The Book of James (22 page)

I get back to Maine I’ll think about buying another one.” I heard him swear under his breath when he tried to straighten out the

window. I stifled a laugh. I’d lived with this car for three years. No air-conditioning, a very poor heater, windows that didn’t roll up or down easily, no shocks, and it was a little rusted. All cosmetic stuff.

The engine was good, I’d paid cash for it, the insurance was cheap, and it only had seventy-five thousand miles on it. And it was part of an old life I didn’t want to give up just yet.

The streets became very steep and narrow, and I slowed down

as Dylan directed me. I final y found Crescent Road. Number 413

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was set back from the road. It was a small Cape, and part of the

aluminum siding was pulling away from the house, but I knew I

was in the right place. The entire front and side yards were beautiful y landscaped. Bushes dotted the edges of a stone path leading to the front door.

We walked up the pathway and rang the bel . I saw part of the

living-room curtain pull away as someone peered out cautiously,

then the door opened slowly with the chain still hooked in place.

“Mr. Simpson?” He was a tal , thin man in his midsixties with

a crew cut and thick black-rimmed glasses.

“Whaddya want?”

“I’m sorry to bother you, but I was hoping to talk to you for a

few minutes.”

“’Bout what?”

Dylan backed up and remained silent.

“Could you come out, please?” The chain lifted slowly and the

door opened. Mr. Simpson shuffled out onto the step and started

to close the door behind him, but not before I got a look inside.

The smell of old cigarette smoke assaulted my nose, and the room

appeared closed in and dark. I backed away.

“So whaddya want with me?” His eyes traveled from my black

running shoes all the way up to my twisted hair.

Dylan inched away toward the car.

“I wanted to ask you about the work you did for Cora Whitfield.

You were her gardener, right?” I was stammering.

“Why?” He put a cigarette to his lips and lit it. “You lookin’ for a gardener?”

“No. I’m staying with her, and I’m curious about a few things.”

He walked down the steps and past me as if he hadn’t heard any-

thing. He started inspecting his garden. I followed closely behind.

“Can you help me?” I asked.

He looked up suddenly. “What’s in it for me?”

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ELLEN J. GREEN

I was taken aback. “What do you want?” I took out my wallet.

All I had was a five and some change.

“I don’t want your money,” he said, softening a bit. “That

woman is no one to mess with.” He continued trekking around to

the side of the house.

“Mr. Simpson.” I came up behind him. “I know you worked for

her for sixteen years. What happened that you stopped?” He kept

his back to me, not saying a word. “Did she fire you?” I plopped

down on an old milk can. “Anything you can tell me would be

helpful.”

He turned around, almost in slow motion. “I worked for that

woman for a long time. Never did get to know her. Just did my job.

But I saw a lot.”

“Like what?”

“I dunno what you’re after. Who’re you anyway?” He stood in

front of me chewing a piece of grass. His forehead creased up like old parchment.

“Nick’s wife.”

His eyebrows flew up in surprise. “Nick’s wife?” His whole

affect changed. He led me around to the back of the house, to

where there was a bench among some flowers. “So how is he?”

I looked down. “Nick died in an accident in September.”

He leaned forward and rubbed his head with an old, gnarled

hand. “I never did like children much, but I always felt sorry for that boy.” He blew smoke out of his mouth, and I breathed the

other way.

“Sorry for him how?”

“Woman is not right, fly off the handle for no reason, you

couldn’t tell when it was coming. Found him locked in the under-

ground storage room sometimes. Kept gardening supplies in there.

And there he’d be, curled up on a pile a rags, couldn’ta been more than ten. Had a Bible with him. She’d throw him in there with a

Bible. No tellin’ how long he’d been there.”

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I wanted to say something, but my mouth wouldn’t move.

“What did you do?” I mustered.

His head snapped up. “Nothin’ I could do. Wasn’t my business.

She’d be screamin’ and sayin’ . . . stuff about family and sticking together, something like that, and I knew it wasn’t good. I stayed outta the way.”

“So why’d you leave?”

“She let me go one day, said my services wasn’t needed no

more, I think that’s how she said it. Best-paying job I ever had.

Gave me two months’ pay when I left, can’t complain ’bout that.”

“But what happened?”

“Only thing I can think is that two days before, Ginny and I

were out back talkin’ while I was filling in an old swimming hole.”

“A swimming hole?”

He nodded. “Back in the woods, fed by a little creek that run

through the property. Nice little deep thing. She decided she had no use for it no more. Suddenly wanted it banked up. Had rock

and dirt delivered. Asked me to fill it up. Ginny and I were talkin’

away . . . she was a nice woman, helpin’ me to read and al .”

“And?”

“I was shoveling dirt, talking ’bout some story or another she

had me read, and I came across something in the dirt. Didn’t even get to see it real y.”

“What was it?”

“Looked like a coin—wasn’t a coin, though. Ginny grabbed

that thing from my hand right away, like I’d found gold. Looked

scared and put it in her pocket.”

“What color was it, did you see?”

“It was covered with dirt, green maybe. Heavier than a penny.”

He rubbed the end of the cigarette out on the ground and put the

butt in his pocket.

“Ginny never told you what it was?”

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ELLEN J. GREEN

He shook his head. “She went back to her house straight away.

Maybe two days later Cora let me go without a word.”

“Do you know anyone named James? Anyone from when you

worked there? Anyone associated with Cora or Nick?”

He stared in thought. “Had a tree man come out. Cut some

trees down in the back. Don’t remember the year. Had him a cou-

pla years. Name was James. That’s all I can think of.”

“Did he have anything to do with Nick? Were they close?”

“S’all I know.” He stood and started to walk back to the house.

He looked over his shoulder. “Sorry to hear ’bout Nick. He real y was a fine boy.” With that, he turned back and went inside his

house.

Dylan was leaning against the car when I went out front.

“Where’d you get to?” I asked.

“It only took a second for me to realize he wasn’t going to tell

us
anything, but he might tell you something if you were alone.”

“And wait till you hear what I learned.” We both got in the car,

and I told him everything, exactly as it had been explained to me.

He sat and listened from beginning to end.

“My God, all the time we were in school, I was laughing at him

behind his back, calling him a weirdo.” He looked over at me. “I

didn’t know.”

We were both silent for a few moments, still parked in the

driveway. “There was a tree man named James,” I added.

“Wrong James. Just a feeling,” he said. “What now?”

I shrugged. “I want to go see Josef Heinz, Nick’s father’s friend, and I don’t know.” I rubbed my eyes. “A few odds and ends.”

I exhaled slowly. “I have to figure this out before she makes me

leave. But I’ll tell you one thing. There is no way I’m going to let Cora win this thing.”

“Win what? What’s the prize? Is it a new car?” His head was

cocked to the side; a goofy smile played on his lips.

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I’m sure I gave him my best withering look as I started the

engine and pulled out of the driveway.

“Ronald McDonald, I’m coming down to see you.” Samantha’s

voice was loud on the other end of the phone.

I was back in my room at Cora’s house, sitting on the bed. I’d

been contemplating taking a bath or a nap. Maybe both.

“Don’t ever call me that. When?”

“I’m closing on a house later today. I’m booking a flight in the

next couple of days.”

Just then my eyes rested on the nightstand, and I realized that

Nick’s Bible was gone. Cora must have felt too uncomfortable with it in my possession, so she’d just come in and taken it. I banged the heel of my shoe against the floor.

“Cora asked me to stay for a week. And I’ve been here for a

week today. She hasn’t mentioned that to me. Like, ‘Thanks for

coming, stay in touch.’ In fact, I don’t get the impression she wants me to leave at al .”

“Not good, Mac. You two aren’t exactly baking cookies

together. So, why?”

“Not sure. But it might have something to do with pending

negotiations for Nick’s body.”

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“His body? Like digging him up? No, don’t tell me.” She

laughed. “I’ll get you my flight info. Meet me at the airport?” I assured her I would.

I hung up and stared at the empty nightstand. I was glad I’d

written down those Bible verses when I did. It would be rude to ask Cora if Sam could stay at the house with me, I knew, but if there was the slightest chance she’d agree, I had to ask. I just couldn’t even imagine how I was going to start that conversation.

I made a mental list of things I still needed to do. Visit Josef

Heinz, visit Ginny again to ask her about the coin Ralph Simpson

found in the ground, develop that film, and buy a Bible. Samantha’s help would be most welcome.

Finding Josef Heinz’s address on the map wasn’t difficult once

I had my bearings. I pulled up on a nearby street and took a deep breath. The letters that Mr. Heinz had written to Nick were stuffed in my purse. I took them out and read them again. What I was

hoping to find out by talking to this man, I wasn’t sure. Maybe how Nick ended up staying with him, what Cora had done that made

him feel that was necessary, and how he knew she wouldn’t call the police. So much background. Mr. Heinz had set the stage for Nick’s future life. I took a deep breath and turned the corner.

The house was pretty. It was stone, like all the houses in the

area were, set back from the road, nicely landscaped, surrounded

by a simple white wood fence. This was an upper-middle-class

neighborhood. I tried to picture some mealy little lawyer coming

here and banging on the door, screaming and yelling, with Nick

hiding inside the house, petrified that he was going to be taken

home, thrown in one of those tunnels, and forced to read the Bible.

The image was still clear in my mind when a woman opened

the front door. She had to be at least fifty years old, medium build with a little bel y that protruded in her black stretchy pants. Her hair was gray and wrapped in a beehive twist, sprayed heavily into place. I would bet she hadn’t changed that hairstyle in thirty years.

186

ELLEN J. GREEN

Her hair would probably reach the middle of her back if she ever

let it down. Black-rimmed glasses hung from a chain around her

neck. She peered at me cautiously and stepped outside onto the

stone pathway.

“Can I help you?” Her voice was accented.

“Hello.” I shoved my hands in my pockets and searched for the

right words to begin. “Are you Mrs. Heinz?”

She nodded. “Klara Heinz.”

“I was hoping you might be able to help me.” She said nothing

but cocked her head slightly to one side with curiosity. “Can we go inside and talk? It won’t take long.”

She seemed to size me up for a minute. “Who are you?”

I stuck my hand out to her. “Mackenzie Weichmann.” The day

I found out it wasn’t Nick’s real name, I swore I’d never use it again.

It just slipped out. Habit.

Something in her eyes lit with recognition. “Weichmann? Are

you related to Ernst?”

I shook my head in confusion. “No, Nicholas Weichmann.”

Her mouth opened and then shut. “Nicholas?” Her eyes

gleamed with moisture.

I nodded. “Nicholas. He was a boy—”

Before I could finish my sentence, she led me through the

front door and shut it behind us. She snapped three locks into

place before sitting on the couch. The house was sparsely deco-

rated. There was only a sofa and a bookshelf in the living room, but it was spotless, and the smell of Murphy Oil Soap came up from

the polished hardwood floors.

“How do you know Nicholas?” she asked eagerly.

“He was my husband.”

“Oh, my goodness. My goodness.” She looked down and rocked

slightly in her seat. “Is he okay?” I noticed that as her excitement increased, her accent became thicker.

“He was in an accident.”

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She looked up at me as if she’d been rammed with a stick. Her

hand flew to her mouth. “Is he dead?”

I nodded. “In September. A car accident.”

“His mother?” Her eyes were large with fear.

“His mother what?”

“She knows?”

“Yes, she knows.” She crossed herself several times and contin-

ued to rock slightly on the end of the couch. “Mrs. Heinz, I need to ask you some questions. I never knew Nick’s mother was alive

when we were married. He never told me.”