Looking for Peyton Place

by Barbara Delinsky

  I explained some of what I had learned. “You didn’t have to be exposed multiple times. One major exposure would have been enough. You might have felt sick afterward, like you had the flu, and then gotten better—except that the mercury would have remained in your body and settled in your organs, causing you chronic exposure.” I looked at my pad of paper, though I knew the dates by heart. “I have evidence of two spills at the mill. One occurred in March of ’89, the other in August of ’93. Given your son’s age, you were probably pregnant with him during the first. If you knew you were at the mill during the week prior to the twenty-first of that month—”

  I was interrupted by the doorbell and an almost simultaneous knuckle-rap on the jamb. “You folks all right?” came the gravelly voice of the chief of police. He walked right into the house, entered the parlor with his stiff-backed gait, and eyed me with distaste. “Is she bothering you?”

  “No,” said Tom. “We’re just talking.”

  “She’s been working her way around town all day, bugging people about finding a cause for their illnesses, like we don’t know how to take care of our own. Say the word, and I’ll get her out.”

  “She’s fine,” Tom said.

  Marshall looked at me. “Those others this morning weren’t happy. They say you were harassing them.”

  I couldn’t let that go. “If they say it, it’s because you told them to. I never even talked with any of them. They said they didn’t want to, so I left.”

  “Well, I’m sure the McCreedys would appreciate it if you left, too.” He gestured with his hand. “Come on. Let’s go.”

  “Am I under arrest?” I asked in disbelief.

  “Not yet. Resist, and you will be. We have no use for rabble-rousers around here. I assume you know what that term means?” he asked, seeming pleased with himself.

  I might be impulsive at times, but I wasn’t a masochist. Quietly, I gathered my things and rose. To Emily and Tom, I said, “If I’ve bothered you, I’m sorry. If you’d like to talk more, I’m staying with my sister.”

  “Hopefully not for long,” Marshall tossed back to the McCreedys as he escorted me out of the house.

  I was furious. I reminded myself that my anger was what he wanted, but it didn’t help. I tried thinking about my real life, tried thinking about my Washington friends and about my book, but still I boiled. What Marshall was doing was grossly unfair. I wanted justice.

  I thought of calling Sam and demanding that he print an op-ed piece on police abuse. Only I knew he wouldn’t do it. He would remind me that any such piece would be a direct charge against Marshall Greenwood, since he was the only policeman in town. He would remind me that Marshall was backed by the Meades and that I probably didn’t want to take them on.

  He would be wrong about the last. I certainly did want to take on the Meades—but about mercury, not Marshall. It struck me that I had to keep my focus and pick my fights with care.

  The reality of the Marshall business? No one in town was going to want to take him on, either. He was their chief of police. They would be stuck with him long after I left. Much as I adored Mrs. Klausson and Omie, they weren’t activists. Middle River didn’t have many of those. Except TrueBlue. I might mention Marshall to him. But to what avail? TrueBlue was TrueBlue (i.e., anonymous) because he didn’t want to publicly buck the tide. He was using me for that. By Middle River’s standards, I was expendable.

  Discouraged, I drove to the diner. I parked off to the side, under the shade of a big old oak so that the sun wouldn’t beat directly on my seats. Parked there, my car was also less conspicuous, which felt like a good thing just then.

  The smell of burgers on the grill and the whisper of the fans hit me just inside the door, along with Elton John singing “Candle in the Wind.” Its lyrics had always haunted me. This day was no exception.

  And wouldn’t you know, just when I could have used it, my favorite booth was taken. A group of high school kids sat there, with others of their friends in the booths fore and aft. Summer vacation was nearing an end. This gathering was something of a last hurrah.

  There were two free booths right up in front, but I wasn’t in the mood to be quite so visible. Walking to an empty one in the back, I passed other townsfolk. They glanced at me, neither friendly nor not. Feeling distinctly alone, I ordered Omie’s hash and an ice cream frappe. It wasn’t healthful. But I needed comfort.

  I know what that’s like, Grace remarked. They used to make fun of me for being overweight, but when you’re desperate for comfort, what else can you do?

  A psychiatrist, I replied, would say you were desperate for love.

  Was I?

  Of course.

  Are you?

  I never thought so. My life is full. I’m happy.

  My food arrived. I was midway through wolfing it down when Kaitlin slipped in opposite me. I had been too engrossed in eating to see her come in, but there were her friends, settling into one of the booths in the front. Elton John had long since given way to Sting and, again, to Gloria Estefan.

  Kaitlin leaned forward and spoke very softly. “I keep thinking about what I said Sunday. I feel like such a fool.”

  “Don’t.” I finished chewing what was in my mouth and put my fork down. “There was no harm done. Your secret’s safe with me. Truly, it wouldn’t even matter if it wasn’t. No one would believe a word I said. My credibility in this town is zero. I half suspect that if I dared say something negative about anyone here, I’d be jailed.”

  “I doubt that. You’re so lucky. You get to leave soon. I’d give anything to be gone from this town.”

  “But then you wouldn’t have Kevin.”

  She studied her hands for a long minute, before giving a one-shouldered shrug and raising her eyes. “Maybe I’m not meant to have him. I mean, I don’t know what I’d do if I didn’t have him now, but I’m not sure love lasts. My parents hate each other. Do I want that? Besides, I want to go to college. I want to work in a hotel someday, maybe in New York or London or Paris. I want to be independent.”

  “Are you talking about money or parents?”

  “Both.” She sat straighter, with something akin to defiance. “Like, I know someone’s going to report back to my mom that I’m talking with you, and she’ll get all hot and bothered, but why can’t I talk with you? What’s so bad about it? You’re the most interesting person who’s come here in ages.”

  “That,” I remarked, “is the nicest thing anyone’s said to me all day. If you’re saying it just to make sure I don’t tell—”

  “No. I mean it. You are interesting. Look at who you are and what you’ve done. Were you really a dork when you were growing up here?”

  “Totally.”

  “And ugly?”

  “Very—but part of that was my attitude. An ugly attitude is like a zit.” I jabbed a fingertip to the side of my chin. When she smiled, I said, “There. Better. You have a great smile.”

  She blushed. “You can thank Dr. Franks for that.” When I didn’t follow, she said, “My orthodontist.” She darted a look at her friends. “I gotta get back. Maybe we can talk another time?”

  “I’d like that,” I said and meant it. Don’t ask me why—Kaitlin DuPuis was nothing to me—but I felt better for her coming over. Less alone. Which was pathetic. I was thirty-three. You’d think I could rationalize being alone for a time, wouldn’t you?

  Wrong.

  TRUTH #7? It doesn’t matter how old you are. Lonely is lonely.

  Having acknowledged that, I returned to my food. I ate more slowly now, listening to a sweet Sarah McLachlan song, and set down my fork while some food was still left on the plate. Sated, I sat back. Thinking of all those other things—my friends, my book, my life—did help then. Marshall Greenwood be damned. I was going to be fine.

  “Hello, sweetheart,” Omie said, her wrinkled face wreathed in a smile, but the smile fell when she looked at my plate. “You haven’t finished the hash. Is it not good?”

  She was conc
erned to the point of pallor. “It’s delicious, there’s just too much.” It struck me that the pallor wasn’t from concern. There was none of the color I had seen in her face last time I had been in. “Are you feeling okay?”

  “A little tired,” she said with a small smile. “I’m not as young as I used to be.”

  “Will you sit with me?”

  “Not today. I’m heading home for a nap. Would you like another frappe?”

  “Good Lord, no. Maybe some iced tea. But I’ll get it at the counter.”

  Omie held me in my seat with a fragile hand. “I’ll have someone bring it. You stay here and relax. You bring class to this place.”

  “Your place doesn’t need any help,” I called to her as she walked slowly back around the counter and into the kitchen. Less than a minute later, her grandson emerged with a tall glass of iced tea. Having exhausted my need for calories, I added artificial sweetener.

  I glanced at my watch. It was barely three. Four hours left until I met James.

  I wasn’t in the mood to stop in at the shop, wasn’t in the mood to sit home alone, wasn’t in the mood to move from this booth, period. Omie’s was friendly turf, and I was marginally invisible here in the back. Did I have anywhere better to be? Absolutely not.

  So I pulled the latest People from my purse and began to read. Billy Joel sang, then the Beatles, then Bonnie Tyler, then Fleetwood Mac. I accepted a refill of tea, added sweetener, and relaxed. Omie’s was unique. There were places in Washington where I went when I wanted to take a break from my writing, but none felt like home the way this did.

  No matter that I hated home. Home was still home. Another truth? Sad, but true.

  Thinking that I was going to have to look harder to find something like this in the District, I closed the magazine and just sat for a while. When I hit the three-hours-to-go point until I met James, I studied the tab, left a tip, and slipped out of the booth.

  Invisible no more, I felt the stares of the occupants of every booth I passed, and how to deal with that? How to let these people know that I wasn’t an ogre, that I meant them no harm, that I was—yes—one of them at heart? I smiled. I nodded. I even winked at a sweet little girl who couldn’t have been more than five.

  Kaitlin and her friends continued to talk.

  I paid up at the register, then went outside and down the steps to the parking lot, and the convertible was where I had left it, parked under the oak where the sun wouldn’t burn my seats.

  Only I shouldn’t have worried about the seats. What I saw—how not to, with your car sitting all alone there like a sinner on display—was that my tires were flat. Not one tire. All four.

  Chapter 17

  MY FIRST THOUGHT, given the day it had been, was that I would find Marshall Greenwood on the opposite side of the parking lot, lounging against his cruiser with a stick of grass in his mouth, as casual as you please, claiming not to have seen a thing. And who would contradict him? If he had chosen a moment when everyone was inside, he could have done the dirty deed in private. In the shade of that big old oak, my car couldn’t be seen from the street. Nor could it be seen from inside the front half of the diner, which was the only part open for another hour at least.

  It was, of course, a writer’s imaginative moment. In fact, Marshall was nowhere in sight. And how ironic was that? At the very moment I needed him, he was gone.

  Disgusted, I pulled my cell phone from my purse and punched in the number that every schoolchild in Middle River was taught. It hadn’t changed. Marshall’s voice came right on; there was no dispatcher here. Middle River couldn’t afford one, any more than it could afford more than a one-man department. Marshall was it. How frightening was that?

  “This is Annie Barnes,” I said. “I’m at Omie’s. Someone has slashed my tires.”

  There was a pause, then a bland, “Why are you calling me? I don’t change tires.”

  I sucked in a quick breath. “Slashed is the operative word here. Vandalism is a crime.”

  “Do you see anyone around?”

  “No, but—”

  “Think I’ll find fingerprints? Footprints on raw gravel? Tire marks?”

  I was incensed. Forget depriving him of an opponent; I couldn’t resist lashing back. “You’ve thought this out, haven’t you? If I didn’t know better, I’d think you might be the one who did this. Well, that’s actually good. You’ve inspired me. I need a bad guy for my book.”

  I struck a chord there, judging from Marshall’s sharp reply. “Not me. I am no bad guy. Push that line of thinking and you’ll regret it. You’ve already caused trouble here. Want to cause more? Or don’t you care about the welfare of your family?”

  I was stung. A threat from a Meade was one thing; a threat from the chief of police was something else. “What does my family have to do with this?”

  “They’re accepted in this town. Push your current line of thinking, and people here will turn against them, just like they’ve turned against you. Know what the word agitator means? Well, that’s you, and it ain’t nice. If you ask me, when an agitator shows up here, she needs to be run right out of town.”

  I had no idea how to address that. Marshall Greenwood hated me. I didn’t know why. But there it was.

  Shaking with anger, frustration, and—yes—perhaps an element of fear, I returned to the immediate problem. “My car has been vandalized. Will you come here to investigate, or should I call the state police?”

  Calm and cool after winning that round, he said, “No need to call the state police. I’m just finishing something up. I’ll be there as soon as I’m done.”

  It took him twenty minutes—twenty minutes to finish up whatever it was and drive all the way around a single block. I used the time to call Normie at the service station, and to seethe.

  I was doing the latter, standing with my arms folded over my chest and my eyes on those pancake-flat tires, when Kaitlin and her friends emerged from Omie’s. Three of the five headed for one car. When Kaitlin spotted me and approached, the fourth ran off to join the others.

  “What happened?” she asked, eyeing the tires.

  “Someone slashed them while I was inside. You didn’t by chance see anyone hanging around here when you and your friends arrived, did you?”

  “No. And the tires weren’t like this when we came. I saw your car right off and pointed it out to my friends. We’d have noticed this.”

  But they had been inside the diner for more than an hour. That allowed plenty of time for someone to put a knife to good use.

  “I called Normie at the station,” I said. “He wasn’t thrilled at having to come all the way down here.” It was an understatement. Friendly Normie hadn’t been friendly at all.

  “Normie’s a total jerk,” Kaitlin replied.

  Marshall drove up. Kaitlin stayed, and she wasn’t alone. By now, other people had left Omie’s, seen us, and wandered over. Marshall walked around my car giving due consideration to each of the tires. Then he looked at the people watching.

  “Anyone see anything?”

  There were head shakes and murmurs, all to the negative.

  “I don’t suppose you have four spares in your trunk?” Marshall asked me, but looked at his audience and chuckled.

  I wasn’t answering a stupid question. “Is there a history of this kind of thing in Middle River?”

  “You mean, do we have a serial slasher?” he asked with another amused glance at those gathered around. “Nope. You must have annoyed someone. You’re good at that. I’d say this is a message.”

  “A message saying what?” Kaitlin asked. I noticed that she had come a bit closer to me.

  Marshall arched a brow. “Saying that Annie Barnes is stepping on toes in this town. Are you a friend of hers?”

  She ignored the last. “Whose toes is she stepping on?”

  “I can name a dozen people,” he said and began shooing away the onlookers. “Okay, folks, nothing much to see here.” To Kaitlin, he said, “Aren’t your paren
ts expecting you home?”

  “No,” Kaitlin said, tossing her hair out of her eyes in a gesture that was nothing if not defiant.

  It wasn’t so bad now that the other people had left. Still, I feared she would make trouble for herself. “You can go on, Kaitlin. I’m fine.”

  “Will he do an investigation?” she asked me.

  Marshall answered. “I’ll do what’s needed.”

  When Kaitlin looked about to ask more, I clasped her arm. “Go on, now. I’ll handle this.”

  The last of my words were drowned out when, with a lumbering noise that didn’t say much for the skill of the mechanics at Zwibble’s Service Station, the tow truck came down the street and turned into Omie’s lot. Pulling up where we stood, Normie climbed down from the cab.

  There was no smile this time, no chitchat as he surveyed the scene. There was no ooohing and ahhhing over my car, no mention of old friends from school. Rather there was a silent, plodding examination, first one tire, then the other, then a walk around the car to the third tire, then the fourth. When he finally returned to us, he was scratching what remained of the hair on the back of his head. He glanced at Marshall before acknowledging me at last, and even then he kept his eyes mostly on the car.

  “We got a problem here,” he said. “I don’t have the kind of tires you need.”

  “I’m not fussy about brand,” I replied.

  “Not brand. Size. We don’t have any cars like this in Middle River.”

  “These tires aren’t unique to convertibles,” I pointed out.

  “Most everything here is trucks.”

  “My parents don’t drive trucks,” Kaitlin said. “My mom’s Sebring’s not much different in size from this.”

  “But I don’t have the right tires,” Normie insisted.

  “When can you get the right tires?” I asked.

  “I’d have to make some calls.”

  He stood there.

  “Okay,” I said. “Can you do that?”

  “Yeah, but I’d need your car back at my place, only I can’t tow it back with the tires this way. I need a flatbed.”