Resurgence (28 page)
“Yes, exactly, minus a wedding date to stagger me, and a look at his real estate to bring me to my knees.”
“So you’re nitpicking his behavior to make things seem less perfect—less than too good to be true.”
“Exactomundo! Only I didn’t realize it until right now. Thank you!”
“Don’t thank me, but you can tell me more about this meeting when Nate passed you off as his sleepin office help.”
“Oh that’s all there was to it—just me nitpicking.”
“But didn’t you say it was an emergency? An early-morning meeting with a journalist? That does raise a few flags, you know.”
“Forget I even mentioned it. Nothing to it . . .
really.”
Amanda’s cheeks color with emphasis before she ducks her head to avoid backlash from the sweet chestnut canes they’re passing through.
“Very well.” Laurel detours around another clump of sprouted stumps. “As you wish. Anything else need airing before we subject ourselves to Anthony’s lecture on the cultivation of hops?”
“Not that I can think of. What’s up with this lecture thing? I’ve never seen a kid so excited about—what should I call it, agriculture?”
“Call it an extra credit project for his social studies class. The seed was planted—pun intended—the day Colin and I came up to London to hear your proposals.” Laurel continues with a condensed version of Anthony’s misbehavior that day, and goes on to describe why the oast houses hold such appeal as a venue for fantasy play and daredeviltry.
“You’re really into this, aren’t you? The mothering and teaching, I mean.”
“Well yes. Does that surprise you?”
“Maybe a little. Keep in mind I always had you locked in as a hardass ADA . . . no offense.”
“No offense taken. By the same token, I had you locked in as an extraordinarily able assistant and I couldn’t be happier about being wrong.”
“Are you saying I
wasn’t
an able assistant?” Amanda pretends insult.
“Are you saying I
wasn’t
a hardass ADA?” Laurel matches her tone. They’re both laughing when they catch up with Anthony and tramp on toward the three oast houses and attached barn.
“Wow, I see what you mean,” Amanda says when they at last enter the barn and move through a congestion of antiquated farm implements and machinery seemingly assembled to fire young imaginations. “Wow again,” she says as they go into the oast chosen as setting for Anthony’s oral report.
No one, of any age, could fail to see why an eight-year-old boy would risk punishment for the chance to play here. A conversion project abandoned by the previous owner, this oast has windows and contains a partially installed spiral staircase that holds even more swashbuckle potential than the scaffolding servicing the unfinished loft space above.
“Really cool place to hang out, but I can sure see why it has to be offlimits,” Amanda says, earning a fierce scowl from Anthony.
Laurel steers Anthony to the center of the enclosure, where the furnace once stood. “Think of it as theatre-in-the-round.” She gives him a reassuring pat on his hard little ass. “In your own words, darling, and don’t be nervous. We’re not here to grade you, we’re here to learn,” she says and withdraws with Amanda to the skeletal shelter of the scaffolding.
Anthony rolls his eyes in the manner of all young boys prodded to perform, then plucks at each shirt sleeve in turn, a gesture that’s his alone.
“Hops-growing at Terra Firma . . . the way it used to be.” He grins at his echo before going on to explain that hops are the girl part of a plant that climbs by means of shoots growing around a support. “This is called a bine, different from a vine that hangs on with suckers. Hops are used to make beer last longer and taste better and the vines—I mean
bines
—are taught to grow on wire frameworks so tall that the hops growers have to wear stilts to take care of them.
“The picking usually takes place in late August. In the old days the hops were picked by hand and this called for so many hands they had to bring people from London, who lived in tents or huts when they got here. Their job was called ‘hopping,’ and for most of the pickers, it was their only holiday.”
Anthony pauses for reaction and receives the encouraging smiles and nods he’s looking for.
“Anyway,” he continues, “the fresh-picked hops were brought from the hops gardens in big bags called pokes. The pokes were hoisted onto the gantry—a kind of shelf that stuck out from the upper floor of the stowage—and carried to the drying floors of the oasts, where they were spread out to dry. The drying took eight to ten hours at a temperature of a hundred and sixty degrees, Celsius, and took a special bloke called an oastie to keep the fire going just right.”
He pauses again, slaps himself on the forehead. “Bugger! I forgot to say that oasts are kilns, and that the dictionary says kilns are furnaces made for drying stuff.”
“That’s okay, darling, you’ve told us now, but we could have done without the swearword,” Laurel says.
“Sorry,” he says, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. “Anyway,” he resumes, “when the hops were dry, they were spread out on the cooling floor of the stowage to cool down before being pressed by a hand-cranked hop press into six foot high bags called pockets. These pockets were sewn shut and letter-stenciled with the name of the farm where they were grown and the date they were picked. From there, the pockets went to the brewery to give flavor and aroma to beer . . . “
Shite
! I forgot to say that the drying floors were . . . were . . . and now I can’t remember the bloody word,” he moans.
“Porous,” Laurel says, ignoring the additional expletives. “They were latticework covered with horsehair cloth, and the wind vane atop the roundel kept the heated air moving,” she fills in.
“Yeh! That’s it! That’s what I meant to say,” he says.
“And that’s what you will say when you present the report at school. You’ll do just fine, Anthony. I know you will. I’m already so proud of you I can hardly wait for your next report,” Laurel says.
“What will the next one be about?” Amanda says.
“Wheelmaking. Because we live on Wheelwright Road,” Anthony says.
“I didn’t realize the road had a name,” Amanda says.
“Nor did I,” Laurel says. “Because the mailing address is a PO Box number and courier deliveries usually just say ‘Terra Firma,’ I never gave it any thought. And when I first noticed there were no signs at either end, I took for granted it was a private road. I thought if it was called anything, it would be named after the estate—that it would be ‘Terra Firma Lane’ or ‘Terra Firma Passage’ or something like that. But when Anthony questioned the estate manager about the history of the oast houses, the subject came up. Sam said when the estate was established, hops-growing in this region was secondary to the making of wheels or we’d be living on ‘Beer Flavor Road.’”
“Good one!” Amanda laughs. “You don’t see that on a map everyday. Probably don’t see ‘Wheelwright Road,’ either.”
“I’ve never looked into that, not that it really matters. Colin’s the only resident, and anyone authorized to visit receives specific directions that don’t necessarily rely on maps or road signs. Or so I’m led to believe—
Anthony!
Get down from there!”
The boy has taken advantage of her inattention to swing from the rail of the prefabricated spiral staircase that’s unanchored at the top. He leaps off just as Toby, the terrier, short legs pumping hard, streaks by in hot pursuit of a rat. Right on cue, Amanda screams and leaps for the lower rungs of the scaffolding, and Anthony busts a gut laughing when the rooster, Cyril, stalks in like the ringmaster of this circus.
“I don’t think that was part of the deal,” Laurel says, struggling not to laugh.
“What deal?” Amanda says, leery of coming down off her perch.
“Anthony was allowed to come here today—under supervision, of course—in exchange for researching and composing his report, but there wasn’t supposed to be any funny business.”
“I promise you, I didn’t bring the rat. I swear! And I can’t help it if Cyril followed us. He likes it here too. The bugs he’s dead keen on are bigger and better than the ones at home. Juicier, actually. And sometimes there are snakes for him to—”
“That’s it! I’m out of here!” Amanda jumps down from the scaffolding just as Toby returns, the rat caught and still twitching in his jaws. He finishes it off with vicious shakes of his head that spray dog spit and rat gore in a wide arc.
Laurel is helpless not to laugh and Amanda is frozen in place until Anthony coaxes the dog outside and disposes of the rat.
When Amanda does move, she streaks through the barn as fast as the clutter will allow. “I’ll wait out here,” she calls from well beyond the door.
Although Laurel doesn’t want to keep Amanda waiting long, she nevertheless gives Anthony adequate time to sit on the tractor and graze among the more dangerous-looking antiquated farm implements, thereby holding up her end of the deal.
He moans and groans when she separates him from a cracked and stiffened horse collar. “That’s enough for today,” she says, intentionally giving him reason to believe there’ll be another day.
On the trek back to the manor house, they’re approaching the sweet chestnut thickets before Laurel attempts to smooth things over with Amanda. She hasn’t gotten far with her apology when Toby streaks after another quarry—a hedgehog this time—and, as they top the rise above the thickets with the manor house in sight, Anthony runs up ahead, madly gesticulating and proclaiming he can see Snow White’s giant coffin from here.
“I don’t doubt it, not one bit,” Amanda says without looking up to see what the boy is pointing at. “And if he indicates her wicked stepmother’s right behind me, I’m not gonna argue,” she says, breaking into a jog.
First of all, these are not the best of sources, Nate reminds himself as he gears up for yet another review of statements made by his four corroborating witnesses—a Venice Beach stoner, a professionally vague assistant hotel manager in Beverly Hills, a glib West Village bartender, and a chronically confused old woman in New Jersey.
Second of all, they are not witnesses in the strictest sense of the word, and their statements are not statements as much as spotty recollections that may exist only in his notes.
Since his return to New York twenty-four hours ago, he’s had plenty of time for dispassionate analysis of the incidents that support the theory presented by Brownell Yates in London. Alone now in his 49
th
Street office, well-rested, minimally jetlagged, Nate still hasn’t chosen which, if any, of the leads to follow, or decided if a trip to Northern Michigan will yield anything not already determined by Brownie’s visit there.
Promising himself this will be the last time he rehashes those incidents, he reads from the ragtag collection of original notes.
Approx 7:00 AM EDT - Thurs 4/2/87 - call to usual contact Royal Poinciana BH establishes minor altercation to have taken place during Colin Elliot’s stay at hotel Mon 3/31/87 - Icon day. Male member of housekeeping staff assaulted in employees’ parking lot, robbed of hotel-issue uniform and ID. No charges filed, both parties presumably of an ethnic fraternity unnamed by contact - understood to be Hispanic
.
Addendum Wed 4/8/87 - Theft revealed of pocket photo album containing entry codes. Theft purportedly took place at Poinciana 3/31. – Thief posed as hotel employee?
Easy enough now to believe Hoople Jakeway victimized a look-alike to gain access to a hotel guestroom, but proving it is next to impossible. Not even Bemus, who was in the adjoining room when the theft took place and has since been consulted, can describe the alleged imposter as other than stereotypical south-of-the-border type hotel worker. And the mugging victim is long gone, according to the Royal Poinciana contact tapped just hours ago. A workable premise with a dead end, Nate rejects this one and moves on to the next.
Approx 9:45 PM local time - Sat 4/4/87 - Venice Beach vicinity of Fig Tree Café when casually questioned about local events of 3/31/87 stoned beach bum cadging handouts on boardwalk says someone was seen hauling bagged trash out of Cliff Grant’s place day of beheading. Assumed by witness to be neighborhood handyman. No description of trash bags - presumed generic. Foggy description of worker - presumed Hispanic for being dark-haired and “swarth-skinned” (stoner’s term). Witness credibility shaky for obvious reasons
.
Afterthought 4/5/87 - Did bags - if there were bags and there was a Hispanic-appearing handyman on site - conceal items reported missing by police source?
Now he can dare wonder if it was Hoople Jakeway who was observed removing material seen as either useful or too slow-burning for the fire he planned to set. Material such as densely compressed file folders, thick with old newspaper clippings and glossy photographs; things like business records, personal directories, and maybe a rolodex or two. But wondering’s as futile as reexamining that particular witness—saying the pothead could be found again, and by some miracle remember anything that happened longer ago than last week. Another reject, Nate decides and starts in on the third.
