.”

  “Oh.” I shrugged and looked around for another change of subject. “Where’d you get that chandelier?”

  “Sherry bought it at an auction.”

  Imagine Sherry picking her long-limbed way about a jumbled salesroom, then descending upon the auctioneer with a preemptive bid. I certainly could.

  “Neat. Does something for the room—Listen, Bill. Go talk to a couple of other brokers. Try one of the franchise outfits. Maybe they’ll find you somebody. Otherwise, give me a ring. I’ll see what we can do.”

  He was staring hard. And for once he didn’t look so amiable.

  I said, “Just so we understand up front. I’d go multiple listing right away. I can’t handle it as an exclusive.”

  Bill Carter said he’d think about it.

  I drove directly to the Fisks’ place on River Road, hoping he wouldn’t telephone Michelle before I got there.

  ***

  Their front lawn was littered with specimen trees. Kousa was blooming; pear, cherry, and crabapples had already leafed out. They’d planted them too close together and crowded the driveway, creating the impression of an overstocked wholesale nursery.

  The house loomed, chockablock with architectural details from many eras, though its mansard roof allowed realtors to call it a French Colonial, despite the historical fact that in New England most French colonists had huddled in shacks on the outskirts of English towns.

  In our cups one night at the Yankee Drover, Fred Gleason and I swore a solemn vow to slap a ten percent surcharge on any house that called itself a French Colonial. I don’t know about him, but I kept my word, and the damnedest thing was, people paid it anyhow. So if Duane and Michelle ever decided to sell, their seven-fifty mansion would go for a cool eight twenty-five. It was beautifully kept. When they had finished the new party room they’d painted the whole joint; it all looked brand new, neat and clean.

  Duane still drove a truck—a fully loaded deluxe PowerWagon—which wasn’t in the drive. Michelle had gone European, tooling around town in an Audi Quattro that I lusted after, secretly. It was in the circle drive at the front door, red and delicious as an apple. I parked by the garage and knocked on the back door.

  High heels clicked busily over the kitchen floor and the next second Michelle flung the door open with a whiff of perfume and makeup. She looked very pretty, dressed to go out for lunch in a little suit that hugged her hips and stopped just above her knees. If I had a chemical dislike of Janey Hopkins, I liked Michelle very much, chemically speaking.

  “Ben. Hi. Come in. I’m just running out, but what’s up? Hey, did they like Morris Mountain?”

  She ushered me in and, waving at the coffee machine, said, “Coffee’s still warm. I just shut it off.”

  “Thanks. Black.”

  She clicked to the counter and poured a cup, while I let my imagination drift toward her brimming Jacuzzi. She came back, dark eyes flashing, cheery smile ablaze—the nice-girl-smart-woman looks of a CNN newscaster—and who hasn’t wanted to jump their bones on a slow news night?

  “Sit, sit. It’s just lunch at the club. They’ll wait.” We sat at a maple table. “Tell me: How’d it go?” She pushed sugar my way and offered a spoon. She had chubby little fingers, and with that Jacuzzi already bubbling, there was something erotically grasping about them.

  “So? Did they like it?”

  “They liked the view.”

  “Good. Good. So?”

  “Unfortunately, they had brought a friend with them and the friend had some horror story about someone she knew who had had a terrible experience building a house.”

  “Did they listen to her?”

  “Like a mosquito in their ears. It didn’t help. Anyhow, they’re coming back next week, so they still think I’m the one. Who knows?”

  “Well, there’s more wher
e they came from…New Yorkers?”

  “That’s where the money is.”

  “I love ’em. Listen, thanks, Ben. Drink up. I’ve really got to get down there. I’m on the Stand for Steve committee.”

  “I saw Georgia’s bumper stickers. Are you really backing Steve La France against Vicky?”

  “Time for a change, Ben. I know she’s your friend, but she’s out of step.”

  “She’s done a spectacular job; we almost went under three years ago and you know it.”

  “She can’t solve Newbury’s problems throwing taxpayers’ money at them; not while she undercuts the tax base.” (Translation: Cut the school budget, again, and stop forcing builders to comply with zoning. Michelle, to her credit, uttered no sanctimony about crime and disorder; this was about money.)

  Poor Vicky. The younger club ladies, women with time on their hands and plenty of energy, like Michelle Fisk and Sherry Carter and Georgia Bowland, could grab a lot of headlines in the Clarion. And with their smiley good looks, Scooter would give them plenty of picture space too. Lookers for La France.

  “We’re doing a fundraiser—a dance. What do you think of ‘Stomp for Steve’?”

  I started to say that “Stomp for Steve” sounded friendly as a drive-by shooting. But I bit my tongue. Vicky would find a better time to say it, publicly.

  “Georgia thinks we should call it ‘Dance for La France.’”

  “Sounds elitist. I’d stick with ‘Stomp for Steve.’…Listen, I was just talking to Bill Carter.”

  “Oh, good. You’re going to sell his house. Boy did he get in a jam with that one. You’ll save him, Ben. Come on, drink up. I gotta go.” She took my cup and headed for the sink.

  “Bill told me that Reg was at your party.”

  She got a funny little smile on her face, pivoted for a moment on her heel, and sat down again. Elbows on the table, chin resting on her chubby hands, she studied me with more puzzlement than irritation.

  “What’s up, Ben? I don’t get this.”

  “You told me Reg wasn’t here the night he died. Bill says he was.”

  “So?”

  “Why didn’t you tell me he was here?”

  “I don’t have to tell you the truth.”

  “I beg pardon.”

  “You heard me. It’s not any of your business who was here.”

  “Reg was my friend. And he died that night. And his widow asked me—”

  “His widow? His widow, Ben, dumped him. What the hell business is it of hers where he was that night?”

  “Michelle.”

  “Ben, you’re way out of line. Come on, we’re friends. We go back a long way; and you and Duane, forever. But come on. You’re crowding us something weird. I don’t know what your problem is, but it’s not right.” She had taken her chin off her hands by then, and heat was flaring deep in her eyes, heat she contained as she stood up and said, “I really have to go.”

  “What time did Reg leave?”

  “One-ten.”

  “Exactly one-ten?”

  “By that clock.” She pointed at a replica Regulator in a too-shiny oak box. “You want to know why he left at one-ten? Because I threw him out. You want to know why I threw him out?”

  “Yes I do.”

  “Because in my kitchen. At my table. Where my kids eat breakfast. He was snorting heroin.”

  “You saw him?”

  “I came in for ice. The icemaker in the bar ran out and here he was, sitting right where you are, with a foot-long line of heroin.”

  “How’d you know it was heroin?”

  She gave me a look of burning gasoline, then surprised me with a subdued, “Actually, I didn’t know. It was white powder. I thought it was coke. But later, when they said he died of heroin, then I knew what I’d seen.”

  “That’s when you threw him out?”

  “Of course. I’m not having anybody do drugs in my house…Okay, now and then Duane and me’ll smoke some grass. The kids working for him might slip him a joint. They get off on the idea of ‘Old Duane and Michelle’ getting stoned. But we sure don’t go looking for it. It’s illegal. Who needs it? If I want to get high, I can drink wine. Duane’s fine on beer.”

  I nodded agreement. There was a simplicity to honest alcohol.

  “Wha’d he say?”

  “I don’t know. I didn’t hear him.” She surprised me with a laugh. “I was screaming my head off. You should have heard me, Ben. ‘Get out of my house. Get out of my effin’ house’—believe the mouth on me?—But I was so upset. I mean, first he barges in and then he sneaks into my kitchen. It was disgusting. It was a really rotten thing for him to do.”

  “So he just left?”

  “Scooped up his garbage and left. By then Duane came. He heard me yelling. He calmed me down and we went back to the party.”

  “Did you tell everybody what happened?”

  “No. I mean, they saw Reg’s lights as he drove away, but I didn’t tell them the whole thing. It wasn’t their business. Reg had a lot of problems, and he was our friend, and I wasn’t about to start badmouthing him in front of the rest of them.”

  I said, “I see.”

  “Do you see why I lied to you?”

  “To protect him.”

  “No one else will.”

  “But that’s why Janey asked me to check him out.”

  “Janey wants the life insurance, for God’s sake, Ben. Are you stupid? She wants the money…Hey, if she can get it, more power. Right? She’s got kids. They’ll need it. So I’ll tell you this, Ben: If you keep quiet what I told you and it doesn’t get around, then maybe I won’t have to tell it again to some insurance investigator. You know what I’m saying?”

  “I hear you.”

  “Good. Listen, I gotta go. I’m sorry you got caught in the middle of this. I hope we’re still friends.” Tentatively, she extended a hand. I took it.

  “Hopefully it won’t come to an insurance investigator. But word around town is there was a gatecrasher here. If they start hunting, they’ll hear it.”

  “If you’ll stop hunting, now that you know what happened, maybe it will all settle down.”

  “Was Reg the crasher?”

  “Beg pardon?”

  “Look, Michelle. Everybody’s talking about your party. Rumor has a bunch of people having fun and games in your Jacuzzi. Rumor also has a mysterious gatecrasher—possibly a woman—running into the woods. Was there another crasher, or just Reg?”

  “I told you what happened.”

  “Yeah, right…Listen, could the stuff you saw him snorting have been coke instead of heroin?”

  “It could have been Sweet ’n’ Low, for all I know. Except who snorts Sweet ’n’ Low up a twenty-dollar bill?”

  “Would you mind if I tried to find any traces of it on the table? I could take it to a lab.”

  “I cleaned the table twenty times since then.”

  “Maybe something in the cracks. Like here between the boards.”

  “Ben, you’re really pissing me off. I want you to leave.”

  I stood up and left.

  She watched from the kitchen door, arms crossed, face dark with anger. Just before I reached the car she yelled, “You really take advantage of being friends, Ben.”

  “Hey, did he snort up what was on the table or put it away?”

  “Screw you!”

  “Did he?”

  “Every goddamned grain of it. Right up his goddamned nose. Satisfied?”

  ***

  I was not satisfied. The sensible half of my brain believed Michelle. But I didn’t want to. I suspected I’d be more sensible, though not happier, after I talked to Ted Barrett. But I couldn’t do that until school let out, which left me three hours to go bother someone else. Debating whom, it occurred to me that since I was talking to everyone in town about Reg, why not try to touch base with Reg himself?

  I drove out to his cottage.

&nbs
p; Some vandal had knocked over Fred Gleason’s For Sale sign. I propped it up, then stood back to admire Reg’s handiwork. His thatched roof was an oddity, but oddity or not, the roof, stucco walls, and tiny deepset windows were proportioned so authentically that no one would have been surprised to see Richard the Lion-hearted bang on the door demanding droite du seigneur.

  Fred’s lockbox held the key.

  The house had the cold feel empty houses get even in summer. Things looked a little messy, as if the state police had half-heartedly searched for a major stash they knew they wouldn’t find. And it was clear that Reg had holed up in the combination kitchen-fireplace room in the back of the house since Janey took the kids. I found an empty box from Lorenzo’s Pizza Palace on the counter, unopened bills and junk mail, and some of last week’s newspapers.

  He had mounted elk antlers over his fireplace, but the rack was a mite small to dominate the room. In fact, had the animal they bagged been any younger, the Rocky Mountain park rangers would have bagged Reg and Duane for statutory poaching. Their swordfish on the wall opposite, however, looked big enough to sink a Montauk charter boat and sufficiently irritated to shish kebab the crew.

  I sat in a big lounge chair that faced a twenty-seven-inch TV. On the table beside the lounger was a coffee cup growing mold on the dregs, and an Eric Sloane book about barns and covered bridges, lying open, facedown.

  I closed it so the covers wouldn’t warp and in doing so found that Duane Fisk had inscribed the flyleaf on July 17, 1989: “Happy birthday, Old Buddy. Thatch this!”

  I owned the book myself. My father had given it to me. Sloane had written it back in ’55, when he was one of the first to realize that suburbs and interstate highways would steamroll nineteenth-century New England into oblivion. As a birthday book it was a hell of a reminder of mortality. But for a craftsman like Reg, what better gift than a story in words and pictures about the vanished skills that were once universal in these parts?

  I hit the TV remote. He’d been watching CNN last. There was a telephone. I pushed Redial, listened to it tapdance Reg’s last call.

  “Lorenzo’s. Laura speaking.”

  Brilliant. “Hi, Laura. Ben.”

  “Hi, Ben…Do you want to order?”