With a 30-pack and a Slim Jim
secured I started the drive northwest out of town to Logansport Road. Ted
Sheehan lived in what used to be known as the Swinefield section. Pig farming
area until it was bought up by developers who were in the process of fitting it
with some gentrified, Downton Abbey-ish moniker like Manchester Meadows,
Havisham Heath or Stick-Up-Your-Bum Estates. Approval for a strip mall to house
the ubiquitous Starbucks, Chipotle and Whole Foods was all that was holding up
their plans of sub-divide and conquer, but that would certainly come soon. The
only thing standing in the way being passage by the Town Council, a five-member
board of Revolutionary descendent Yankees so old, dry and crusty I could swear
they farted dust. Sure they were social reactionaries, but they also had the
first two nickels they ever earned and at least one of them had a buffalo on
it. So it was just a matter of the price being right. Artfield’s mayor and self-proclaimed “zoning
expert” was Old Wes Willard, an octogenarian multi-millionaire so miserly he’d
sooner “wet willie” a wolverine than touch his principal. He'd drive a hard bargain, but he would get his payoff in the end.
For a minute I considered whether Ted Sheehan’s murder and
the development of the Logansport Road/Swinefield section could be somehow
connected. Were the developers after Sheehan’s property, but he wouldn’t sell?
That’s the kind of scenario that makes for a nice one hour TV drama, but it was
too trite here. It didn’t explain Monica Carson and her father also coming up
toe-tagged. Or maybe the whole radio silence thing had to do with fear of bad
publicity in which case we were chasing after nothing. That was more likely
until I considered that the type of money loving bastards that were going to be
moving into the gated McMansions that were going up could care less. They ate
working men like Curly Carson for lunch and the death of Ted Sheehan was simply
a tax benefit in that it unburdened the public school employee pension fund
just that much more.
I continued to second guess myself as the Ford Falcon labored
up the hill toward Swinefield. Since the road was literally visible through the
rusting floorboards I worried I might have to go “Flintstones” with my feet to
get her up the last few yards. Kayla the Kisser had a litany of reasons beyond
the moustache remark for breaking up with me and the Falcon was at or near the
top of that list. “It runs like a bear,” I’d tell her. “You mean it barely
runs,” she’d reply, but I wasn’t about to change. I loathed being burdened down
with possessions which should indicate a bohemian bent, yet I craved stability.
I thought this quirk made me an enticingly enigmatic escort, but Kayla, and a
host of other women, seemed to think otherwise.
Romantic reminiscing aside I continued to worry the motive here, but the one thing that kept me thinking I was on to something was the
lack of State Police. When it came to brains Artfield Police Chief Harry Bowden
wasn’t going to Houston to build any rockets, but he did have enough common
sense to know a double murder/suicide was out of his league. He was in his
early sixties and could’ve retired long ago, but he was such a fixture in the
town for so long he couldn’t give it up. In addition, to law enforcement he’d
also served on the Town Council, the Board of Ed. and County Highway Commission
as well as doing a spell as Building Inspector. However, between suburban sprawl
swelling the population and advancing age slowing him down one by one he
dropped the other hats to focus completely on the growing force.
Not that the Artfield Police Department was turning into the
East German Stasi overnight, but it had come a long way from the days when the
sound of a siren would be met by cries of “another cat up a tree” by laughing
kids- even as a youth I could be brutal. These days, I realized, police work
even in a small town wasn’t so simple. The difference between the good folks
and the bad had blurred. Thus it took tact and professionalism to walk the line
between friendly neighborhood officer and badass with a badge. For the most part
the members of the APD, even my brother-in-law, did it well. Unfortunately our
relative remoteness from any high crime areas meant most calls were of a nature
that mimicked that old John Prine song where “the po-lice arrived at a quarter
to five and pronounced all the victims
OK!” In other words for all their good intentions Harry Bowden knew his staff
didn’t have the experience for this situation making his lack of a call for
immediate help suspicious.
Though spring was in the air there was still snow on the
mountains. Locals often wound through Swinefield as a scenic shortcut to
Sugarbush, the nearest resort and a pretty good stripper name if you ask me.
The police had cordoned off Cliffside Drive which led to the mountain and was
the fastest route to Logansport Road and Ted Sheehan’s place. Cars were backed
up from there. Some asking for an alternate route others just rubbernecking.
The blockade looked hastily thrown up: a two-legged sawhorse,
police tape and an old barrel straight out of a Depression-era cartoon. There
was another entrance to Logansport Road on the opposite side of Burnet Hill. It
was well out of the way and a much longer drive so I decided to take a shot
that the police hadn’t gotten around to blocking it yet.
Problem was the giant Hummer in front of me. Seeing as the
Falcon got approximately 3 gallons to the mile and could still use leaded fuel
I had no cause for getting all environmentally righteous, but it was pissing me
off that I couldn’t see around the friggin’ monstrosity to make the left turn I
needed to make. Unless you planned on cruising downtown Fallujah
it hardly seemed you needed a car of this proportion. Though hauling this
generation of fat ass kids and gear to soccer games and dance classes did,
admittedly, require some extra square footage.
Slowly I edged past the Hummer’s back bumper, leaned forward
from the beaded seat cushion and seeing nothing coming immediately around the
slight bend gunned all 165 Vietnam-era horses and bumped noisily onto Evergreen
Lane. Checking my rear view mirror I noticed a girl in a light green
Volkswagen behind me try the same maneuver. Maybe it was the bend, maybe it was
the cloud of sooty exhaust fumes I released, but she failed to notice the
garbage truck bearing down until it was too late. Already committed she had no
choice, but to mash down on the gas. Narrowly averting the trash mongers, but
cleanly clipping the driver’s side of my rear bumper before sliding off to a
grassy patch on the far side of the road.
I eased the Falcon to the opposite side, got out and crossed
over to check on the Volks. A girl was in the driver’s seat. She had white
blond hair and a Scandinavian complexion that wasn’t so much pale as
translucent. I wondered if they even made an SPF high
enough for her, or if at the beach she had to slather herself in mayonnaise or Ranch
dressing. As I got a better view of her makeup-free features she definitely had
the look that would make such a prospect enticing. In the presence of such a creature I reverted
to my usual coolness, leaned awkwardly forward and mumbled, “Uh..You alright?”
Like so many women before her she proved immune to my suave
patter and staring straight ahead answered with a nod.
She looked pissed and her being young and pretty and me
being, well…me, I assumed instantly it was something I’d done. “It was nobody’s
fault,” I stammered. “Between the Hummer and the bend in the road there was no
way to see the garbage truck.”
“That’s nice of you, but I know it’s my fault,” she said. She looked up for the first
time and while not as old as me she wasn’t just out of school either. I guessed
early 30s or at least old enough to probably be thinking about things like her
insurance rate spiking which let me off the hook for her anger. “Is your car
damaged?”
“My car?” I mumbled, incredulous. We both looked at the battered Falcon and it seemed
like her question was rhetorical. “I think I’m fine, but looked like you banged up your front passenger side.”
I walked around to the front of her car, but she stayed put.
The headlight was busted and there were scratches along the side where she
glanced off my bumper. I looked at the Falcon. The only noticeable damage was a tear in one of the previous owner’s faded Boston Bruins bumper
sticker that read JESUS SAVES…AND ESPOSITO SCORES ON THE REBOUND!
I walked back to the driver’s side where she was searching
for her insurance info in what even I could tell was a rather expensive leather
handbag. Like the kind I’ve seen in the Coach Store at the Rutland Mall when I
walk in to get a lungful of that new leather smell then walk out.
“Don’t worry about exchanging info. My car’s good…uh, in a
manner of speaking. You have a broken headlight and some scratches, but you
might be wise to fix it out of pocket,” I said, reassuringly. “You’ll make it
back in savings on your premiums.”
This seemed to calm her a bit. She put down her bag, looked
up and smiled, “Thanks.”
“No problem,” I muttered noticing she had a young Gwyneth
Paltrow thing going on…you know, before all the political proselytizing and
peculiar parenting stuff. “I’m just glad you’re OK.”
Though we were probably only 10 years apart in age I felt
like she was giving me a “Thanks a lot, Gramps” look that made me feel dirty.
It was probably just my irrepressible insecurity, but I didn’t have time to
dwell on this before she started the Volks and sped off tossing a “You too”
over her shoulder on the way out.
I went back to the Falcon, reached into the cavernous glove
compartment and found my emergency cigarettes. I’d given up smoking years ago,
but kept a pack around for just such an occasion- when the need to operate a
vehicle and/or think coherently (I never found the two mutually inclusive)
precluded a much needed Natty Ice or six.
The smoke hitting my lungs felt good. Between the deaths, the
decisions, the accident and the girl it had been an overly eventful morning
already. Though I wasn’t really sure why, the last one bothered me. After
splitting with Kayla a couple of years back I decided to leave the hetero
world, skip over the homo- and bi- and get an early start on the asexual.
Neither gender, as far as I know, displayed any objection.
At first I thought this would free up time to write my Magnum
Opus or at least some half-assed, snarky murder mystery, but instead all I did
was write less, drink more and watch every episode of the decidedly average Mike & Molly five times over.
I took another drag, coughed like a tuberculosis patient and
eased the Falcon back onto the road. My assumption was the police wouldn’t
bother to block this long and windy back route and I was half correct. As I approached the turn for Logansport Road
I noticed something shiny yellow crossing the road that turned out to be police
tape tied to a sapling on the right and anchored down in the middle of the road
by a pile of small boulders. The effect was like that of a Mall cop car with a
light on top. It looked official from a distance, but as you got closer you
simply snorted thinking “whaddya gonna do give me a ticket for doing 12 in the parking
deck 5 MPH zone?”
I slid around the hapless obstruction and turned left. Ted
Sheehan’s place was the last on the right before the road ended at a brook and
thicket of pine trees. The house was a small bungalow which surprised me.
Though not knowing the salary of a Vice Principal and having never lived in
anything more than a one-bedroom apartment I was hardly in a position to judge.
Still it seemed small and rundown which suggested maybe there was a nasty
divorce and a bad lawyer somewhere in Ted’s past. I made a mental note, bunched
up some phlegm, hocked it onto the gravel driveway and proceeded up to the
house.
I immediately regretted my ear-catching expectoration as I
looked up to see, uh I didn't get her name so thought of her as, Miss Iceland and her Volks up closer to the scene. Her blonde
hair shimmered and seeing her out of the car and upright only increased her
comeliness. She stood in profile as she talked to Woody Maynard who’d obviously
been assigned to protect the outer perimeter. He’d dropped his guard- and from
his goofy look would like to drop something else- for her, but I couldn’t say I
blamed him. She had the kind of body that could make a Republican raise taxes
and dressed to accentuate it. The clothes like the handbag reeked of cash.
I approached and smiled as I noticed Woody struggling to suck
in his considerable gut and look authoritative at the same time. “Hey Woody,” I
started, glancing over to catch the girl’s reaction. She half-looked then did a
double-take recognizing me from the accident.
“Oh…uh…hi,” she sputtered. “Is everything OK with your car?”
Obviously neither of us knew why the other was there.
“Everything’s fine. I’m here to check out what’s going on,” I said, taking a
step toward the house.
“No chance,” answered Woody. “It’s an active crime scene,
Chief’s orders.” Then out of vindictiveness or to change the subject he pointed
to the cigarette I’d forgot was still smoldering in my hand and added, “I
didn’t know you smoked?”
“Uh, I don’t. These are prescription cigarettes,” I replied.
“My doctor says I don’t get enough tar
in my diet.” I quickly dropped the butt and ground it out under a stained Chuck
Taylor. Feeling self-conscious for no reason other than Miss Iceland (the moniker fit so I stuck with it) looked like the type who viewed smokers as worse than
Hitler.
I needn’t have worried. She couldn’t care less about me, my
crappy car, filthy footwear and horrible habits. Instead she stared down Woody
and asked coldly, “So you’re not gonna change your tune? About anything?”
“Sorry Miss,” declared Woody, his gut inching out in direct
proportion to how much he could hear her estimation of him dropping. “No one allowed in and no information released to the press.”
“You’re with the press?” I let slip out in a manner that
would’ve caused Gloria Steinem to kick in me in the balls.
She made a face, said, “Is there a problem with that?” then
arched her back and ran her fingers through her long blonde hair. Her chest
pressed against her tight, white blouse and if this had been a tennis match you
could hardly say she was “down a set”. Considering Kayla was not so much flat
chested as concave I was certainly intrigued. I cocked an eyebrow at the
suddenly aptly named Woody and he averted his leer long enough to fill in some
details.
“She’s with the Bee,”
Woody offered, “Glenn Hubbard’s replacement.”
“I thought they hired some tech whiz kid for that spot?”
“They did,” she interjected coldly, “but he quit two days
ago. To work for a political blog or something. They hired me away from the Concord Courier-Times. I just started.”
I still didn’t have her name, but based on her general demeanor I thought Miss
Iceland just might stick.
“New Hampshire huh,” I said nodding at the Volks’ tags that I
was noticing for the first time. “Live Free or Die…great state motto, I mean,
unless you’re in prison and have to stamp it on license plates all day. Then
it’s kind of a cruel joke.”
I thought this might lighten the mood. Woody chuckled, but
she was all business so I decided to act professional though it wasn’t really playing to my strengths. “Luke Williams. I run the local paper, The Artfield Review.”
“Karina Leach,” she returned, reluctantly, while eschewing my
proffered hand.
Well, Miss Iceland it is, I thought, and turned to Woody to
find out what the Hell was going on. “What the Hell is going on, Woody?” I
started unimaginatively.
“Like I told Ms. Leach here I know nothing.” I looked at his
considerable girth, but a Sergeant Schultz comment seemed to on the nose so I let him continue.
“The bodies are gone. They’re almost finished inside. Wait awhile and I’m sure
the Chief will have a statement.”
“He’s nothing if not consistent,” she sniffed. “But I’ve got
a deadline and who knows when this so-called statement is gonna be released or
if it’s even gonna have anything I can use.”
Woody shrugged. It seemed useless. We’d both have to run it
as a general news piece, albeit a big one for these parts, and fill in the
details later. This was easy for her at a daily, but if I went to press and
something juicy came out later she’d have me scooped by a full week.
Just then I saw the curtains move out of the corner of my
eye. I kept my head turned toward Woody, but could see Chief Bowden give Miss
Iceland an optical sponge bath. When I caught his eye the curtain dropped and
he retreated no doubt to fill in those still at the scene about the latest
talent.
With this in mind I figured it would behoove me to play nice
with her. Certainly winsome and willowy had a better chance of extracting info
than soused and sarcastic any day. Besides this looked like a mystery and didn’t
every Private Dick need a dazzling doll. Not to mention the fact that since
Kayla my dick had been private as they come. A little quid quo “pro” action
wouldn’t hurt.
“You’re right,” I started, turning towards her. She hadn’t
softened, but being brand new on the job it looked like she wasn’t adverse to
help from someone who knew the lay of the land. “Listen I’ve got a reporter and
photographer at the High School getting notes on Ted Sheehan, the girl and anything
else that seems pertinent. I’ll call ‘em and tell them to put themselves at
your disposal.”
“Thanks,” she replied. “I knew the male victim was a
Vice-Principal at the high school, but that’s it. This will save me time.”
She half-smiled and I felt half-stupid for caring as much as
I did, but such was my pathetic life. “I’ve got to get back to my office,” I
lied, a few of the Natty Ices were burning a hole in the cooler in my trunk and
I figured I’d slip off the road and have one for lunch. “Give me your number
and I’ll call you when and if the Chief decides to release a statement.”
She called up her contact info as I brought my phone out in a
closed fist. She made to do one of those tap it from phone-to-phone things like
you see in the commercials. Unfortunately my flip-phone didn’t possess such
capabilities along with no camera, BlueTooth, WiFi and a host of other things
most 15 year old's took for granted (I could text, but seldom did).
She read me her number and I punched it in while trying to
keep my hand over the antenna that could be pulled out for better reception.
She gave me a look of womanly disapproval that at this point in my life bounced
off like bullets off of Superman. She was obviously worried about who she was
trusting her professional life to so I immediately addressed Woody to deflect
her fears.
“Were Sheehan and this Monica seeing each other?” I demanded
in my most reporter-ly tone. “Were they sleeping together? Was this some kinda
relationship gone wrong thing?”
Woody looked shocked. Maybe it was it was because I’d
stumbled on part of the key to the cover up. Maybe because he was conservative
concerning their age difference. Maybe because the guy he once saw drunkenly
karaoke “It’s Raining Men” was going all Jimmy Breslin on his butt. Who knows,
but he wasn’t cracking.
“Listen Luke I got nothing for you. Why don’t you go ask your
brother-in-law. He was inside when I got here, but he went home about a half
hour ago. He’d be your best bet.”
“Your brother-in-law is on the force?!” Things suddenly took
an ugly turn vis-à-vis Miss Iceland.
“Yes, but it’s not that simple…,” I began, but she cut me off
by turning hard and heading for the Volks.
“I’m going to the High School. Get in touch with your
brother-in-law for crissakes and call me if you find out anything…ANY-thing,” she
demanded, turning her pale, pretty face to me one last time before starting the
car and driving off.
I turned to Woody who was standing mouth agape. “Pleasant
sort,” I shrugged…and in a lot of ways I really meant it.
