Cutter's Run Page 4

  “This person who picked up Jack,” I said. “Did you get a name?”

  Dr. Spear cocked her head. “Now why would you ask me that?”

  I shrugged. “I guess I just thought Charlotte didn’t have any friends, that’s all. Living out there in the woods like that, no phone or anything. Seemed like she just wanted to be alone.”

  She nodded. “He didn’t give us a name, Mr. Coyne, and we didn’t ask. He knew the dog’s name and Ms. Gillespie’s name, and who else would want a dead dog?” She frowned. “Is there a problem?”

  I shook my head and smiled. “No, I’m sure there’s no problem. But it was a man? What did he look like, do you remember?”

  “I never saw him. We were really busy. I was working on an animal in one of the examining rooms, and one of the girls came back, said someone was asking for the pup. I told her I wanted to speak to Ms. Gillespie, ask her to wait for a minute. I was hoping I might talk her into okaying the tests. But my girl said it wasn’t her, it was some man, and he was in a hurry. That seemed reasonable to me, so I had her take the pup out the rear entrance. Don’t like to bring dead animals out through the waiting area, you know.”

  “Maybe when you see that girl, you can ask her if she remembers the man.”

  She nodded. “Sure can. I hope I haven’t done something wrong.”

  “I don’t know,” I said.

  It was a cool Saturday morning near the end of August. On the ride over to Charlotte’s, I noticed that the swamp maples had begun to show flashes of crimson, and the smell of autumn was in the air. A long Maine winter was not far behind. I thought of Charlotte up there in her little isolated house with neither telephone nor electricity, snowbound and alone.

  Well, I thought, she had at least one friend—whoever it was who’d fetched her dead pet for her.

  I left my Wrangler under the No Trespassing sign with the red swastika and tromped up the long rocky roadway.

  Her little house looked exactly the same as it had a week earlier. Flowers bloomed gaily along the path, the mountain bike leaned against the wall, and the long view stretched across the valley to the hills. Some autumn colors had begun to show down in the valley.

  Except this time, for some reason, it felt desolate up there. Those preliminary hints of fall, probably. Autumn always feels a little like death to me.

  I went up to the house, knocked, called Charlotte’s name, knocked again. I heard only silence from inside, and she did not come around the corner tugging off her gardening gloves. After a few minutes, I went to one of the windows. I tiptoed up, cupped my hands around my eyes, and peered inside. It was dark and shadowy. It felt deserted.

  I didn’t like that feeling.

  I went around back. Her vegetable garden was large and lush and well tended. Fat ripe tomatoes hung heavily from the vines, and there were peppers and cucumbers and squashes ready to be picked. Nasturtiums and marigolds grew in colorful clusters among the vegetables.

  Charlotte was not there.

  I called to her again, and listened to my voice echo from the hills.

  She’s gone for a walk, I thought. Maybe she went blueberry picking. Or she took off for the day with her friend.

  But that swastika and that poisoned dog wouldn’t go away.

  I was tempted to try her front door. But I didn’t. I told myself I was overreacting. She was okay. She just didn’t happen to be home.

  I took a business card from my wallet and a pen from my shirt pocket. I wrote: “Ms. Gillespie: I got your message. I’ll try again. Please call me.” I wrote down Alex’s phone number and slid the card halfway under the front door.

  Then I got the hell out of there.

  When I rounded the bend at the end of the roadway where my Jeep was parked, I stopped. I blinked, took a couple of quick steps closer, and looked again.

  Somebody had spray-painted a big red swastika on the hood of my Jeep.

  I sprinted to the end of the driveway. I looked up and down. A thin layer of road dust hung in the air off to the right, and in the distance I heard the diminishing throb of an engine with an exhaust system that needed repair.

  I stood there for a minute, then went back to the Jeep. I touched my finger to the red paint. It was still tacky.

  CHAPTER 6

  THERE ARE, OF COURSE, no local police in little Maine villages like Garrison. There’s a county sheriff’s office and there are the state police. It was a little before noontime when I got back to Alex’s house. She was behind her bookcase partitions tapping away at her computer. I found the cordless phone, took it out onto the deck, and called the sheriff’s department in Alfred, the York County seat.

  I gave my name and address and told the woman who answered that somebody had spray-painted a swastika on the hood of my car, and it wasn’t the only swastika I’d seen in Garrison.

  “Was anybody hurt?” she said.

  “What?”

  “Do we need to dispatch an emergency vehicle?”

  “No. Everybody’s fine.”

  “Just property damage, then.”

  “Sure, but—”

  “Estimated cost?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “Whatever it costs to repaint the hood of my car.” I gritted my teeth. “Look. The point is, these are swastikas they’re making.”

  “Yes, you said that.”

  “So it’s not just property damage.”

  “I’ll pass on your report to the sheriff, sir.”

  “Then what?”

  “Well,” she said, pronouncing it “way-all,” “I’d expect the sheriff might send one of the deputies over to talk to you, but I cain’t speak for him.”

  When I hung up, Alex was standing beside me. “What was that all about?” she said.

  I told her.

  “A swastika on your car?”

  I nodded.

  She covered her mouth. I saw that she was stifling a smile. “What?” I said. “What’s funny?”

  “Sorry,” she said. “It’s really not funny. I was just thinking they got the wrong car.”

  “You’re right,” I said. “It’s not funny.”

  “So what’s going to happen?” she said.

  “Probably nothing. I guess I should’ve mentioned the poisoned dog, too. And the fact that Charlotte seems to be missing. They’ve got more to worry about than kids vandalizing private property.”

  “You really think she’s missing?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “It felt that way.”

  Alex nodded. “Swastikas aren’t just vandalism.”

  “Of course not. But that’s most likely how they’ll look at it.” I shrugged. “Leon thinks it’s kids.”

  Alex frowned. “You don’t believe that.”

  “It’s not my car I’m thinking about,” I said.

  “I know. It’s Charlotte and her dog, too. And that other swastika.”

  “Yes. All those things taken together…”

  “Well,” she said, “you did all you could do. You called the authorities.”

  “I don’t think that’s all I can do,” I said.

  Alex rolled her eyes. “My hero, the sleuth.”

  After lunch, Alex announced that we had to get the place cleaned up. Noah Hollingsworth and his daughter and her boyfriend were coming for dinner. She gave me the choice of vacuuming or scrubbing.

  I chose the vacuum and ran it around the house while Alex cleaned sinks and toilets. By the time I finished, a little of the edge had worn off my concern for Charlotte and my anger at the swastika vandal.

  I tucked the vacuum cleaner into the back of the hall closet and went out onto the deck. Alex joined me a few minutes later. She plopped into the rocking chair beside me, thrust out her bottom lip, and blew a wisp of hair off her forehead. “Remind me not to invite people over again,” she said.

  “I will if you’ll consult me ahead of time instead of presenting me with a fait accompli.”

  “Want a beer?”

  I pushed myself to my fe
et. “I’ll get it.”

  “That’s what I meant,” she said.

  I brought back two bottles of Samuel Adams lager and resumed my place in my rocker. We rocked and sipped and shared a cigarette and admired my woodpile. After a while, Alex said, “I’m sorry.”

  “What for?”

  “For asking them over tonight. It seemed like the thing to do at the time, and I guess I was mildly surprised when they accepted.” She reached over and took my hand. “I like our evenings alone, especially now that we’ve really got only one a week.”

  “We’ve got two. Friday and Saturday.”

  “Friday doesn’t really count. Especially when you don’t get here before nine.”

  I glanced sideways at her, hoping I wouldn’t see that look on her face that meant: “I’m still upset about the car.”

  She had her head tilted up to the sun and her eyes closed. She looked relaxed and peaceful and beautiful.

  “I usually get here before that,” I said quietly.

  “Yes, but then we have to get reacquainted. Fridays are exciting. Saturdays are for relaxing.”

  I gave her hand a squeeze. “Don’t worry about it. I’d like to meet Noah. Get some tips on grafting apple trees.”

  “All you think about is sex,” she said.

  Alex and I showered together. She soaped my entire body, and when it was my turn, I stood behind her and did an especially thorough job on her breasts. She pressed her butt against the front of me and tilted her head back against my shoulder. I moved the soap in slow circles down over her belly.

  “Let’s not…” she whispered.

  “Mmm,” I murmured. “I know. Save it for later.”

  “Is that okay?”

  “It’ll be hard.”

  She giggled.

  While we were toweling each other, Alex snapped her fingers. “Damn,” she said. “I meant to have you pick up some coffee at Leon’s this morning. We’re almost out.”

  “We absolutely must not run out of coffee,” I said. “I’ll run down there now. I’ll take the Wrangler and show off my new swastika.”

  Leon was perched on his stool behind the counter when I got there. His glasses had slipped down to the end of his nose, and he was hunched over a ledger, frowning and chewing on the eraser end of a pencil. He didn’t look up when the bell over the door chimed.

  I found a can of Maxwell House on a shelf and took it to the counter. Leon looked up. “Mr. Coyne,” he said, jerking his chin in greeting. “Twice in the same day.” He stuck the pencil over his ear and used his forefinger to push his glasses up onto the bridge of his nose. “You ain’t interested in investing in a country store, are you?”

  I smiled. “I don’t think so, Leon.”

  “I’ll throw in the woman that goes with it for free.”

  “It’s tempting,” I said.

  He grinned. “Like hell it is. Tell you what I’ll do. I’ll pay you to take the both of ’em off my hands. How’s that?”

  “Sounds like a deal, all right.” I gave him a five-dollar bill for the coffee.

  Leon made change and put the coffee in a paper bag. “Did a little inquirin’ about that swastika.”

  “And?”

  He shook his head. “And nothin’. Couple of the boys noticed Miz Gillespie’s sign, but nobody’s seen any other swastikas around. Someone don’t like havin’ colored folks in town, is how they see it. They all figure it was probably someone else’s kid doin’ it.”

  “If it was kids,” I said, “I doubt it was just one of them. This is the sort of thing people do in gangs. They feed off each other.”

  “Yup-suh,” said Leon. “That sounds about right to me.”

  “I went out to see Charlotte this morning.”

  He grinned. “Well, did you, now?”

  “Leon, for Christ’s sake,” I said. “Don’t you start passing around lies about me and Charlotte Gillespie, you hear me?”

  “I’m not much for tellin’ lies,” he said. “I just listen to everyone else tell ’em. I got a pretty good ear for what’s a lie and what ain’t.”

  “I don’t doubt it,” I said. “Anyway, she wasn’t there. Her bike was leaning against the side of her house, but no one was home.”

  He shrugged.

  “It was a bit worrisome,” I said, “what with swastikas and her dog being poisoned and all.”

  “So she was out hunting mushrooms, gatherin’ firewood…”

  “You’re probably right,” I said. “Point is, I parked down at the end of her roadway, and when I got back to my car—well, take a look.” I pointed out the window to where my Jeep was parked beside his van.

  Leon craned his neck to look outside, then muttered, “Jesus H. Christ.” He turned to peer at me. “This ain’t that kind of a town, Mr. Coyne. I’m damn sorry. What’re you going to do?”

  “I called the sheriff’s office. I don’t know what else I can do.” I leaned toward him. “Whoever painted that swastika,” I said, “was driving a car with a bad muffler.”

  He smiled. “That’d describe the majority of vehicles in Garrison.”

  I was helping Alex slice tomatoes for the salad when we heard a car door slam out front. I glanced at my watch. “What time did you tell them?”

  “Six,” she said.

  “Six on the button.” I smiled. “The difference between the country mouse and the city mouse. If someone on Beacon Hill told you to appear at six, and you actually arrived at six, you’d find them in the bathtub.”

  “Around here,” she said, “people say what they mean. It’s refreshing. Get the door, will you?”

  I opened the door and stepped outside. A black Lexus was parked behind my shiny new BMW, and Noah Hollingsworth was climbing out of the passenger door. He was a tall, skinny, stooped-over guy with short bristly gray hair in a white seersucker suit and a plaid shirt with no necktie.

  A woman—his daughter, Susannah, I assumed—was holding his arm, helping him. She was wearing a green short-sleeved blouse and white slacks and sandals. She wore her blond hair pulled tight to her head and snugged into a ponytail. She was nearly as tall as Noah.

  A compactly built young guy—her boyfriend, Paul, apparently—slid out of the driver’s side. He oozed vigor and fitness, from his tanned face to his white, even teeth to his broad shoulders and narrow hips. He had short, neatly barbered brown hair and a pleasant but forgettable face. He was wearing a blue Oxford shirt with the sleeves buttoned at his wrists and pleated chino pants. He looked to be in his late twenties. I pegged Susannah a little older, mid-thirties, maybe.

  I waved to them. “Hi. Welcome.”

  I went down to meet them as they came up the path. Noah let go of his daughter’s arm and held his hand out. “Evenin’, Mr. Coyne,” he said. “Good to see you again.”

  “Brady, please,” I said, trying to remember when I’d met him. All I could come up with was one time when I’d passed him going into Leon’s as I was coming out. I was the stranger in town. The locals would all know about me, even if I hadn’t formally met them. I gripped his big bony hand. “How’ve you been?”

  “Oh, just fine,” he said. “I’m fine.”

  I turned to Susannah. “I’m Brady Coyne.”

  She had a long narrow nose, a wide mouth, and pale gray eyes, almost silver, which sparkled when she smiled, transforming her face. Without the smile, she looked severe. With the smile, she was almost beautiful. “Hello, Brady,” she said. “I’m Susannah Hollingsworth. This old goat’s chauffeur and chaperon. And this”—she turned to Paul—“is my friend Paul Forten.”

  I shook hands with Paul. His grip was firm. “We’ve been hearing a lot about you, Mr. Coyne,” he said with a grin. “Alex couldn’t stop talking about you the other night.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “I’m her hero, all right. And you’d better call me Brady, or you’ll make me feel like an ancient hero.”

  “That your Beemer over there?” he said, jerking his head in the direction of my car.

&n
bsp; “Brand new yesterday, actually,” I said. “CD player, Bose speakers.”

  “Awesome,” he said.

  “That Lexus of yours ain’t bad.”

  He shrugged. “Boys and their toys, right?”

  I smiled, then turned to Noah and Susannah. “Well, it’s great to finally meet you all. Alex is inside.”

  I ushered them in. Alex came to meet them, wiping her hands on a towel. She accepted a kiss on the cheek from Noah, another from Paul, and a hug from Susannah. I mentioned drinks, and Noah wondered if I could make him a martini. I told him we had no vermouth, and he chuckled. “I don’t need vermouth, and it wouldn’t bother me if you left out the olive and served it in a jelly glass.”

  “Straight gin, then,” I said. “In a jelly glass. Susannah?”

  “Beer, if you have it.”

  “That we do. Paul?”

  “A beer would be great.”

  I made drinks for all of us, then went out to get the charcoal started. Noah and Paul sat at the kitchen table, keeping Alex company, and Susannah followed me out onto the deck. She sat in a rocker and lit a cigarette.

  “The best way to rock,” I said, “is with your heels propped up on the rail.”

  “Oh, I know.” She smiled. “I try not to be too unladylike on the first date.” She hitched her chair closer to the rail and put up her feet. “Ah, yes. That’s more like it. Glad I wore pants. It would be awkward with a dress.”

  “That never bothers Alex,” I said. “But she’s not very ladylike sometimes.”

  “I’m glad.”

  I poked at the coals in the grill, verifying that they had begun to glow, then took the rocker beside her. “Alex says you’re an important executive.”

  She laughed. “Not that important.”

  “What do you do?”

  “I make deals. Pretty boring, really.”

  “What kind of deals?”

  She brushed a mosquito away from her face with the back of her hand. “My business card calls me a marketing consultant, for lack of a better term. My clients are small firms that don’t have their own marketing departments. They retain me to find jobs, prepare bids, and work out contracts for them. Public-sector stuff mostly.”

  “Government work, huh?”