StoneDust

by Justin Scott

  “Now?”

  “Now.”

  “It’s yours.” I perched in a deep window that overlooked Main Street and glanced at the clock. “Shoot.”

  “I’m finally getting a sense of what’s happening with Steve. You’ve been around Newbury politics your whole life. Answer me yes or no: This whole challenge and campaign is entirely about the school budget. Right?”

  “Yes. Yes. And yes. It’s about money. Which is to say taxes, which is to say the school budget.”

  “And Steve is smart enough to concentrate on it. I’ve made a bad mistake running on my record.”

  “Your excellent record.”

  “History,” she retorted. “Whatever good I’ve done is over, done and forgotten. If I’m going to beat that scum—did you see those posters?”

  “I noticed something or other on a lightpole.”

  “Very funny. I’m going to beat him on his own subject. ‘Slicky Vicky?’ Gloves are off, Ben. I’m going to tear his heart out.”

  “By eight o’clock tonight? Let me lay a quick thought on you: Who’s against the budget?”

  “The weekenders. The Scudder Mountain crowd. A lot of people in Frenchtown. And a lot of retirees—not all, thank God for grandchildren.”

  “Who’s for it?”

  “The people with kids.”

  “There’s still more of them.”

  “But even the people with kids are worried about taxes. What’s your suggestion?”

  I told Vicky about my prep school conversation with Steve and his beer customers. “Somehow, we’ve got to paint a picture of what it would be like if the schools shut down for a few months.”

  “That’s not an option.”

  “But it’s a nasty picture.”

  “I’ll think about it. Now what’s your ‘strange question’?”

  I leaned back in the window and watched Main Street. “It’s very strange. I want you to give me the first thought that comes to your mind.”

  “The first thought that comes to my mind is that a politician who loses her party’s nomination is totally incapable of earning a living.”

  “I haven’t asked my question, yet.”

  “Ask. Quickly.”

  “Go back to the Fisks’ guest bathroom. You’re asleep on the rug—”

  “Passed out.”

  “Passed out on the rug. Something wakes you. Noise. Someone’s right outside in the guest room. You hurry to the door.”

  “I crawl to the door.”

  “You crawl to the door and lock it. You hear two people. They’re talking about Duane’s Tombstones. But they’re not there for the conversation and soon they get it on. Right?”

  “Right.” Vicky looked at her watch.

  “Here’s the strange question. Do you hear a man and a woman? Or two men? Or two women?”

  “Two men?”

  “Or two women?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I’m asking you what you heard. Not what you assumed you should have heard, but what you actually heard.”

  “A man and a woman. Like I told you before.”

  “Are you sure? Are you sure you weren’t just assuming that two people who snuck off to screw had to be a man and a woman?”

  “Positive.”

  “You heard a man’s voice. And a woman’s voice.”

  “Yes.”

  “Reg and Michelle?”

  “No.”

  “Ted and Susan?”

  “Maybe.”

  “You’re not sure.”

  “I’m sure it wasn’t Reg and Michelle.”

  “Thank you.” I started to swing my feet to the floor. “Oh, Christ.”

  “What is it?”

  “Nothing,” I lied.

  A beige unmarked Crown Victoria glided past Town Hall and pulled into Trooper Moody’s driveway. Marian Boyce climbed out, wearing road cop mirrored sunglasses, and looked up and down Main Street like Darth Vader scouting targets for the Death Star.

  ***

  I bought more shortbread and coffee and hurried that offering down Church Hill Road to the offices of Hopkins Septic.

  Janey was at her desk—resolute in blue jeans and a red Hopkins Septic T-shirt—issuing orders to young Pete Stock, who was wearing a brand new Hopkins Septic cap. I congratulated him on his new job and his release from the Plainfield County jail.

  “Freddy Butler says I should sue the state cops for false arrest.”

  “You might want to get a second opinion from Tim Hall.”

  “Tim doesn’t think it’s such a good idea. What do you think, Ben?”

  “Did they slap you around?”

  “No.”

  “Lock you up with hardasses?”

  “No. They gave me my own cell. You should have seen some of those guys.”

  “I can imagine. Did they apologize when they let you go?”

  “Not really. But I got my truck back.”

  “Well, I’ll tell you, Pete. State cops make better friends than enemies. Besides, Mrs. Hopkins’ll keep you hopping; you won’t have time for a lawsuit.”

  Janey handed him a clipboard and pointed out the window at a truck. Pete left. She said, “Thank you. That’s all I’d need, angry troopers pulling my trucks over.”

  “Brought you morning coffee.”

  “What’s up?”

  “Could I possibly have a peek at some more phone bills?”

  “What for?”

  “Could I tell you later?”

  “No. Tell me now.”

  “When’s the last time Reg and Duane went elk hunting?”

  “Last November.”

  “Could I see the bill for last October and November?”

  “No.”

  “Janey? Please?”

  Her square jaw set hard. “They’re none of your business. I hired you. I paid you. The job’s done.”

  “I’m afraid I have to insist.”

  “Insist?” She stood up, recapped the coffee she had just opened, and shoved it at me. “Get out. What right do you have to ‘insist’? Get out!”

  “The right of the ripped off.”

  “The what?”

  “You ripped me off, Janey. You watched me stumble around Newbury wasting my time and your money while you pretended you didn’t know the most important fact of all.”

  She grabbed the telephone. “I’m calling Trooper Moody if you don’t leave.”

  “Too late, Janey. Remember when you first hired me? What did I tell you?”

  She weighed the receiver in her hand, then gently cradled it. “I don’t remember,” she said dully. “Something about you’d find out what I didn’t tell you.”

  “Actually, I think I said I’d find it first thing. That turned out to be a gross exaggeration of my talents. It’s taken me a lot longer. Now I’m asking you to please give me that phone bill so I can confirm it.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  I pulled my copy of Reg’s last month’s phone bill from my shirt pocket and uncurled it on the desk. “What are these Long Island calls? 516 code is Long Island.”

  Janey glanced at them. “Reg and Duane canceled their fishing trip. I guess Reg had to change reservations or something.”

  “I thought they fished from Montauk. This says Fire Island.”

  Janey shrugged. “It’s on the ocean. Right?”

  “That’s what I thought, at first. The exchange is 597. That’s eastern Fire Island. Know anybody out there?”

  “It’s the fishing boat.”

  “And in November they went elk hunting. Show me November.”

  Janey bit her lips. But neither of us was surprised that she opened her records without any more argument, tugging a tax box from a closet and riffling through rubberbanded envelopes. I scanned the long-distance sheets.

  “Got a phone book?”

  Moving like a sleepwalker,
she brought out a phone book. I turned to the area-code map. Montana code was 406. I thought I knew 305, and sure enough, it was south Florida. She watched, stony-eyed, while I dialed 305-555-1212 and inquired about the exchange.

  “Funny. Before they went elk hunting, Reg made calls to Florida. But none to Montana. How’d he make reservations?”

  “Eight-hundred numbers don’t show up on the bill.”

  My single experience elk hunting had involved riding a surly horse through a four-day blizzard in the company of a taciturn mountain man who swore when it was over that he’d seen plenty elk last time. So I doubted Big Country hunting guides maintained 800 numbers. Perhaps the outfitters who supplied tents and horses? 1-800-STIRRUP? I didn’t think so.

  “Janey. Everyone who saw Reg that last night said he was either crying or on the verge of tears. Why do you suppose that was?”

  “The divorce was tearing him up.”

  “You separated six months ago.”

  “Delayed reaction.”

  “I’m sorry, Janey. I’m very sorry. I found out what you weren’t telling me.”

  “What?”

  “Reg was heartbroken. But he wasn’t heartbroken over you. Was he?”

  She shook her head.

  “Who was it?”

  Her mouth curled like a leaf again, the way it had when I asked if Reg was dating. “You’re so smart, you tell me who.”

  “But you know. Don’t you?”

  She sat frozen, neither confirming nor denying.

  I said, “He was heartbroken as he could be only at the end of a long, long love affair. Years and years.”

  “You don’t understand.”

  “I understand now why Greg Riggs told you to drop it. How long did you stay with Reg after you knew?”

  “…It seemed forever…But it was only a couple of years. Once I gave up on him, I got involved with Greg. It was like I had to. I had to prove that I was still…” She shook her head, too shamed to say it out loud. “Reg kept promising to break it off. I kept hoping. He was still a good father. But finally—I guess after he joined AA—I had to admit it was hopeless. He loved somebody else.” She made a fist and pounded it softly on her desk. “I think I only really got that the other day: forget the details; what hurt most was that he loved someone more than me…I feel so stupid.”

  “Love first, smart later.”

  She didn’t smile, but she did say, “Yeah, right.”

  I got up to leave.

  “Does Greg drive a Mercedes?”

  “Jeep Cherokee—Where are you going?”

  “You know where I’m going. Why don’t you go home and grab ahold of Greg? You’ve paid your dues.”

  I’d certainly paid mine. The price of trusting clients. Jesus, was I an idiot. On the other hand, what joy to eliminate Sergeant Marian’s favorite suspect.

  And speaking of that devilette, whom did I meet in the Hopkins parking lot, making a leggy exit from her car? I saluted. “Hello, Sergeant.”

  “I told you not to rat to your client.”

  “I didn’t. But I have a tip for you.”

  “Mail it in.”

  “You won’t like it.”

  “Try me.”

  “The re-autopsy? The second post mortem?”

  “What about it?” she asked impatiently, and I knew the medical examiner had already told her the bad news.

  “No foul play. No needle marks. Nothing new. Inhaled pure H. Hotload, like the M.E. said the first time.”

  Marian took off her sunglasses. Her eyes were gray as icebergs in the Roaring ’Forties. “If I find who leaked, I’ll put you both inside.”

  “I’ll take that as confirmation, thank you. So what brings you to Newbury?”

  “Because this thing stinks, anyway.” She shouldered me aside and shoved through Janey’s door.

  I ran to the Smoke Shop, the nearest pay phone, begged change from Eddie Singleton, and dialed Hopkins Septic. When Janey answered, I said, “Stall that woman. She knows nothing. If she leans on you, call Greg.”

  Janey said, “Don’t flush till we pump you out.”

  I spent another quarter on a call to Newbury Pre-cast.

  “Duane? Ben. How are you?”

  “Hot as hell. How you doing, buddy?”

  “I’m hot too. We got to talk about some stuff. It occurs to me I’m the last guy in Newbury who hasn’t chilled out in your Jacuzzi. How about beers and business?”

  “Five o’clock?”

  “Hey, you’re the boss. Can’t you get out of there early?”

  “Three.”

  “Told you you’re the boss. See you at three. Will Michelle be there?”

  “If it’s business, we’ll both be there.”

  “It’s business.”

  “We’ll be there.”

  Chapter 31

  The more money Newbury Pre-cast generated, the deeper the banks extended his lines of credit, Duane still drank Budweiser beer. Working man’s Bud was the key to his success—a blunt warning to their employees not to be misled by the French Colonial, the Audi, and the deluxe truck. The Fisks remained down and dirty—on top over every detail.

  A can of the brew and a bunched towel sat within easy reach on the Jacuzzi’s granite surround. “Fridge under the bar,” he called from the bubbling water. “Beck’s for wimps, Bud for men. If you want to shower, it’s thataway.”

  I rinsed off in a marble shower, put on my bathing suit, and re-entered the party room, which rumor had not done justice. It was big, with a handsome octagonal timbered dome. The sun streamed through skylights. Sliding glass and screens looked into the woods. The carpet was as deep as Marie Butler had reported, but for some reason, none of the gossips had reported that the Jacuzzi was not the standard molded plastic, but hand-built of granite. The masonry alone must have cost forty thousand, with another one-fifty for the room.

  I grabbed a Beck’s and stepped into the water. Duane watched, submerged like a hippo to his eyes and nose. “What happened to your arm?”

  “Scratched it on a coathanger.”

  “How come you never get fat? You son of a bitch, I never saw anybody eat like you, but you never get fat.”

  “God’s reward for good behavior.”

  “He caught up with me. I’m turning into Two-ton Tony.”

  “Where’s Michelle?”

  “Lunch at the club. The girls’re prepping Steve for the great debate. Jesus, poor Vicky. I thought Steve was a joke, but the guy turns up a winner.”

  “Just what the town needs, a discount Ribbentrop.”

  “Who?”

  “Champagne salesman the Nazis appointed Foreign Minister.”

  “Steve’s no Nazi.”

  “That’s a relief.”

  “So what’s up?”

  “When’s Michelle coming?”

  “Any minute.”

  I had plenty of material to stall with. I told Duane I’d been thinking about Mount Pleasant and my New York customers: times were changing; people were so busy, we might have a shot at second-home buyers if we offered some sort of maintenance contract in the deal.

  “Lawn mowing and snow plowing.”

  “Sure.”

  “And maybe a handyman, someone they can leave the keys with who’ll check pipes in the winter, turn on the outside water in the spring.”

  “How about gardeners?” Duane suggested. “Fertilizer and all that crap.”

  We bounced it around awhile, with rising enthusiasm, both realizing we’d hit on something we could sell.

  “Now, what about the stone retaining walls? It’s part of the package. Quality and quality care.”

  “Christ, don’t hit Michelle with that right off. Let me break it to her gentle.”

  “Break what to me gentle?” Michelle called, gliding across the carpet on bare feet.

  “Didn’t hear you come in, hon.”

  “Hey, Ben.”

&nbs
p; “How’d Steve prep?”

  “He’s going to kick ass.” Michelle dropped her terry robe on the surround, revealing a one-piece black maillot that suited her round figure. “Break what to me gently?” she reiterated, stepping into the Jacuzzi, descending the underwater steps. Waist deep, she moved to the bench across from Duane and me and sunk to her chin. “Oh. Nice. God, it’s awful out. Duane, you want to close the windows and turn on the AC?”

  “Not if it means standing up.”

  “We were talking about Mount Pleasant.”

  Duane said, “Ben’s got a great idea how to get his New Yorkers. Tell her, Ben.”

  I repeated the essence of our conversation. Michelle liked it. She wondered aloud whether they should form a maintenance crew or contract it. I suggested contracting the Meadows Brothers for the grounds work. Duane thought Pete Stock would make a good handyman.

  “No, Janey’s hired him.”

  “I guess she’s back in gear.”

  “Are you going to use her?”

  “Sure,” Michelle answered, “if she gets things moving. We’d rather work with people we know.”

  “I was just over there. She looked pretty good.”

  “What were you doing there?”

  “Going through her telephone bills.”

  “What are you, a bookkeeper on the side? God, you could go through my bills, save me the trouble.”

  “I’d like that.”

  “Beg pardon?”

  “I said, I wouldn’t mind checking your phone bills—your long-distance bills—but I don’t really have to. I got it all at Janey’s.”

  “Am I missing something?” asked Duane.

  “Got what all?” asked Michelle.

  I said, “Though, actually, I wouldn’t mind checking yours for Waterbury calls. Maybe even Bridgeport.”

  Duane stirred. The hippo awake—contemplating a tasty canoe. “What in hell are you talking about?”

  “Waterbury and Bridgeport are only a side issue. Though a big side issue. Aren’t they, Michelle? Kind of a heavy-duty version of that scary note you sent Janey.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said. But although she looked angry and her eyes were snapping, she did not tell me to leave. I debated dropping Little John Martello on her but decided to keep him in reserve. If I was right, her supplier would dance in her brain without any help from me.

  “Let me tell you a story about a friend of mine.”