Idyll Threats (11 page)

But I'd learned to control my temper. My parents, embarrassed by their brute son, sat me down for repeated talks on why we don't hit and how physical violence solves nothing. “Not true,” I'd said. “Kevin Hurley hasn't taken lunch money from any of the young kids since I held his head in the toilet and flushed it.” My father wrapped bandages
around my knuckles and asked when I'd learn not to be baited. “Tommy, you've got to get a thicker skin. This one's going to be peeled from you if you keep on this way.” But I kept scrapping, until I made it into the police academy. I loved policing and didn't dare lose it. Fighting could cost me my new career. So I quit, cold turkey.

An owl hooted behind me. My feet crunched dried pine needles. Would the kids come after being chased by Charlie last night? Probably not. This was absurd. But I'd said I'd do it. Had said it in front of my men. I'd stay until midnight or half past and then radio someone to take the last few hours.

Stars sparkled in the dark sky. Underneath the same sky, years ago, Rick and I had sat eating soggy pizza on a tar-paper roof, watching a suspect's windows. Rick's back was against the roof's entry door, his binoculars by his knees. He'd said, “Would you look at that, Tommy?” I'd arched my back and tilted my head to follow the line of his pointing finger. Above us was a dark-violet sky. Clouds scuttled past. No moon in sight.

“What am I looking at?” I'd asked.

“Pollution. Certainly not stars.” And then he'd laughed, to show he was kidding, that he didn't care if he couldn't see constellations.

He always protested what he meant most. And when he got low, it was my job to jolly him along. “Stars? What're those?” I'd said.

“Ah, dummy. How'd you end up with parents like yours?” He'd scooped up his binoculars. He knew my parents were professors. It amused him no end.

“Stork got the wrong address,” I'd said.

“Probably got tired of carrying you.”

I wasn't heavy, but I had forty pounds on Rick, who stood 5'8” in boots. We'd nicknamed each other within hours of being partnered. I called him Leprechaun. He called me Sasquatch.

“Just think. Somewhere there's some poor Sasquatch family wondering where their dear baby is.” He made his arms into a scoop and rocked them side to side.

“Imagine my parents, wondering where their assistant professor of sociology is.”

He'd laughed and let his arms fall to his sides. His body loose, the tension gone. Mission accomplished.

Rick got it. I complained about my family not understanding why I became a cop and he said, “Shit, Tommy! What the hell else you gonna be, a shoe salesman? Jesus! You're natural-born murder police. You got the jazz.”

The jazz was instinct and luck, the kind only cops have. Those with jazz lasted. Those who didn't have it usually went down the hall to Vice and put in for their pensions like clockwork.

Hearing him say I was born to work murder? I never wanted more. Rick understood. Like no one else.

I slugged him in the arm and said, “Keep up with the sweet talk and I might turn straight for you.”

He barked a laugh. “Hands to yourself, you perv.”

Someone whispered. I scanned the area. Nothing. A burst of light streaked through the sky. A falling star. Holy shit. I'd never seen one before. What should I wish for? To solve this murder. What else?

1. Get laid.
   
2. Get the nameplate on my door replaced.
   
3. Get the mayor off my back about my car.
   
4. Stop thinking about Rick.
   

A voice called from across the green. “Come on!”

Four forms approached, two of them all limbs. Teenagers. “Where's the candle?” one asked. They stood near the ninth hole. A flicker of light. “Stupid lighter.” The flick came again, followed by the firefly glow of a candle, then two. In their weak glow, I made out three boys and one girl.

“What now?” a boy asked.

“Look for the stuff,” another said.

“What stuff?” the girl asked. The candle cast shadows on her face. “I thought we were here to make contact.”

“Casings,” the boy wearing a hoodie said. “Evidence from the crime. It will put us in touch.”

These idiots were trying to find evidence so they could commune with the murder victim? Jesus.

The shortest boy suggested that they say the St. Anthony prayer.

“What's that, Kevin?” the girl asked.

“Please, St. Anthony, look around. Something's lost and must be found.” I hadn't heard that prayer in years. Rick once invoked it at a hopeless crime scene. The team had laughed. Praying for evidence. The last resort of an Irish Catholic cop.

The boy holding the candle urged them to hurry up.

“There aren't going to be any casings,” Kevin, the small one, said. “The cops have already been here.”

Candle boy laughed. “You think our cops got this figured out? They couldn't find their own ass if you handed it to them.”

My cue. I burst through the trees. “Freeze! On the ground now!” The kids spun. Kevin put his hands up. “Down!”

Kevin and hoodie boy hit the ground.

The girl, still upright, said “What?”

“Police!” I said.

The fourth kid, the joker, ran. I pursued. Couldn't find my own ass, huh? I wasn't going to lose his. He huffed and puffed, out of reach. My side cramped with each jagged breath. Boy, he was quick. I sprinted, reached forward, and grabbed his T-shirt. My hand clutched the thin fabric. I tugged it toward me, hard.

“Ack!” He jerked backward and stumbled. His hands went to his throat. I pulled him to his feet. “Come with me.” He stood, muttering about police brutality. He smelled of pot and sweat.

“You don't stop running your mouth and I'll show you brutality. Let's go join your friends.”

I'd expected they'd taken off, but all three remained where I'd left them.

“You're all coming to the station.” I radioed for a patrol car. “Better prepare how you'll explain this to your parents.”

After I'd requested assistance, I made them face me, an impromptu lineup. “Why are you on the golf course?” They shuffled their feet and stayed silent. “This isn't a multiple-choice question. Why?”

“We were trying to make contact,” Kevin said.

“With the murder victim, Kevin?”

He stepped back, surprised I knew his name. He nodded.

“So you were here last night too?” They started in with quick denials. “Don't insult my intelligence. You were here last night.”

“Yes,” the girl said. “But the guard came through.”

“Did you see anyone else during your visits?”

“Besides the guard?” she asked.

“Besides him,” I said.

“No.”

“Nothing out of the usual?”

Hoodie boy said, “You mean related to the crime? Like the killer?”

“I mean anything,” I said.

“I saw a flashlight,” he said.

“When, Chris?” the girl asked. “You never said.”

“Last night. But then the guard came and we all had to run, so—”

“Where was the light?” I asked.

Chris pointed toward the eighth hole. “That way, but closer to the edge, skirting the woods, you know? It would come and go, like it was being flicked on and then off.”

“You never said,” she repeated.

So someone else may have been on the course last night. Someone Charlie Fisher hadn't seen. I'd send Revere to check the woods around the eighth and ninth holes tomorrow. Show him that following an “unimportant” tip might earn us forensics.

Fifteen minutes later, the patrol car came. The officers looked around. “These guys?” they said, pointing to the kids who stood, fidgeting.

“They were trespassing. I want them booked.”

Hopkins said, “We'll have to call their parents.” He made it sound like a deal breaker. If he were any lazier, he'd be dead.

“I look forward to it. Especially that one's.” I pointed to the teen who'd run. “What's your name?”

“Michael Jackson,” he said.

“Shut up,” hoodie boy said. “We're in enough trouble.”

At the station, I learned my young offenders' full names. Hoodie boy was Christopher Warren. His punk friend was Luke Johnson. The girl was Tiffany Haines. And last and shortest was Kevin Wilkes. They sat on a bench, near each other but not touching. Luke stared, glassy-eyed, at the Most Wanted posters. Probably looking at his future. He was the one the desk sergeant, Mahoney, had recognized. “Tagging more bridges, Luke?” he'd asked when the kids had filed into the station.

“Nah,” Luke had said. “Trespassing.”

I'd hung back and asked Mahoney, “He got charged?”

“Juvie court. Got public service. Picking up trash. Not surprised to see him again. No dad at home. And his mother, well, she's a piece of work.”

During the next hour, three sets of horrified parents came through the door. Mr. and Mrs. Wilkes were first. When I'd explained why Kevin was at the station, Mrs. Wilkes had said to her son, “You were supposed to be watching a movie with Chris!”

“I was, at first,” Kevin said.

“And we told you not to hang out with the Johnson kid,” his father said. He massaged his temples. “We're going to have a serious conversation. Starting with how many weeks you're grounded.”

Mr. and Mrs. Warren came next. “Chris? Sweetheart, are you okay?” Mrs. Warren hugged him, her diamond earrings throwing sparkles all over the room. Chris nodded, hands clutched at his sides. His ginger hair was a shade lighter than Rick's. In my office, he hung his head while I recounted the night's adventures. “I'm sorry,” he said, before his parents spoke. “I'm so sorry.”

“Now, now,” said Mrs. Warren. She patted his shoulder.

“Are you pressing charges?” Mr. Warren asked. He smelled like a stiff drink but looked white-collar. I bet he got a big holiday bonus, doing whatever he did.

“No. Chris appreciates what he did was wrong. But I think a punishment is in order.” Chris stood. He was nearly eye level to me. He stuck his hand out. “Sir, I'm sorry. I'll never do anything like that again.”

I shook his hand. “Glad to hear it.”

He gave me a crooked smile and his resemblance to Rick grew stronger. I'd called that smile Rick's “rueful charmer.” Seeing it again made my chest loosen.

Tiffany's mom and dad were nice but absentminded. I got the impression that Tiffany was smarter than either parent and all of them were aware of this imbalance. When I asked why she ran with a bad crowd, she said, “Only Luke is bad. Or tries to be.”

Tiffany suggested her own punishment: more hours spent at the Animal Rescue League.

“Didn't Cecilia North work there?” I asked.

“Yes.” She looked down. “But she was older, so I didn't know her.”

After midnight, only Luke remained. The desk sergeant hadn't lied about his mother. We'd thought she was on her way after our first phone call, but she thought picking up her son from the station was “optional.”

When she finally showed, she said, “What's he supposed to have done, now?” She took out a cigarette. I pointed to the No Smoking sign taped behind my desk. She rolled her eyes.

“He was caught trespassing on the Nipmuc Golf Course.”

“Oh?” She'd expected worse.

“And he tried to run from me.” Luke shrugged at her. She fingered the cigarette. “But what really bothers me, Mrs. Johnson, is what your son was up to. He was looking to remove evidence. That's interfering with a crime scene.”

“I'm sure he's sorry, aren't you?” She elbowed him.

Luke crossed his arms. He stared at my desk.

“Don't you have a curfew?” I asked.

Luke and his mother went slack-jawed at this idea. “Well, you've got one now. Until school starts, I want you home every night at nine p.m.”

“What?” His shout ricocheted off the file cabinets. “You can't do that.”

“I'm the chief of police, son. I'll conduct random checks. If I stop
by your house after nine p.m. and you're not home, I'm sending you to juvie court. And I'll recommend that your mother attend parenting classes.”

“What?” She bested his shriek by twenty decibels. “You can't do that!”

She didn't know that, not for sure. “I hate to repeat myself, but I'm the chief of police. Mrs. Johnson, take Luke home. And make sure he obeys his curfew.” She tugged on his shirt and complained about police abuse.

My wall clock read 2:21 a.m. I rubbed my gritty eyes. My keys jingled as I picked them up. My mind flashed to Rick again. He used to spin his key ring and whistle the theme to
The Andy Griffith Show
before going home. Every night. A whirl of the key ring and that damn whistling.

I stole his key ring. After he died, I took it from his desk. Put his keys on another ring. No one noticed. It wasn't distinct, just a double circle of metal, bought at any bodega for fifty cents. It wouldn't mean anything to anyone. It's inside my gun safe. Sometimes I see its dull metal glint as I retrieve or put away my gun. And I think, “There you are.” But of course he isn't. He's dead.

The morning crew was deep in the business of small-town policing when I arrived at the station, still tired. Chasing teenagers and acting like the paternal police chief had exhausted me. I trudged toward my office. Scarlet fingernails, snapping in the air, stopped me.

Joanne Devon, ear to the phone, jerked her head. She stopped snapping and pointed to a pink memo in front of her. “Yeah?” she asked. “What night was that?”

I picked up the thin memo. Mrs. Ashworth. 115 Lakeside Drive. Saw two men on the golf course the night of the murder.

I looked at Joanne. She put her hand over the phone and said, “Sounds credible. I tried raising Wright, but he didn't respond. Finnegan's in later.”

“I'll take it,” I said. “Thanks.”

She rapped her knuckles against the desk and said, “Sure, ma'am. I'll pass on your concern.” She hung up and said, “Half the town uses this number for complaints. That one was about garbage pickup. Fourth one so far. We should make Public Works answer these calls.”

“You know her?” I waved the pink paper.

She scrunched her petite nose. “Just to talk to at the market. She's British. Moved here years ago. Loves dogs.”

The phone rang. Joanne squared her shoulders and said, “If this is another garbage complaint…” She picked up the handset and was all sunny professionalism. “Idyll Police Station. Homicide tip line.”

I headed back outside. Time to discover what Mrs. Ashworth knew.

I got two feet inside Mrs. Ashworth's cottage before her yapping Pomeranians tried to take me down. Each attacked a shin. I grunted and kicked them free. They barked and rutted against my legs. I'd need to call the sexual-assault team if they didn't let go.

Mrs. Ashworth, who smelled strongly of peppermint, said, “Down boys!” Her voice was devoid of authority. Her face was broad and cheerful. She'd make a great Mrs. Claus. I took advantage of the dogs' distraction and scuttled past them. Following her petite back, I passed photos of the Queen, Buckingham Palace, and an English tower I felt I ought to recognize. Inside the kitchen, a man-sized map of London hung over a side table filled with tchotchkes: souvenir spoons, thimbles, and commemorative coins. Everything was covered in a film of dog's hair. My skin itched. I fought a sneeze. Lost the battle. It tore through my sinuses.

“Bless you,” Mrs. Ashworth said. She held up a kettle. Fur clung to its greasy bottom.

“No, thank you.” I rubbed dog hairs from my pants legs. They clung like burrs to the polyester.

“Just take a minute.” She turned the knob on the aged, white stove. A tick, a puff, and then a whoosh as fire rushed to the surface of the gas ring. The stench of methane reached my nostrils.

Seated at the two-person kitchen table, I said, “You said you saw people on the golf course the night of the ninth?”

She raised her eyeglasses from the chain she wore around her crepey neck. Peered through them at the kettle. “Hmm?”

I repeated my question. Behind me I heard the clack of the dogs' nails on the bare floor. Shit. Incoming.

“Yes, that's right.”

The dogs appeared, pink tongues protruding. Their eyes locked on my legs. I moved them aside and under the table. The dogs panted and yipped. Playtime.

The kettle shrieked. Mrs. Ashworth grabbed it from the stovetop, humming under her breath. I tried to avoid the dogs. Easier said than done. They kept feinting toward me, their eyes wild with delight.

I watched as the gas ring of flames blazed, forgotten. She'd burn the place down before I got a damn answer.

“How many people?” I asked. “On the golf course?”

“Ah!” She held up a flowered, blue tin. “Orange pekoe. Do you like orange pekoe?” Her gold wedding band was loose on her hand. Her husband “had passed” a decade ago. Just after they'd moved to the States. I wondered if all Brits were as batty as she was.

“Two people? Three?” I asked.

She scooped a bunch of dried stuff from the tin. It looked and smelled like potpourri. God, was it? She put it in a mesh container. Then she swirled the teakettle and poured hot water from it into the sink.

“This is how you make a proper cuppa.” She lowered her voice, sharing a great secret. By pouring the hot water down the sink?

She put the mesh container into the teapot and poured the remaining hot water over it. “There,” she said. “Where were we?”

Losing my damn mind. “How many people were on the golf course?” The smaller dog began humping my shoe. It felt like a mini-jackhammer had attached itself to my toes. I jerked my foot back and forth. The dog clung, unshakeable.

“Two men.” She set the teapot on the table. It sported not one, but three, doilies.

“Now the cups.” She went to the cupboard.

“Your range is still on,” I said.

She glanced down at the blue flames. “Oh! Sometimes I think I'd forget my head if it weren't attached.”

I pushed my foot so that the dog was stuck between it and the table leg. It yowled. I pulled back and it hurried away to its friend.

“Shasta! What are you up to, poppet?” she asked the dog.

As eyewitnesses went, she ranked between Blind Bill and Wazoo. Blind Bill was an alcoholic who gave out information when he needed
another bottle, and Wazoo was a junkie who often needed to trade a story for a get-out-of-jail-free card. Both were unreliable at best and absolute liars at worst.

She turned off the gas, set two cups down, and said, “They weren't playing golf.”

“Who?” I asked.

“The two men on the course.” She looked at me as if I were the one in the room half short of a loaf.

The other dog lunged at my calf. He got in two thrusts before I picked him up and dropped him near her. He barked.

“Hush, Samson,” she said. “Mummy's talking.”

“Two men,” I said, sitting again.

“I suspect they'd had too much to drink.” She poured the tea into the cups. The smell strengthened my suspicion she was serving potpourri.

“Why do you say that?”

“Well.” Her plump cheeks got rosy. “One of them was relieving himself.”

“He was peeing on the golf course?” I wrote this down.

She bit her lip. “Yes. On the grass by the eighth hole.”

“You saw him urinating?”

She shook her gray hair. “Not exactly. I saw his pants were down at his ankles.” She sipped her liquid potpourri.

“And the other man?” I asked. “What was he doing?”

“Just standing there. He seemed anxious. Maybe because of his friend.”

“How were they standing?”

“Upright. By the eighth hole.” She was giving me that “my, you're dim” look she'd favored me with earlier.

“In relation to each other.” I grabbed her London Bridge saltshaker. “If this is the man who was urinating, where is his friend?”

She set the matching pepper shaker close to the saltshaker. Very close.

“He was facing his friend?”

“Yes,” she said. “They were quite near.”

A man facing another man whose pants were at his ankles? Urinating men don't watch each other. Unless…

“What about their heights?”

She inhaled sharply and shook her head. “Oh, it was dark. And once I saw what they were up to, I tried to give them privacy. How awful to be caught doing that in public by an old woman.” She smiled at me.

She had no idea how embarrassing.

“The one urinating was tall, like you. But the other one. Well, he knelt down as I passed by. Tying his shoe maybe. So I couldn't tell his height.”

The man facing his pantsless friend knelt in front of him. And she thought he was tying his shoe? Wow.

“Oh, but the other one. The tall one. He had a big belt buckle. Shiny. Like cowboys wear on the telly. I saw it resting on his sneakers.”

“A big belt buckle.” I repeated the detail as I wrote it down. “Anything else?”

Shasta was nearing my leg from behind. A new angle of attack. I lifted my heel, ready to counter.

“No,” she said. “That's all I saw. Perhaps the men saw something that night, but then again perhaps they'd be ashamed to come forward. Because of what they'd done to the course.”

“Yes,” I said. I thought they might be afraid to come forward. One pantsless man and another kneeling before him.

“Did the men hear you or the dogs?” I asked.

“I don't think so. Shasta was exhausted. I was carrying him home, and Samson was tracking something. Squirrel most likely. Lots of them in the trees.”

“One last question. Why did you wait to call us?”

She put her hand to her chest. “Oh. Yes. You see, I only got home yesterday. I left town early Sunday morning to go visit my friend, Barbara. She's not been well. And I stayed until yesterday. When I got home, I heard the news and realized. So I called the station. Do you think it will help catch whoever did it?”

“Perhaps. Thank you, Mrs. Ashworth. If you think of anything else—” I gave her my card and stood. The dogs yipped. “I'll just see myself out.”

“Oh!” she said as I made my escape. “But you haven't drunk your tea!”

1430 HOURS

I was parked in Suds's lot. I had the car door open and my left foot planted on the ground. The building's eaves dripped rain onto the sizzling gravel. The humid air felt heavy. My hand was on the door handle, but my mind was two miles away, on the golf course. Could one of the two men Mrs. Ashworth spotted be Cecilia North's killer? Or were they witnesses to the crime?

I got out of the car and stretched. My sticky shirt chafed my middle. I walked to the window and peeked inside. Nate stood behind the bar. No Donna. I entered. Nate did a double take. Morning coffees and dinners I ate at Suds, regular. But lunches? Never. “What'll it be?” he asked.

“Grilled cheese with tomato and a side salad, please.” It wouldn't do me wrong to eat more greens. I didn't want to look like Stoughton. I'd seen him once. His belly looked like he was expecting twins.

Next door, the washing machines and driers created a symphony of white noise I enjoyed. In Idyll, the noise was all nature: hoots and growls and unexpected chirps. Give me sirens or car horns or whirring machinery any day.

I needed to find those two men from the golf course. But all I had was a vague physical description and a belt buckle. Oh, and they were gay.

The bar had few other customers. One left his stool to approach me. He was of average height and weight, with thinning brown hair. Joe Average. “Still working that murder?” he asked. His voice was reedy and had a twang.

My stare made him back up a step. “Yes.”

“Doesn't seem like there's been much progress.”

The other nearby faces turned away from the TV to watch the drama nearer them.

“And you know that how, Mr.—?”

“Lyle,” he said. He cleared his throat. “Mr. Lyle.”

“Are you a medical examiner, Mr. Lyle?”

He rubbed his nose. “No.”

“Detective?”

“No.”

“Eyewitness to the murder?”

He shook his head.

“So you don't have any pertinent information for me,” I said. Someone behind my new friend snickered.

“No, I just thought—”

“No, you didn't, Mr. Lyle. I think you've proven that. If you'll excuse me, I have a lunch to eat. I'm getting to it a bit late because I was out
working
a murder.”

Mr. Lyle returned to his stool. His friend laughed at him.

Nate set a plate before me. “House dressing okay?” He set a gravy boat at my elbow.

“Sure.”

Nate shook his head. “You getting a lot of this?” He looked Mr. Lyle's way.

“Not much.” I thought about Billy. “My men are probably getting the brunt of it.”

I dressed my salad and stared at the booze bottles as I ate. What to do next? I had new information, if Mrs. Ashworth was to be believed. But given the climate in Idyll, did I want to mention that the men were gay? I could only imagine how ham-fisted Wright's interview would be. I needed more information. And I didn't trust my men to get it without potentially outing men whose only crime had been to try to get it on in public. A thing I knew something about.