Buried Dreams (16 page)

Idiot, I thought. You'll be lucky if the kids don't call the cops about the lunatic who just threatened to kill them all, over a wrong room number.

I slid back into bed and turned on the light, and resumed my reading, trying to relax, trying to get my mind back in shape to fall asleep, but I read all through the night and the gray morning light was coming in the window, before I was tired enough to roll over and sleep, which I did, for a couple of hours, until housekeeping pounded on my door with a sledgehammer or something, wanting to know if the room was ready to be made up.

Nearly three hours later, I parked my rental in the Lafayette House parking lot, next to the van with SAM'S PLUMBING AND HEATING on the side. The guy inside had a reddish beard and looked me over as I approached him. He lowered the window and I said, "Tom Duffy, right?"

"Yep. And you're Mr. Cole."

"The same. Things okay?"

"Things are fine."

"Where's your cousin Frank?"

Tom coughed. "About five minutes away from seriously ticking me off. We've been switching off from the Lafayette House, the guy in the van watching the driveway, the guy in the room watching the coastline near the house. He's supposed to have an early lunch and shower and come back here, and he ain't showed up yet."

"Can I get you anything?"

Tom shook his head, folded his arms across his chest. "Nope.

The only thing I need to get done, I got a plastic tonic bottle in here I filled with piss 'bout an hour ago. When my cousin finally strolls across this here lot, I'm gonna toss it at his head."

"Sounds like a plan."

"Best one I could come up with."

I thanked him for his time, walked down the dirt driveway, and again felt that nice sense of serenity and calm, seeing my home sitting there, undisturbed and peaceful. I went in the front door, boosted up the heat some, and checked my phone messages. Just one, from Detective Diane Woods, which I returned. She suggested a lunch date and I quickly agreed, and then I changed clothes and checked the time. About an hour to kill. I went back downstairs, where my old oil furnace chugged along, and I got down on my knees. About half of the cellar had been searched, and I picked up the spoon and old colander, and started digging again. The dirt was cold and damp, and I imagined what little secrets might be in there, what might be hidden, as I dug, sifted, and dug again. Looking for bits of information, looking for clues, looking to find out what in hell had gone on before me, but the hour slipped by, and more of the cellar was searched, and I had not found a damn thing.

We met for lunch at the Whale's Fin, a small restaurant at the Tyler Beach Palace, right in the center of the Strip at Tyler Beach. Large windows looked out over the sidewalk, where during the summer you couldn't see the sands of the beach because of the crowds. But since most of the tourists were at home or were working or were doing whatever they do when they're not here, the view was clear out to the ocean and the Isles of Shoals. We sat in a booth by the windows, and after we ordered, Diane looked at my hands and said, "Your fingernails are dirty."

"Thanks, mom."

She smiled. She had on a black turtleneck and a light pink sweater and black slacks, and said, "The only way I'm going to get called mom is through divine intervention or some change in my lifestyle down the road, so don't hold your breath."

"I won't."

"So. What have you been up to, to get such dirty fingernails?"

"Digging in my cellar."

"And what are you looking for?"

Lots of possible answers to that one, from chasing another man's dream to wasting my time and making a mess, but I answered by saying, "All this talk about Jon and archaeology got me thinking of what might be in the basement of my house?"

"What have you found so far? Any buried treasure?"

"Just buried rocks, that's it."

Diane looked toward the kitchen and said, "You see how many people are here for lunch?"

"Lucky for me it's not in double digits, or I'd have to take my shoes off to count that high."

"Ha, ha," she said, with not much mirth in her voice. "Thing is, I can't figure out why service is slower here than it would be in August."

"Maybe they want us to enjoy our time together."

"Could be." She clasped her hands together on the table and said, "There're a few things we need to clear the air about, before lunch arrives. Okay? So when the food comes we can enjoy it and have some fun conversation, and not ruin our digestion. Deal?"

"It's a deal, detective."

"Good." She seemed to take a breath and said, "Why haven't you called?"

"Excuse me?"

"Today is Thursday. I haven't talked to you since we were in my office, back on Monday."

"Gee, mom, I guess I should have."

The scar on her chin seemed to whiten some. "Mom reference was funny the first time, not funny the second. You know what I mean. I'm working a murder investigation involving a friend of yours, and you haven't asked me for an update since Monday. Which begs the question why. First reason, of course, is that you don't care about what happened to Jon and my investigation. Which is bullshit."

"True. I do care. So tell me. How goes the case?"

"The investigation continues. End of statement."

"All right, maybe I didn't call because I knew that was what I was going to receive for an answer."

"I doubt that would have stopped you. So you didn't call on a case that you care very deeply about. Which means that either you're pissed at me, or you're off doing something on your own."

"I'm not pissed at you," I said. "You're doing your job, and I know that with the two secrets we discussed... well, I'm not angry, Diane."

She squeezed her hands some. "All right, for what that's worth.

Let me tell you two other things, my friend. The first is that I heard from a buddy of mine with the Porter police, that somebody broke into Seacoast Antiques over the weekend. Not sure if anything was missing, but since it was the residence and business of a prime suspect in your friend's murder, that sure raised my interest."

I stayed silent, wishing that the damn waiter would show up with our lunch, or a tidal wave would suddenly come through the front door, or something equally distracting. Diane went on. "Another thing. The chief's secretary, she loves to read newspapers through her lunch. Reads about five or six every day. She passed over a little clipping from the Durham paper, about a Tyler resident who was involved in a car accident on Tuesday. Sound familiar?"

I still didn't want to say anything, so I just nodded. "Okay," Diane said, "I'm going to let you in on another little secret. I don't know what you're up to, and I don't want to know, all right? The break-in at Ray Ericson's place, your traffic accident, whatever. Here and now, Lewis, we're coming to an understanding, an agreement. You're not going to ask me anything about the investigation. In fact, it would probably be healthy for the both of us, if this were our last gabfest for the foreseeable future. Because when your buddy's killer is caught --- and one of these days, he will be --- some scum defense lawyer is going to go overtime trying to find a weakness in the state's case. And that weakness is not going to be our relationship, as dear as it is. Understood?"

This time, I spoke. "Understood."

"Good. And while I'll miss you dearly over these next few weeks, I am going to count on you to pass along anything you find to me, through an anonymous phone call or tip or something. Because we both want the killer caught. Right?"

I said, "You're right. We both want justice done."

She cocked her head at that one and said, "Okay, I'll let that one slide, because I really don't want to know any more than that. Just don't screw up my case, okay?"

I nodded. "Okay."

"Because I've already told you why this one is personal to me, friend. With Kara and my promotion."

Finally, the waiter approached, carrying a tray. "It's personal to me as well, Diane."

She undid her hands, offered me a smile as the waiter came up to us. "All right, friend. It's official. Topic A is now off the table."

“What's Topic B going to be?" I asked, as I took a cloth napkin and spread it over my lap.

"How about your love life?"

"Going to be a damn short topic," I said, and both she and the waiter laughed.

Lunch was fried clams for her, fried shrimp for me, and Diane wiped her fingers and looked out the window, to the nearly empty sands. There were tiny moving figures out there, people who wanted to be near the cold ocean and cold sands on this windy day. She leaned back against the padded seat and said, "I know I've said it before, but I'll say it again. This and winter are my favorite times of the year. The workload gets down to a manageable level, only the diehards show up at selectmen's meetings to complain about the police department, and all of the tourists stay away. Not healthy for the chamber of commerce, but healthy for me."

"You mean you don't like working on your tan during the summer?"

She smiled. "Not much time for that. You know, it's days like this when you can really appreciate the history of this place. You just try to unfocus everything around you and look at the beach and the ocean, and you think, this is what it was like, hundreds of years ago. Before the English showed up and ruined everything."

"As someone of Irish descent, I appreciate your opinion of the English."

Another smile. "Another reason not to like most of the tourists.

They come here and they think it's a big playground, a big Disneyland put here for their amusement. They don't realize this is a community of people, living here year round, and they certainly don't appreciate the history, the blood and sweat that had been poured out to give them a place to get sunburnt and drunk."

'When people are having picnics at Gettysburg, you know they don't know their history."

"True... and it's not like I'm thinking they should pay homage or not come here. They should just show some respect for the past. Some appreciation. My God, listen to me. The longer I live here, the crustier I get. Pretty soon I'll be listed in the damn tourist brochures, the police detective with an attitude."

When the check came, I paid for it, and Diane said not a word, which was fine. I looked to her and said, "Jon had an appreciation of history."

"That he did."

"But his history didn't follow the usual path. He had his pet theory, about Vikings."

"So far, you're telling me things I already know. Got a point there, Lewis?"

"And I'm beginning to wonder if his way of looking at things got somebody angry. Somebody who didn't appreciate the thought of the history of this place being turned around to mention Vikings."

She raised a finger to her lips, looked at me. "Not one word more, my friend. Remember our agreement."

I reached over and got my coat. "Okay. I'll remember."

"And remember the other part, too. You find anything I should know about, you let me know. Quietly."

"With such a crusty personality, how could I forget?"

And for that, she punched me in the shoulder. But lightly, since we were friends.

Outside, the breeze was whipping from the ocean, causing our open jackets to flap in the breeze, and Diane leaned into me and said, "Thanks for lunch."

"You're welcome."

"A question?"

"Go ahead."

"How long have you been carrying?"

I didn't insult her by asking her to be more specific. "For a couple of days now."

She turned her head, and the wind was blowing hair into her eyes. She pulled it back and said, "Ever since the car accident?"

"Yes."

"You have reason to be scared, then."

I zipped up my coat. "I believe I have reason to be cautious, Diane. That's all."

She nodded. "You feel all right then? You going to be okay?"

I brushed some of the hair out of her eyes. "I will be fine. Honest."

"Good," she said, her voice suddenly sharp. "Because one homicide investigation is plenty. Take care, Lewis."

"You, too."

I kept an eye on her, as she headed to her Volkswagen Jetta, thinking about what must be going through her mind. Juggling a homicide investigation, trying to keep things clear for her upcoming promotion, worried about the love of her life moving in with her. And little old me, the male friend in her life. I put my hands in my coat pockets. On Diane's ladder scale of priorities, I knew I wasn't near the top, not at all. And that, combined with her sharp words, bothered me.

I waited. Diane got in the car, started it up, and backed out onto Atlantic Avenue. She drove by, and then there was a honk from the horn, a cheery wave and a big smile, and I waved back, suddenly feeling much better.

Silly, I know, but there it was.

I n the late afternoon, I was back in the cellar, breathing hard, leaning up against the cold and old metal of my oil furnace. My fingers were caked with dirt, and there was a smear of blood on the back of my right hand where I had scraped it against an old piece of brick. The jagged chunk of brick was the only manmade object I had found in my hours and days of digging, and now, at whatever hour it was, I was finished. I had gone from one end of the basement to the other, a foot or so deep, without finding a damn thing. About the only place left was the dirt that was under the brick and concrete mat that held up the oil furnace and tank, and I wasn't about to disturb that. Not yet, anyway. The seductive scent of being on the verge of making some important discovery certainly hadn't come along. The only thing that was here was a tired man with blue jeans almost worn through at the knees, an aching back, and dirty hands.