Foursome (9 page)

Gates took some more beer, then applied the cold can to his forehead. “I pitch over backwards and into the works myself. Four witnesses said Tom took his sweet time turning off the machinery, even knocking aside one of his men who was trying to get to the switch. By the time the yelling was over, I’d lost the arm and the leg.”

I didn’t say anything.

Gates set his can down. “Tell you the truth, I was lucky to live. No hope of reattaching the parts, both ground to hamburger. But it gave me a hell of a lawsuit, John, a hell of a lawsuit. We settled it by Old Tom—actually, Judson Lumber itself—deeding me this side of the shoreline, with a chunk of money to build this camp—all cedar, John—and another chunk to keep me set modestly the rest of my days.”

“Quite a story.”

“It’s a tale, I’ll warrant that.”

“How did Ma Judson feel about all this?”

“She was appalled. By what her brother did to me, I mean. Don’t know that they spoke after that.”

“Before he died.”

“Right.”

“How did he die?”

Gates looked over at me, his eyes sad. “Halloween night, maybe three years back, he stepped into a bear trap.”

“A what?”

“A big trap, with those saw teeth in them. Old Tom collected that kind of thing. After he sold his camp to your client and his place in town, he moved up the mountain, big house. He got drunk one night and got himself caught in one of his traps and bled to death.”

“Halloween, you said?”

“That’s right.”

“You think it could have been a prank?”

A thoughtful look. “Hard to say, John. Folks up here treat Halloween differently than most places.”

“How do you mean?”

“They’ll fill big orange trash bags with balled-up newspapers, some rocks to hold her down, then mark on her in black to make huge jack-o’-lanterns. They do almost Nativity scenes with white sheets on the figures, like ghosts instead of shepherds and wise men. You’ll even see a dummy of a devil or a witch, hanging from a tree limb by a noosed rope. Halloween is an important holiday in the woods, John.”

“Any idea why?”

“Maybe because it’s … basic? Like any pagan ritual, it’s something you don’t let loose of because it reflects the way the environment works much better than recent overlays like Judaism or Christianity.”

“Do you know who found him?”

“Tom Judson?”

“Yes.”

“Sure. It was Owen Briss.”

“The carpenter?”

“Carpenter, mechanic, trapper. You name it, Owen’s done it. Built those little gully bridges for your client, used to be a logger for Old Tom till he did something to piss him off.”

“Do you know what it was?”

“Yeah. The day of that demonstration at the mill?”

“Yes.”

“Owen’s the guy Old Tom pushed away from the switch.”

Gates had managed to control his voice.

I said, “You know how I can find Briss?”

“Yes. He’s got a trailer over the other side of the mountain, maybe five miles from the village. They can give you directions from the Marseilles Inn. Ralph and—”

“I’m staying there.”

“Fine. If we’re finished here, I can run you back.”

“You sure? I can walk.”

A smile. “Mosquitoes’ll start up any time now, John. You walk through the woods, you’ll be eaten alive. Besides, it’s just twenty minutes across to the inn.”

“Thanks.”

Gates dropped the smile, seeming to think about something. “John, one more thing?”

“What’s that?”

“You go see Owen, he’s a touchy boy.”

“Touchy.”

“Quick to temper. What I’m saying is, you be careful when you deal with folks up here.”

“Careful how?”

“They’re … they’re a little like their holidays. Halloween, for example. Mainers like Owen are basic and natural, John, and nature for all her glory can be a damned dangerous thing.”

D
AG
G
ATES BROUGHT ME
back to the village in his canoe, Runty being left home for dinner. As soon as the sun dropped low in the sky, the air got cool, and once in the boat, almost cold. Gates had the foresight to lend me a sweatshirt to wear over my tie and under my suit jacket. It took almost half an hour at the electric motor’s cruising speed to reach the Marseilles Inn, but given the condition of the camp road I’d come over with Sheriff Patsy Willis, the canoe ride probably took no longer than a car would have.

I got out at the inn’s dock, returning Dag’s sweatshirt to him. Swatting at mosquitoes, I began to climb toward the back of the building. A striking woman in her late thirties with frosted hair in a pixie cut and a genuine smile was waiting for me at the screen door to the porch.

She said, “Mr. Cuddy?”

“John, please.”

“John, I’m Ramona Paine. Welcome to the inn.”

She had a Maine accent rather than her husband’s Philadelphia twang. We shook hands, hers a little powdery, a smudge of flour on one of her cheeks.

Ramona said, “Ralph told me you were here on account of Steven Shea.”

“That’s right.”

“I expect you’ll be wanting to talk to me. Before or after dinner easier for you?”

“Whichever is easier for you.”

A little whoop. “Finally, a guest who understands how to get good service for himself. You go upstairs and freshen up. Dress casual if you’ve got them, we don’t stand on ceremony here. Dinner’ll be ready by the time you are.”

I made my way through the empty downstairs sitting room. The major furniture consisted of two love seats opposing each other around a fireplace with black andirons and tools. A number of old chairs, plushly upholstered, were stationed at various strategic points near a reading lamp, a brochure stand, and a dry bar in one corner.

I went around to the big staircase by the front entrance. Still no sign of Ralph.

Upstairs, I showered and changed to a clean shirt with tan slacks. The view out my window drew me to it. Three small outboards, fishermen and their rods silhouetted against the water by the sun dying behind the mountain. A couple of water birds, one the size of a pterodactyl, came in low, then wheeled and disappeared. Some insects were chirping loudly enough to come through the closed glass.

When I got back downstairs, Ralph was in a dress shirt with long-point collar, tending the dry bar in the sitting room.

“What’ll you have, John?”

“Vodka and orange juice?”

“You got it. Take a seat and feel free to read instead of talk. This place is supposed to be like home.”

I walked over to the bar while he mixed my drink. “This place is already more like home than where I live. You been up here long?”

“Oh, not so long myself. Used to be a trucker out of Philly, come up here on and off. Met Ramona when she was managing one of the motels down to Augusta.” He stopped, smiled, and handed me the screwdriver. “Hear that?”

“Hear what?”

“Me saying ‘down to Augusta’ instead of ‘down in’ or ‘over in.’ Even when you don’t have the accent, you start picking up on the way Mainers say things.”

I tried the screwdriver. “That happened to me in the service.”

“Did it now?”

“Yeah. I was stationed in Georgia for a while, and I found myself saying ‘y’all’ and ‘predate it.’ Wore off once I got back to Boston.”

Paine said, “How’s the drink?”

“Almost too good.”

“You mix the first one strong, I’ve found folks don’t complain about the rest.”

“Expecting many people tonight?”

“Only got a few staying over, and they’re still out sightseeing. My guess is you’ll be it for an hour or so.”

“As long as we’re alone, mind if I ask you a few questions?”

Paine looked thoughtful. “Guess not, long as it would help Steven Shea.”

“How well did you know him before this happened?”

“You mean before the night of the killings.”

“Right.”

“He stayed here some nights, usually weekends, when his house was going up. Him and his wife come in for drinks or dinner once in a while. And of course they’d be in to the store for things when they’d be up at their camp.”

“Driving here from Augusta, I got the impression you’re about it in terms of shopping.”

“Coming from Boston—Augusta way—that’s right. Only groceries for twelve miles.”

“So they pretty much used your store exclusively.”

“Couldn’t say that. Most of the weekenders, they buy a lot at the Shaw’s or the Shop ‘n Save down to Augusta, then come to us for whatever. Steven, now, we’d see him about every day.”

“Why’s that?”

“You met him yet?”

“Probably tomorrow.”

“Well, Steven is kind of a classic sales type, no offense to him. Big smile, shake, hand on the shoulder? But he didn’t have much concentration, and that wife of his …”

Paine stopped, sucked in his lips.

I said, “What about his wife?”

“I’m not what you’d call religious, but I have trouble speaking ill of the dead.”

“It won’t go any further.”

Paine waited a moment, then said, “She wasn’t the kind to use first names, you know? A little snooty, I always thought. And she didn’t give him much help in the groceries department.”

“How do you mean?”

“Well, sometimes she’d come in with him to the store, but mostly never, and never really help when she did. Just kind of stand around with her arms crossed and try not to brush into anything, like everything had been on the shelves too long and would get her dirty.”

Paine had a nice eye for detail. “You didn’t see Shea at all that night?”

“Nossir. But I think when you talk to Mona, she’ll tell you he come in like always, a little tipsy already and looking to buy some more for his foursome.”

“That’s really how they were known, huh?”

“Yessir. Out on their deck, you could hear them sometimes all the way up here. Laughing and carrying on. I swear, I’d have bet the homestead they were about the least likely people this sort of thing would ever happen to.”

I was about to ask about Owen Briss when Ramona Paine’s voice behind me said, “Ralph, stop bending this gentleman’s ear and let him get to his supper.”

I followed her to the dining room, Ralph behind me. She motioned toward the single bench of a small booth in one corner. The bench was of highly polished maple with a green leather seat. The corner had two windows, each facing water.

Ramona said, “Long as you’re alone, this little nook is the best spot in the house.”

As I slid along the padded bench, the one-eyed calico jumped up onto the outside sill of one window.

Ramona noticed it and said, “You like cats?”

“Not until recently.”

“She bothers you, just tap the glass with a fingernail and off she’ll go. I took the liberty of making a Rock Cornish game hen for you. That all right?”

“Fine.”

“Stuffing’s my own, combination of nuts, cranberries, and you don’t want to know what else. Salad before, fresh carrots and broccoli with, dessert after.”

Lifting the screwdriver, I said, “You have any white wine by the glass?”

“No. But I do have a bottle in our big cooler that was Steven Shea’s favorite. He can’t enjoy it, you might as well.”

I tried to decide if I felt guilty about that, decided I had no reason to yet. “Fine.”

“Dressing?”

“How’s the house?”

The genuine smile again. “You are a perfect guest.”

As Ramona went back to the kitchen, I looked around the dining room. Six trestle tables with press-back or ladder-back chairs in this room, two more bench-style booths, others in an adjoining one. Ruffled curtains on the windows, polished hardwood floors, china plates and platters standing vertically in wire holders on shelves.

A ripple of relaxation went through me, and I finished the screwdriver.

Shea’s wine turned out to be a Sterling sauvignon blanc so austere it was like sipping dry ice. The house dressing was honey mustard, the hen and stuffing heaven, the homemade bread and cherry pie perfect. I ate more in one meal than I usually do in two days.

Ramona asked me if I wanted coffee. When I declined, she brought a mug for herself and an extra ladder-back chair over to my booth. She used her cupped hand like a broom to whisk crumbs from my tablecloth into her other palm, then disappeared for a moment before coming back and sitting down in the chair.

Ramona said, “I can give you ten minutes now or an hour tomorrow during the day.”

“Ten minutes might do it.”

She had some coffee. “Go ahead.”

“Can you tell me everything you remember about that night?”

“Probably not everything, but here goes. We didn’t have anybody for dinner that night, so I was over watching the store. Ralph was lying down upstairs, not feeling so hot. Anyway, I saw The Foursome go by in their cars sometime, kind of surprised they didn’t stop.”

“Why surprised?”

“Well, they almost always stopped in here for something, but it’s better to do it on the way into camp than to get all the way in and have to come back out again. It’s a good twenty minutes each way over that road.”

Made sense. “Go on.”

“Okay, Steve comes back alone in his truck, this kind of boyish grin on his face.”

Steve. “I don’t mean to interrupt, but can you tell me exactly what he said to you and you said to him?”

Ramona Paine took another slug of coffee. “He came in and said, ‘Guess what, Mona?’ ”

“‘Mona?’ ”

A half smile. “Ralph calls me that. Always has. Steve heard him say it once and kind of picked it up. He’s like that, Steve.”

“Like what?”

“The salesman, always kind of … ingratiating himself?”

“Okay.”

“So, where—oh, yes. Steve comes in, says ‘Guess what, Mona? Not enough grape juice.’ That’s how Steve calls his wine, grape juice, like it didn’t cost twenty dollars American by the bottle. So he’s a little loose already, he wanders around the store, picking up this and that because he’s not sure what else they might need out there.”

“He say anything while he was wandering?”

“Just small talk. ‘How’s Ralph,’ ‘How’s business,’ nothing, well, memorable.”

“Anything about his manner seem odd?”

“No. Patsy Willis and the state police detective, they asked me the same thing. It was Steve Shea, the usual.”