Blowing Smoke (25 page)

I was positive I was right as I got closer. In contrast to the other cabins, this one looked neglected. The screen door was ripped, and a shutter was hanging down from one of the windows. A trash can outside overflowed with refuse. When I pushed on the door, it opened with a creak. There was a hole where the lock should have been. When I walked inside, the smell of unwashed bedding overwhelmed me. I tried the light switch, but it didn't work.

I shone my light around the room. It was filled with beds, twelve of them, each arranged as close to each other as possible. A few of them had stained mattresses; others had bottom sheets over them. The floor was strewn with fast-food wrappers. A table in the middle had paper plates with pizza crusts on them, piled grease-stained pizza boxes, and half-empty bottles of beer. I picked up the pizza box. Someone had scribbled a bunch of addresses and phone numbers on it.

It was too early in the morning to call them now. Instead, I copied them into my notebook, closed the door, went back to my car, and drove down to the ferry. Once I got to the parking lot, I called the local investigation unit of the INS on my cell and left an anonymous tip. Somehow it seemed simpler that way. Experience has taught me that the less I have to do with the federal government, the happier I am.

I checked my watch. I had an hour and a half to go before the ferry came in. By the time I got to the pier, a few streaks of light were visible on the horizon. I was the only car in the lot. I closed my eyes and tried to sleep, but the damned birds were chirping so loudly I couldn't.

I raised my windows to shut out the noise, but then it was too hot.

Finally I gave up, opened the windows back up, and lit a cigarette, the last one I had in the pack. I took out the sheet of phone numbers and addresses I'd copied down off the pizza box and looked at them carefully.

Which was when I realized that I knew some of the addresses on the list.

M
anuel was sound asleep on my living-room sofa when I got home. He was curled up on his side with Zsa Zsa snuggled up against him. When she saw me, she jumped off and came running over, stopped a couple of inches away, made sure I was watching, squatted, and peed on the floor to tell me exactly what she thought about my leaving her alone.

“Bitch,” I said. But in a nice way. She was right.

She came over and allowed me to pet her, after which she pranced back over to Manuel, wagged her rump, and jumped up next to him. I knew she'd forgive me—that's one of the good things about dogs—but not before she made me suffer for a little while.

“Be that way,” I told her, and headed into the kitchen for a roll of paper towels.

I checked my answering machine. There was a message from Rose Taylor's lawyer asking me to call and a message from Tim telling me he was opening the store, and that was it. Nothing from George. If that's the way he wanted it, I told myself, fine. Screw him. I opened the fridge door and downed some of the orange juice Manuel had bought and devoured a half-eaten doughnut that was sitting on the kitchen counter. But that just made me hungrier. I felt slightly guilty about finishing the box of Frankenberry Manuel had also purchased but not guilty enough to not eat it. Then I wiped up Zsa Zsa's mess, went upstairs, turned on the fan, and collapsed on my bed. I fell asleep instantly.

I woke up at two o'clock in the afternoon feeling groggy and out of sorts. Zsa Zsa was splayed out next to me with her head on my pillow. I knew better than to tell her to get off. I stumbled out of bed, took a long shower, got dressed, and headed downstairs while she looked on. Manuel had left a note for me in the kitchen.

It dawned on me as I read the note that Manuel was planning on staying for a while. Again. George wouldn't like it, but that didn't matter. Manuel made me laugh. Which, at the moment, was a hell of a lot more than I could say for George. I balled up the note and threw it in the trash.

I tried returning Moss Ryan's call, but he wasn't in. I left a message, then fed the cat, who'd just come meandering in, whistled for Zsa Zsa, and headed out the door. It was late, and I had several people I wanted to speak to. I figured I'd start with the Petersons, Bethany's parents, since I already knew them. Their address had been one of the ones listed on the pizza box. I stopped at the minimart, gassed up the car, grabbed a large coffee and a couple of doughnuts, and headed off to Caz.

 

 

As I came around a bend in the road, I caught glimpses of Cazenovia Lake between the trees. It was filled with Saturday sailors manning their boats. A wedding reception was in progress at one of the inns. Cars were parked all along the town's main street. But once I got near to where the Petersons lived, everything was quiet except for the hum of the occasional lawn mover. I hadn't called to tell them I was coming, and Millie Peterson seemed flustered to see me when she answered the door. She was wearing an old stretched-out T-shirt and stained Bermuda shorts. Her face was shiny with sweat. Her blond hair stuck out in clumps. Specks of dirt clung to her cheeks. I apologized for dropping by without calling first.

“Arthur isn't here right now,” she told me, wiping a strand of hair off her forehead with the back of her wrist. “He went out for a run.”

I wanted to ask if she needed his permission to talk to me. Instead, I asked if I could come in, anyway.

Millie Peterson hesitated. “I was gardening.”

“I can keep you company while you work, if you'd prefer.”

“No. That's all right.” And she motioned for me to come in. “He should be back soon.”

Somehow I couldn't imagine Arthur Peterson running. He was too short and heavy. His wife must have thought so, too, because she said, “I don't know why he decided to take this up.”

The house's air conditioning felt chilly on my bare arms and legs. “So how's Bethany?” I asked as Zsa Zsa and I followed Millie Peterson through the hallway and into the living room. I noticed her gait was stiffer. She was moving more slowly since I'd seen her last.

“She's fine,” Millie said. “Just fine.” And she curved her lips up in an apologetic smile. “Is this about the check? I'm positive Arthur said he sent it.”

“He did. Can I speak to Bethany?”

She turned to face me. I noticed she'd developed a tic under her left eye. “Is that why you're here?”

“One of the reasons.”

Millie bit her lip. “Arthur said . . .”

“What did I say?” Arthur asked as he walked into the living room.

Millie and I both jumped. Neither one of us had heard him come in.

Arthur Peterson was wearing running shorts and a tank top. His face and hair were slick with sweat, as were the chest hairs curling out of his top. His complexion was beet red. His chest was heaving up and down. He looked as if he were about to have a coronary.

“My, this is a pleasant surprise,” he told me, although the expression on his face said otherwise.

“About Bethany . . .” his wife offered.

Arthur glanced at his wife. “Those shorts have seen better days. You should throw them out,” he commented. I watched her flinch as he turned to me. “Bethany is fine. Didn't you get the check I sent you?”

I nodded. “So she's still here? I thought she'd be gone by now.”

“She leaves for Florida next week. She's grounded until then. No guests. No phone. No TV No radio.”

“Can I see her?” What Debbie had said to me about Bethany must have bothered me more than I was willing to admit, because for some reason I needed to reassure myself that Bethany was okay.

Arthur Peterson raised his tank top and wiped the sweat off his beard with the bottom of it. “You came all the way out here to check up on her; that's very admirable. I hadn't expected such diligence.”

“Is there a problem?”

“Not at all.” He nodded to his wife. “Millie, why don't you bring Bethany out. You know, my daughter may not be happy to see you,” he added as his wife scurried off to do his bidding. “Sometimes,” he continued, his eyes following her, “it's hard for people to do the unpopular thing.”

“Like your wife?” I hazarded.

Arthur Peterson sighed. “My wife is a lovely person, one of the sweetest I've ever known, but she thinks with her heart, not her head. She wants to take our daughter in her arms and make everything all right, but sometimes that approach doesn't work. Believe me, I wish it did.”

“And you think your way is better?”

Peterson took a small white towel that was hanging on the back of one of the chairs and wiped his face with it. “I've been a family therapist for twenty years now. In my practice, I've found that setting limits works. It may be painful. For everyone. But someone has to take charge. Obviously, you can't have a fifteen-year-old girl running around the streets.”

“Obviously.”

I looked up as his wife brought Bethany into the room.

She was smaller than I remembered, and paler. More tentative in her movements. Her face was scrubbed; her blond hair had been redyed to a brown color and was pulled back in a ponytail. She wasn't wearing her gold jewelry. But the expression on her face was still the same—sullen.

“Say hello, Bethany,” her father instructed.

“Hello,” Bethany parroted.

“So?” I said. “How's it going?”

“Considering I'm a prisoner in my own house, just great.”

“Now, Bethany . . .” her mother admonished.

“What? I'm not?” She faced me. “Satisfied?”

I didn't say anything.

“Here to collect your blood money?”

“I already have it.”

She jutted her chin forward. “Then what?”

“I just wanted to see you.”

“That's why you came?”

“One of the reasons.”

“Bullshit,” Bethany sneered. She picked up a fashion magazine and started to thumb through it. “I'm nothing but a check to you.”

“So why are you here?” her father asked before I could answer her.

I turned back toward him. “A couple of reasons.” I showed him the picture of Dorita that Raul had handed me. “Does she look familiar?”

Peterson shook his head.

“Are you sure?”

“Of course I'm sure. Is this it? Are you done?”

“Not quite.” And I pulled out the list of addresses I'd copied down and handed it to Arthur Peterson. He looked at it and handed it back to me.

“Are these supposed to mean something?”

“One of these addresses is yours.”

“I can see that.”

“They were taken off a pizza box that I found in a cabin on Wolfe Island, a cabin that was a clearinghouse for undocumented workers. I was just wondering why they had your address?”

Peterson raked his beard with his fingertips. “May I ask what this is in relation to?”

“A case I'm working on involving the recent death of a woman called Pat Humphrey.”

“Never heard of her.”

“She was a pet psychic.”

Peterson rolled his eyes. “Lord, grant me the strength to withstand this New Age gibberish.”

“So you have no idea why you're on this list?”

He shrugged. “I don't have a clue. Maybe they were copying down phone numbers at random.”

“You're such a friggin' hypocrite,” Bethany cried. “You make me want to puke.” And she threw down the magazine she'd been reading, turned, and stormed off to her room.

“See what I mean,” her father said to me as we heard a door slam. “She's impossible.”

“Why should she say something like that?”

He shrugged again and pulled on his beard. “Why does she say or do anything? I wish I had an explanation other than the fact that she's fifteen.”

Out of the corner of my eye I watched Millie Peterson. She was studying the sofa. Her fingers were nervously plucking at the waistband of her shorts, as if she were playing a harp.

“Millie, do you know why she said that?” I asked.

“Me?” She gave an incredulous laugh. “I don't know why she says anything these days. I wish I did.” But her eyes weren't meeting mine.

“I told you that trailer park should be cleaned up,” Arthur pontificated to his wife. “I've said it from the first. But no one wants to listen. No one wants to do the hard thing anymore. Everything is spin control. That was probably a list of people whose houses they were planning to rob. I'll bet anything on it.”

“I doubt that,” I told him.

He glared at me. “And what, may I inquire, makes you such an expert on this topic?”

I gazed out the living-room window at the landscaping. “How much land do you own?” I suddenly asked.

Peterson furrowed his brow at the question as he tried to figure out where I was going with it. “An acre,” he answered. “An acre and a half. Why?”

“That's a lot to keep after.”

“I hire a gardening service.”

“Speaking of that,” Millie said. “If you'll excuse me, I have to get back outside. The weeds are calling.”

I put my hand out and stopped her as she went by. “One quick question.”

“But I don't know anything,” she wailed. “Arthur does all the hiring.”

“But you're here.”

“Could you get to your point?” Arthur Peterson said, interrupting.

I ignored him. “Millie,” I said. “The man I picked up on the road that day. You knew him, didn't you? He'd worked for you. That's why you called your husband to the door, isn't it?”

“Don't be ridiculous.” She bit her lip and studied the brown-and-orange patterned rug on the floor as if there were going to be an exam and she would be asked questions on it.

“My wife doesn't know what you're talking about, and neither do I,” Arthur Peterson blustered.

I turned to face him. “I think you both do. I think you hire these people along with half the inhabitants in this area. That's why you're on the list.”

“You have no basis for making that statement. None at all.” He pounded his right hand into his left for emphasis. “If I had known you were going to come in here and insult me in my own house, I certainly would never have hired you. Now get out before I call the police.”

“Gladly. But there's something I think you should know.”

“I doubt that.”

“That man in my car. He died from TB.”

“Remember, I was there,” Peterson replied. “I heard what the EMT guy told you. It has nothing to do with us.”

“If you say so.”

“Out,” said Peterson, pointing to the door. “Now.”

As I walked toward my car, I could hear Arthur Peterson yelling at his wife. His voice seeped out through the cracks in the door, disrupting the serenity of the late-Saturday summer afternoon.