Too Close to Home (11 page)

“And how the hell do you have a printout of it if the computer’s missing?”

“Derek had made a copy.”

Ellen sat down on the edge of the bed. “What are you suggesting? I can’t get my head around this. You must be suggesting something.”

“I don’t know what I’m suggesting,” I said. “I’m trying to get my head around it, too. But I can’t help but wonder, maybe Conrad isn’t the great literary genius everyone thinks he is. Maybe
A Missing Part
isn’t his.”

Ellen was speechless for a moment. It was, I had to admit, a somewhat stunning hypothesis, to be all professorial about it.

“Jesus, what are you saying?” she said. “That some kid wrote it? That’s ridiculous. That book was on the
New York Times
bestseller list.”

“I’m just putting it out there,” I said. “I’m just saying, it’s kind of a strange thing for it to be on that computer.”

“Maybe,” Ellen said, “he had a student who was such a fan, he typed it out, word for word. Or had a copy of it, a Word file or something. Did they offer books back then as e-books? Maybe Brett Stockwell downloaded it. Did you ever think of that?”

“When did Conrad’s book come out?” I asked. “When was it published?”

Ellen tried to think. “Was it nine, ten years ago? Hang on.” She got up, walked out of the room, went downstairs. I followed her down to the living room, where she was scanning the wall that’s lined with bookshelves. They’re pretty much overflowing, books tucked in sideways on top of other books, so it took Ellen a moment, cocking her head so that she could read the spines, before she could put her hands on our copy of
A Missing Part
.

She flipped it open to the copyright page. “It was in 2000,” she said. “The hardcover. Trade paperback a year later.”

“Brett Stockwell killed himself ten years ago,” I pointed out. “Two years before the book came out.”

“There must be a simple explanation,” Ellen said.

“Sure,” I said. “Maybe so. It’s just funny, is all. And there’s the fact that the computer’s gone missing.”

“Someone stole it?”

I shrugged. “It was in the Langley house as recently as Thursday, Derek says, and now it’s gone.”

“Did Barry say it was stolen when the Langleys were killed?”

“No. Derek noticed that it was missing when Barry took us through the house.”

She looked away from me and shook her head. “This is crazy. What did Barry say when Derek noticed that it was gone?”

“He didn’t tell Barry. He told me afterwards. He wanted to talk to me about it first, because he was too embarrassed to talk to you about a book with that kind of content. He didn’t know it was a published novel. I mean, he was what, nine when it came out? I think maybe he was reading the Hardy Boys then, and Frank and Joe weren’t exactly waking up in the morning with their dicks missing. Derek just thought it was some student’s attempt at porn, although as porn goes, Derek said it kind of missed the mark.”

Ellen almost smiled, but then it faded away. “What are you going to do about this?”

“I guess I should tell Barry, don’t you think?” I said. “It may not actually mean anything. And the fact that the computer’s missing doesn’t mean it has to have anything to do with what happened at the Langleys’. It might have disappeared between the last time Derek was in Adam’s room, which was Thursday, when he saw the computer there, and the murders, which were Friday night. Maybe it’s someplace else in the house where Barry didn’t take us.”

Ellen paced about the room, then said, “You should let Conrad know.”

“What?”

“Before going to Barry. Conrad deserves to know, because there really may be a simple explanation. If there is, we’ll be glad we went to him directly instead of involving the police.”

“We?”

Ellen looked at me. “Don’t be like that.”

“I’m not being anything. I’m just saying, you may be interested in sparing Conrad from trouble and embarrassment, but that’s not really a priority for me.” Even as I said it I knew I wasn’t being totally honest. The guy did sign my wife’s paychecks.

“This isn’t about that,” Ellen said. “This is about fairness. Particularly when this is probably a big fuss about nothing.” She shook her head in frustration. “Maybe it would be better if I talked to him. If you do it, he may think you’ve got some other agenda.” She met my look. “You know that’s true.”

I nodded very slowly. “I have another idea,” I said. “Why don’t I talk to Agnes. Without telling her everything, maybe I can get an idea why her son might have had that book on his computer.” There was something else I’d be wanting to ask Agnes, too. “And if there’s a simple explanation, I can just tell Barry that Derek noticed the computer was missing, and leave it at that.”

Ellen nodded. “Yeah. Okay. Do that. Talk to Agnes.”

Neither of us said anything for a moment. I took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. Something that I’d been thinking about, out in the shed, just before Derek returned with the pages from his printer, was still nagging at me.

Ellen had turned away and was looking out the window toward the Langley house. “I hadn’t even talked to any of them in days. Hardly even saw them.”

“Me neither,” I said.

“I guess the last time I saw Donna was that day she came to the door,” Ellen said.

“When was that?” I asked. I had no memory of this.

“That publisher in New York, they sent me some advance copies of books by writers I was going to ask about coming to the festival.”

“What was Donna doing bringing them over?”

“The courier delivered the package to their place instead.”

She stood for another moment, looking out the window, then turned, and it seemed as though a bit of the color had drained from her face.

“Donna said he got the house wrong—he saw the mailbox, with our name on it, and he just assumed their house was ours.”

TWELVE

D
EREK AND I HADN’T quite finished up at Agnes Stockwell’s house the day before. That was when Ellen had phoned my cell to tell me that something was up at the Langley house.

So I had an excuse to go back. I didn’t need to hook up the trailer to the pickup. Her yard was cut and there was no need for the lawn tractor. I put the weed trimmer in the bed of the truck. All I had to do was a bit of tidying.

“Where are you going?” asked Derek, who’d remained outside when I went into the house to talk to Ellen, and had been passing the time trying to jump from one side of the driveway to the other without touching gravel.

“Look after your mom,” I said. “I’ll be back in a bit.”

I drove slowly up the lane, nodded to the cop still babysitting the Langley house, turned onto the highway, and pointed the truck in the direction of Promise Falls. I parked at the curb out front of Agnes Stockwell’s house, stepped up onto the wide, old-fashioned porch, and rapped lightly on the door. It was still Sunday morning, although it was nearly noon.

When she pushed on the screen door, she smiled. “What are you doing here today?” she asked, her cat slinking around her leg to see who’d come to call. It was, without a doubt, one of the ugliest cats I’d ever seen, looking as though it’d be more at home in a pigpen, wallowing in the mud, than curled up on a couch.

Agnes had no doubt been an attractive woman at one time, but a lingering sadness had worn away at her over the years. She’d lost a husband—to a heart attack, if I remembered correctly—and then a year later her son, for no apparent reason, had taken his own life. I didn’t know how someone ever recovered from something like that. Perhaps you never did. She’d continued to live on in this house, making it, as far as I knew, her only project. Working on her garden when the weather allowed, keeping pretty much to herself.

“We had to take off early yesterday,” I told her. “I didn’t finish up the trimming.”

“Oh, I hadn’t even noticed,” she said, although she probably had been too polite to mention it. “Isn’t your boy with you today?”

“No,” I said. “There’s just a bit to do, so I thought I’d look after it myself. Give him the day off.” I was about to say,
You know how teenagers are, how they like to sleep in,
but caught myself before doing it.

“When you’re done, I’ll have some lemonade for you,” she said.

That was what I’d hoped she’d say.

It took barely fifteen minutes to do what had to be done. I put on safety goggles, got out the weed whacker, and ran the filament line along the edges of the sidewalk and driveway and by her flower beds, making sure there was no stray piece of long grass sticking up anyplace. I liked this kind of work. I got a sense of satisfaction from it that I got from little else, except perhaps when I used to paint.

As I was putting the trimmer back into the truck, I heard the front door open and there was Agnes with a tall glass of lemonade, beads of moisture dripping down the side. I walked up the drive and took the glass from her.

“Do you mind if I sit down?” I asked her.

She had a couple of garden-type chairs flanking the front door. “Of course not, Mr. Cutter,” she said. I was going to invite her to sit down, too, but she was in the other chair before I had a chance. I suppose, when you lived alone, it was nice to have someone to talk to once in a while, even if it was just the guy who cut the grass.

“Call me Jim,” I said.

“Jim,” she said quietly.

“This lemonade really hits the spot,” I said, and that was the truth. Her cat brushed up against my leg. “What’s his—her?—name?”

“That’s Boots,” Agnes Stockwell said.

“I don’t believe I’ve ever seen a cat like her,” I said.

“She’s pretty hideous,” Agnes said, “but I love her.”

I took another drink of lemonade, nearly polished off the glass. I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand. If I looked like a sweaty mess to her, she didn’t seem to mind.

“Did you hear about that lawyer?” Agnes asked me. “The one who was killed? Along with his wife and his son?”

“Yes,” I said.

“That’s sort of out where you live, isn’t it?”

“It is out our way,” I admitted. “A terrible thing.”

Agnes was shaking her head. “Oh yes, just awful. It makes you think. You know, things like that just don’t happen around here.”

I nodded. “Pretty rare event. Like you say, makes you think.” We both took a moment to do just that. And then I said, “My son wanted me to pass on his thanks again for the computer.”

“Oh, that was my pleasure,” Agnes said. “I’m just glad to see someone else get some use out of it. I wasn’t sure it would be good to anyone, being so old and all. I was surprised he’d even want it.”

“The older the better,” I said. “He’s a tinkerer with that kind of stuff. He’s lucky you hadn’t already given it to anybody else. You’ll have all the boys in the neighborhood coming here to see if you’ve got any other computers to give away.”

“I don’t really know that many. I’m just glad I found someone who could take it.”

“You didn’t happen to mention to anyone that you gave Derek that computer, did you?”

Agnes appeared puzzled by the question. “Why no, I don’t think I did. Why?”

Had to think fast. “I was just thinking, if you had, you might get others coming by, seeing what else you had to give away.”

She nodded. That made sense to her. “Oh no, no troubles like that. Maybe, someday, I’ll have a little garage sale. Every summer, I think about doing that but never get around to it. What did you say your boy’s name is again?”

“Derek.”

“He seems like a good boy.”

“He is,” I said. “He has his moments, but he’s a great kid.”

“They all have their moments,” Agnes said. “Brett certainly did. I felt a little guilty, giving away his computer, but what can you do? You can’t hang on to these things forever. He had one of those other computers, those little ones that fold up, but I must have gotten rid of that a long time ago. I don’t even remember what happened to it. His clothes, I didn’t hang on too long to those. Gave them to the poor. I think that’s what he would have wanted.”

“I’ll bet he was a good son,” I said.

That sad smile again. “Oh yes. There’s not a day . . .”

She let the sentence hang there a moment. “Not a day?” I said.

She sighed. “There’s not a day I don’t wonder. Wonder why he did what he did. You know what happened to Brett, don’t you, Mr.—Jim?”

“I had heard,” I said, “that he took his own life.”

She nodded. “I can’t even go downtown. I can’t go near the falls. I could pop into town and drop off my property tax payment, but I just mail it in. I can’t look at the falls, don’t even want to hear it.”

“Sure,” I said.

“I try not to blame myself. But even now, it’s hard not to. I should have been able to read the signs. But I swear, I never noticed anything. I didn’t see it coming. Just that last day or so, just before he killed himself. He seemed just fine right up to that point, but that last day, he seemed so troubled, so upset about something, but he wouldn’t talk to me about it. That’s why I have such a hard time forgiving myself. I didn’t appreciate just how unhappy he was then. And yet, he was my whole life after my husband died. There must have been signs in the weeks leading up to that day, but I didn’t spot them. How could a mother not see that her son was that troubled, before it was too late?”

I shook my head slowly in sympathy. “We never know everything about our own children,” I said. “There’re always things they keep from us. I’m sure Derek’s no different.” I tried a light chuckle. “Sometimes there are things you don’t want to know.”

Agnes stared out into her yard, saying nothing.

I said, “Tell me about Brett. What was he interested in? What did he like to do?”

“He wasn’t like the other boys,” she said. “He was—” She stopped suddenly. “Would you like to see a picture of him?”

“Of course.”

She excused herself, was gone no more than half a minute, and returned with a framed high school photo. “That was his graduating year, it would have been four years before he, well, it’s pretty much how I remember him.”

Brett Stockwell was a good-looking young man. Sandy-colored hair that came down over his ears, brown eyes, fairly unblemished skin for a boy his age. He had a sensitive, artistic look about him. Not jock material.

“I think I can see your eyes in him,” I said.

She took the picture back and studied it, as though looking at it for the first time. “He looked a lot like his father. Took after him, I think. Borden was a small man, only five-five, and Brett had that same kind of build.”

“You were saying he wasn’t like the other boys.”

“He didn’t care much about sports. Never went out for football, didn’t care much about that stuff. He liked to read. And he loved movies. But not the ones everyone else liked. He liked the ones with the words at the bottom.”

“Subtitles.”

“That’s right. Movies in different languages. He liked to watch those. He had an appreciation for things that other people didn’t care much about.”

“That’s nice,” I said. “We don’t need everyone to be the same. What kind of world would that be?” I had another drink of my lemonade.

“And he loved to write,” Agnes Stockwell said. “He was always writing things.”

“What sort of things?” I asked.

“Oh, you name it. When he was little, he liked to write stories about going to other planets. People traveling through time, things like that. And poems. He wrote hundreds and hundreds of poems. Not the kind that rhyme, though. Poetry’s not like it was when I was a girl. It doesn’t have to rhyme anymore. Doesn’t even seem like poetry if it doesn’t rhyme. It’s just a bunch of sentences otherwise.”

“I can’t say as I know a lot about poetry. Ellen, she likes to read poetry sometimes.”

“Is that your wife?”

“Yes.”

“You should bring her around sometime. I’d love to meet her.”

“I should do that. I think she’d like to meet you, too. She knows you as the one who gives us lemonade.”

She smiled, then, “Sometimes, on my birthday, Brett would write me a poem. He’d try to make those ones rhyme because he knew I didn’t understand the other ones as well. They were a bit more like the ones you find in greeting cards, you know?”

“Did he show you all the things he wrote?” I asked.

“Oh, some he did, some he didn’t. He liked to have something done, all polished up the way he liked it, before he showed it to me. And some things, as he got older, I think some of those things were a bit more private. A boy doesn’t want to show his mother everything, you know.” She blinked at me, and her eyes seemed to twinkle.

“Yeah, well, I know what you mean,” I said. “Do you think that’s what he wanted to do with his life? Become a writer?”

“Oh, without a doubt. That was his dream, to be some famous novelist. He talked about writers he admired, like that Truman Capote, and James Kirkwood, and lots of others. And I really believe, if he hadn’t . . . if he’d made different choices, I think that’s what would have happened. Because he was good, you know. He had tremendous talent. And I’m not just saying that because I’m his mother.” She paused. “Was his mother.”

“Others thought he had talent?” I asked.

She nodded. “His teachers, they said he was very good. Some said he was actually quite brilliant.”

“Really?”

“When he was in high school, he had this one teacher, what was his name?” She closed her eyes for a moment, searching. “Mr. Burgess. That’s who it was. I remember what he wrote on one of Brett’s short stories. He wrote, ‘John Irving, watch out.’ How about that?”

“Wow.”

“You know who John Irving is?”

“I do,” I said.

“Brett got in trouble once, his senior year it was. Wrote something that upset some of the staff. The subject matter was a bit, it was a bit mature. Do you know what I mean? And the language, it was not totally appropriate for high school.”

“What was it about?”

“It was about other students. Not actual students, but a story about boys and girls his age, and the things they did that their parents didn’t know about. A kind of sexual awakening story.” She said the words as if there were quotation marks around them. “A little too out there for the folks at Promise Falls High School.”

“Did Brett get in trouble?”

“He might have, if it hadn’t been for Mr. Burgess. He defended Brett from the administration, said that his work, while dealing with controversial material, was honest and a fair representation of what was actually going on. He said Brett didn’t deserve to be suspended or punished in any way for pointing out things that everyone else knew was going on but didn’t have the courage to admit.”

“Well. He sounds like quite a teacher.”

“Brett never showed me that story. He’d have known that I’d have tried to talk him out of handing it in or showing it to anyone. I’m not the sort of person who likes to make a fuss.”

“Not many of us are,” I said. “How about when he got to Thackeray? Did he have mentors there? Professors who encouraged his writing?”

“Oh yes. Although, once you get to college, there’s often less opportunity for the kind of creative writing that appealed to Brett. It’s all very academic stuff, you know, and I don’t think that ever interested Brett quite as much. Although he did very well with essays, and he was a voracious reader. He had so many books. I haven’t decided what to do with all those yet. Do you think the library would want them?”

“Maybe,” I said. “So once he got to college, he stopped writing stories and poems?”

“He kept writing them. He was always writing them. And showing them to his professors. Some of them were more interested than others, of course.”

“Sure,” I said.

“Mostly his teachers who taught English, or literature, I guess that’s what they call it when you get to college. If he tried to get his political science teacher or history professor interested, well, they didn’t care so much. They’re all so busy, you know, not all of them want to take the time to read something that’s really not part of the course. But he also had professors who’d actually let him submit a poem or a story as an assignment, instead of having to write an actual essay with footnotes and a bibliography.”