Summerkill Page 4

  “I kind of figured. Why don’t we sit in the living room— it’s reasonably cool.” And it afforded the best vantage point from which to keep an eye on whatever else they were doing downstairs.

  I got first pick, choosing the sofa for its field of view. Joe promptly settled into the only nearby chair, and Roxy trotted over to sniff him. I could see he didn’t appreciate that, but she hung in there. Why do dogs work hardest to win over the people who would always rather they weren’t around?

  The sheriff opted to stand. “You said this morning,” he began, “that you and Ryan Jessup didn’t get along, professionally. That seems to have been an understatement.”

  Joe took over. “At the Garden Center they told us you two got into a big fight several weeks ago. At one point you yelled at him—” He paused to consult a pocket notebook. “This is the quote they gave me: ‘You’d better watch it! I’ve had about enough of your shit.’ Did you say that?”

  “As I recall, I said ‘back off,’ not ‘watch it.’”

  “Back off from what?” the sheriff wanted to know. “Ryan had outlined their game plan for the rest of the season. I didn’t like the way I fitted in. Or his threat to take me to court if I didn’t agree to do what he wanted.”

  “He had the authority to assign work to you, though?”

  “Yes and no. He had authority to speak for the Garden Center, but I’m an independent contractor. Each season we have to agree on terms—hours, compensation, responsibilities, a whole laundry list of items. I can show you the contract. What he had in mind was, in my opinion, in violation of that contract.”

  “Yet Ryan thought the Garden Center was the party with grounds for a lawsuit.”

  “Or he was just trying to intimidate me. My lawyer told me not to worry about it.”

  “Yesterday you were overheard telling Willem Etlinger he was running out of time to work something out. Why?”

  “The ‘something’ I said he needed to work out was ongoing supervision of the landscaping at Hudson Heights. New plantings do not take care of themselves, and beyond programmed watering, the staff over there can’t be expected to do much. I only agreed to get things into the ground, which I’ve done. Willem is aware I’ll consider myself quits with the Garden Center as soon as I finish up at Mariah Hansen’s garden— that should be by Labor Day. He’s on record as wanting me to stay on, but I’ve never seriously expected him to ‘work something out’ there. The sides are too far apart and he doesn’t have the clout.”

  “Aren’t you looking at a hefty financial penalty for leaving, though? Two months of unemployment in a profession that has a very short year. And I understand your contract contains a performance bonus, contingent upon your finishing the season.”

  I walked him through it. “That bonus is based on signed and installed landscapes, which I’ll have done exactly one of this year. Mostly I was supervising the Hudson Heights installation. The forfeit would not be significant.”

  “There’s still the two months’ lost employment.”

  “Not really. I never give exclusive rights to my services. On my own time last year I did a small garden down in Platteville with Jake Southeby. The grower whose nursery’s just south of Clarksburg? We have another planting set to go this fall and can probably pick up at least one more with my time freed up. At a nicer profit margin than the Garden Center can offer.”

  “What about the emotional penalty?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Your relationship with Willem Etlinger?”

  “Willem and I are colleagues and close friends. I’m sure I’ll miss working with him. This is not a romance from either of our points of view, if that’s what you meant.”

  “Several people have suggested otherwise. From your point of view, at least.”

  “Well, now, they’d certainly know better than I would.”

  This time it was definitely a smile he suppressed. “What we found disturbing, asking around, is the overall reputation you have for being a person with a hot temper. Whatever you might have meant, it sounded to some of the people present at that meeting as if you were physically threatening Ryan Jessup.”

  I shrugged, all too used to that interpretation. “I have a mouth and a fine working vocabulary. That’s the only kind of tearing into people I do.”

  For a while there, Joe had been looking about ready to pounce. “I wonder if your stepfather would agree?”

  It must really have been dump-on-Val morning over at the old Garden Center. “You’re referring to an incident of domestic violence that happened when I was a thirteen-year-old minor. It is not a matter of public record, and I do not discuss it. Unless you want to count basketball games, I bowed out of violent situations, domestic or otherwise, before I graduated high school.”

  “This incident of domestic violence did involve a stabbing, right?” he persisted.

  I remained silent.

  “The thing is, it establishes a precedent.” Joe seemed pleased. A few men are turned on by my size; most seem to find it mildly intimidating. Then there are those who take personal offense. The way he came on, Joe was not hard to categorize. “I mean, we can make an argument for stabbing being your preferred type of assault. Here’s a guy who’s giving you a hard time, to the point it figures to put a damper on your love life, maybe get you in legal trouble. He ends up dead on your front lawn, with your pruner sticking out of his chest.”

  “You’re suggesting I lured Ryan out here, stabbed him with my pruner, left the body lying in my front yard, and then pretended to find it? I don’t know anybody dumb enough to describe that as a plan.”

  “Maybe you didn’t plan it.”

  “Oh, right. We’re talking something more in keeping with my fiery temperament. So, Ryan comes out here for whatever reason, we get into an argument, I end up stabbing him. Why would I be standing around after dark holding a long-handled pruner?”

  “Maybe you were inside, you thought you heard a prowler, you picked up something to defend yourself with. And how do you know this happened when it was dark?”

  “It was already dark when the boys and I got home last night. The blood had mostly dried by the time I found the body—it’s hard to believe a couple hours in the early morning would be enough for that, especially with the dew. And try this on for an ‘I didn’t do it’ bottom line: My nine-year-old nephew is normally the one who takes the garbage out to the road Thursday mornings. It wasn’t my idea he didn’t today— he got up grouchy and refused. We snapped at each other about it; I cut off his TV for tonight. Whatever else you want to think about me, you had better believe this: no way in the world would I have left that body lying there for Alex to find.”

  I might not have convinced Joe, but temporary verbal blackout seemed worth a little something. “Let’s be more specific about last night,” the sheriff said, ending the silence. “You got home around a quarter to nine and then what—sat around watching television till one A.M.?”

  “Until a little after ten I fiddled with a garden design on my computer. Then I came out and watched the rest of that Schwarzenegger movie and the Tonight Show with the boys.”

  “Came out?” He looked puzzled. “Your computer’s in the dining room. I can see it from here.”

  “That’s the all-purpose computer the boys are allowed to use. I have another in my bedroom dedicated to landscaping work.”

  This revived Joe. “Your bedroom is where?”

  “Through that door the other two men came out of a couple of minutes ago.”

  Joe considered the logistics. “When you were in there, the boys couldn’t see you, right? Or did you leave the door open?”

  “Too noisy. They popped in several times, asking when I’d be finished. You know kids.”

  “They only bugged you during commercials, though, if they’re like my kids. Which would give you several ten-minute spreads to work with. Is there any way out of your bedroom except that door?”

  “There’s another door into the bathroom,
but if you mean out of the house, that wouldn’t help. In desperation you could use one of the windows.”

  “Can we go take a look?”

  Sheriff Dye was less interested. “I don’t think we need to bother right now, Joe.”

  “Hey, you never know.”

  He led the way. My growing antipathy toward Joe included the supposition that he considered casing women’s bedrooms one of the perks of the job. He’d be disappointed in mine—it’s distinctly spartan. “Decent-sized windows,” he observed, looking around. “I’ll bet you could fit through one of those. Want to try it for us?”

  “No, thank you.”

  “If I can make it through, would you agree you probably could?”

  Even eight months pregnant, you turkey, I thought, staring pointedly at his beer belly. “Sure.”

  “Mind if I check it out, then?”

  “Up to you.”

  I watched closely, arms folded; the sheriff looked on with a mildly disinterested expression as Joe cleared the top of the built-in shelves, hoisted himself up, raised the window and screen, and easily slipped through. “Jesus Christ!” we heard an instant later. Thrashing around in the shrubbery noises gave way to the harsh punctuation of receding footsteps.

  “Barberry hedge,” I explained to the sheriff’s raised eyebrows. “Many, many thorns. Anybody wants to enter or leave my bedroom, I like them to use the door.”

  He shook his head. “It was the wrong time frame, anyhow.”

  “Can we talk time frames? When do you think Ryan Jessup was killed?”

  “Dr. McCartny’s ballpark estimate is a pretty big spread,” he said cautiously.

  “I’ll put it another way. As I told you this morning, I want my nephews’ involvement in all this kept to a minimum. If having you talk to them about last night can give me a definitive alibi, then I want you to set that up. It seems to me the arrangements should be in place by one-thirty when the rec program lets out, so there’s no possibility I could influence what they’re going to say. If that sort of thing would be of doubtful use, I’d rather not put them through it.”

  “Your ‘definitive’ makes it a hard call. The ballpark started out as eight P.M. to three A.M. We’ve already been able to chop some time off the front. Ryan Jessup was at a Rotary meeting until a little before nine. He gave one of the older members a ride home, mentioned he was going to stop at Stewarts for something to eat. Which he did. Probably left there by nine-thirty. His stomach contents, some other tests if they’re consistent, should shrink those remaining five and a half hours. Enough for your purposes? Not that I can promise. If you want my recommendation, it wouldn’t hurt to go for the best documentation you can get.”

  Because it was looking like I’d need it? I tucked my hands inside my still folded arms to hide the sudden shaking. It passed quickly. Assuming those medical tests were worth spit, I had reason to believe that time frame would roll back far enough. I unfolded my arms. “Let’s set something up.”

  CHAPTER 4

  Our discussion of who, where, and protocols was seriously bogging down when Donna arrived and took charge. I don’t understand. When I tell a man what to do, like as not I get called a five-letter word—not to my face but they make sure I can hear it. When Donna tells a man what to do, he says “Yes, ma’am.” Maybe she evokes memories of the first no-nonsense teacher they encountered in school? With her severely styled gray hair and wire-rimmed glasses she looks the part.

  There were to be four adults present: Donna, who was familiar to the boys from the guardianship proceedings; Sheriff Dye; Arlene Judson, Galen’s first-grade teacher at North Patroon Central—it hadn’t been an altogether happy pairing, but she was practiced at redirecting his verbal ramblings; and the deputy in the department who specialized in juvenile matters. Donna and the deputy would pick the boys up at the town park in her car when the rec program let out and take them to the primary school guidance room, a setting not unfamiliar to either. The proceedings would be taped, but inconspicuously; the boys were not to be told.

  My main uneasiness about the setup was on Alex’s behalf. For starters, he’d wonder what he’d done wrong this time. But obviously the boys couldn’t be told in advance why all the questions, nor could my absence be explained. Sheriff Dye thought there’d be too many distractions if they tried to hold the interview at the house, and he was probably right. I was adamantly opposed to having the boys hauled in to his office. The school setting was the best compromise we could think of.

  Still, however hard the adults might try, the atmosphere would have to feel at least a little threatening. Galen might be too happy having an audience to pick up on it; he hasn’t much of a nose for trouble. Alex’s works all too well.

  So, reluctantly, I sent Donna and Sheriff Dye off to put things in motion and geared myself to wait, an activity for which I am miserably suited. Ten minutes in anybody’s reception room, I’m glowering; I know better than to get in long lines, no matter what’s at the end of them. Killing time is not one of my major skills, either, or just hanging out. Until the boys came, there wasn’t a TV in the house, and my toes can stay covered when it comes to counting how many times I’ve been the one to turn it on. Last night had required dedicated internal lecturing to sit there so long. Alex, who was using my thigh for a pillow as he fell in and out of sleep, kept complaining I wiggled too much. By the time we went to bed both legs were tingly as hell. So was my brain.

  Which was the reason I was pretty sure Ryan hadn’t been killed between one and three A.M. In most people’s opinion, my house faces backwards: its effective front looks toward the creek rather than the road. In the living room, watching television, we were the width of the house plus several hundred feet from where the body ended up. At that distance, under cover of action movie noise, a lot could have happened without us noticing. My bedroom, though, does have a window that faces the road, and last night it had been wide open. I could not fall asleep until nearly three. If there had been anything unusual to hear I should have been able to. I couldn’t remember Roxy barking once the whole time.

  So going for a time-based exemption was surely worth a shot. Meanwhile …

  At Birchwood, Pete’s favorite mantra—at every inopportune opening we’d chorus it back to him—had been “Learn to work with what you’ve got.” By the time I came around to examining that seriously, I could credit myself with a sharper mind than most of my cottage mates, when I wasn’t too antsy or pissed off to use it. What else might I have going? Not size, for most applications, and surely not charm or disposition. Most people consider being energetic a plus, but they take it back when you throw the qualifier “hyper” in front. As far as I know, your normal human being does not go around surging inside all the time. How the hell do you make a plus of that? More than two decades later this remains an ongoing project. What it comes down to is, if I’m awake, I need to be doing something.

  Habitually, I keep a clean house, as much for the purposeful activity involved as for aesthetic reasons. In my Birchwood days, before discovering the joys of working outdoors, I’d made a name for myself as the demon housecleaner of Danton Park—got all the jobs I could handle. Some of the ladies were a little afraid of me, but boy did they get value for their money.

  So that afternoon, the outdoors being too cluttered, I made a beeline for the vacuum cleaner. Later I exchanged it for a can of furniture polish and the electric buffer, after which I marched upstairs and dug noisily into straightening up the boys’ quarters, which they weren’t going to appreciate. By one-thirty, when I came back down, Ryan Jessup’s body was gone and most of the investigators with it. A second TV crew, this one from Channel 11, had arrived and departed. I could see through the kitchen window that the contents of the Bronco still lay around on the ground, though none of the several men who remained seemed to be doing anything with them. I had no desire to go out and mingle.

  In the course of sitting around watching the boys dawdle with their food, I’d developed an ambitio
us kitchen-cabinet-reorganizing scheme. It didn’t absolutely have to be saved for a rainy day. If one of those men looked in and wondered what evidence I was trying to get rid of, he was welcome to come hand me things.

  It may have been my hope that by clattering enough dishes I could continue to avoid hearing myself think. This didn’t work. Somebody, incredibly, had set me up as a murderer. I might not be happy to learn who, but didn’t I need to know?

  Because of the way things had been scripted, Mariah was likely right in her implication that the killer would turn out to have some connection with the Garden Center or Hudson Heights. The sheriff’s assumption that this defined a large group of people was technically valid, but most of the Etlingers’ landscaping crews and Clete Donnelly’s construction workers had scant familiarity with my schedule and little if any working-hours involvement with Ryan Jessup. Those who saw him most, the Garden Center staff, I couldn’t readily evaluate; with the high turnover rate the last couple of years I wasn’t even solid on current first names. Ryan would have been that, and more, and he could surely have bugged someone. Hell, most of them, probably, at one time or another. Enough to plan and carry out a murder? I couldn’t seriously think so. Much as I’d rather not, it was time to move on to the name players.

  I would have exempted Willem—he won’t even step on ants—except that far and away the most likely place for someone to have raided the Bronco and snatched my pruner was the workers’ parking lot at Hudson Heights. And it was Willem who’d sent me there Tuesday. None of the four people I usually worked with—Clete Donnelly, his son Kyle, construction boss Matt Conroy, or land management supervisor Thurman Haynes—had been on the scene. The vandalism was easy enough to spot—some perennials and a couple of small shrubs yanked out of the ground—and to repair, but it had involved leaving the Bronco open and out of my sight for a good half hour. There’s also the fact that Willem does lie fluently, when he chooses, plus he’d gotten as bummed out as I’ve ever seen him about the stifling effects of Ryan’s economies on some of his projects.