Wicked Fix (19 page)

went on. "Typing, for instance: I could do that. Not

fast, but I could. I was a bookwormish kid. So he made

me do it if he wanted something typed. I was scared of

him, to tell you the truth."

"But you still spent time with him. How did that

happen? I mean, where, for instance?"

"Oh, around," Mike said vaguely. Then he looked

straight at me. "See, I was a child. We weren't friends

in the way any normal person would use the word. He

just had a weird thing about me; I don't know. Like a

pet," he repeated.

"Mike," Ellie said, "are you sure you weren't

among Reuben's present-day enemies?"

I'd have asked him about the other victim, too, if

I'd been the one putting the question, though I might

not have asked at all. It flat-out implied that Mike

might be a murder suspect. But he seemed not to take

any offense.

"Oh, no," he said serenely, looking almost

amused. "That's what you still don't understand. That

was then, and this is now. What's past is past."

He got up from the table. His hands were red and

work-roughened, and there was an ugly-looking recent

burn on the back of the right one.

"That looks painful," I said, but he shrugged off

the injury easily.

"Can't be too careful with a woodstove. One slip,

and the next thing you know, hssstl But it's healing

okay."

Molly returned as he filled the kettle again, from a

big metal carboy of water on the sink. "I probably

wouldn't have told you about me and Reuben at all. It

isn't something I like talking about. Too," he made a

little grimace of distaste, "weird. But I hear Willow

Prettymore is back in town for the festival and she's

sure to gossip a mile a minute. So--"

He lifted his hands in a what-can-you-do gesture.

"I just go on," he said, dismissing the subject. "Would

you like to take some gingerbread? Molly, wrap it up

for these ladies."

The child scurried wordlessly to obey.

"Mike," I asked, "did Bob Arnold happen to

mention anyone else Reuben might have been giving trouble

to lately?"

"More than the usual, you mean? No, he didn't

really seem to have a clue about that. And I didn't," he

went on, "offer any."

Molly returned, handing me the parcel. She was

very self-possessed for a young girl, her manner gravely

polite. Yet she had an odd, repressed air of babyish

ness, too; at her age, many girls in the city had already

become mall rats.

Mike hesitated as if wondering whether to elaborate

on his last remark. Then:

"I hear the Sondergards are playing on the bandstand

for the Salmon Sunday supper," he said to Ellie.

"Dad," the little girl interrupted insistently, tugging

at her father's sleeve.

As Mike lay a soothing hand on the girl's shoulder,

it struck me that Molly might be a wee tad overprotected,

especially way out here with no other children

of her age to play with. Given a choice, though, I'd

take that over a whole mall full of preadolescent girls

in spandex halter tops and eye makeup. In Eastport, a

child could still be a child long after the city kids were

getting rushed willy-nilly into the adulthood.

"Dad, I need you to help me with this," Molly

persisted. "I need you now."

So the kid wasn't perfect, and if you dropped her

in a mall she'd probably go hysterical from sensory

overload. But if Mike Carpentier had chosen to stick to

a strict parenting route, lots of his own input and not

much from anyone else, I couldn't blame him. If I'd

done it earlier, maybe Sam wouldn't have had so much

trouble.

When we left, the two of them were standing in the

doorway, waving serenely, Molly with her macrame

project in her hands. The downhill trip was easier and

faster than the climb up; in a few minutes we were

back at the Jeep.

I opened the gingerbread package; the fragrance of

cloves filled the air. "How does he manage up there?

No power, no running water. Not even a telephone--

what happens if there's an emergency? Can you really

raise somebody on a CB radio? And what about winter?"

I ate a morsel of gingerbread. "Or does he hole up

in the cottage until spring? Home-school Molly, eat

what they've canned from the garden and butcher a

few chickens till the snow melts? Pray," I added, "that

neither one of them needs an ambulance, or that the

cottage needs a fire truck."

Ellie glanced wryly at me. "First of all, Mike is

prepared for any emergency short of being at ground

zero. I looked around a bit while you two were talking

--there's a water tank up the hill in case of fire, a

first-aid kit that makes Terence's look like a toy doctor

bag, enough canned goods to stock a supermarket out

in the shed. There's the radio for emergencies. I doubt

there's a whole lot of people Mike chats to on a regular

basis, so he doesn't need a phone. And he drives Molly

to school every morning, picks her up in the afternoon."

"Drives? But ... Oh." That Ford Escort, I realized,

pulled to the side of the cove road. "So he isn't

the hermit he appears?"

"Nope. Just when he wants to be." Ellie pulled the

Jeep into my driveway, beside which stood all those

storm windows. A pang of urgency stabbed me at the

sight of them, because September in Maine is like the

condemned man's last meal: fun while it lasts, but it

won't put off what is coming.

"Not that the self-sufficiency routine does too

much," Ellie added, "for Molly's social life. From what

people say around town, I guess Mike doesn't think

Molly's peers are fit companions."

She swung out of the Jeep and walked with me to

the house. "I wanted you to meet him," she went on,

"before I told you much about him, so you could form

your own impression. But to tell you the truth I wasn't

surprised that Bob Arnold had gone to see him. Mike's

a good father but otherwise he's pretty strange."

"Oh, I don't know. I kind of enjoyed him. Just

because he's independent, likes to do things his own

way. I don't see why it should make a person feel suspicious

of him."

I held out the remaining gingerbread. "Want a

piece?"

Ellie stopped by the porch steps. "No, thanks. Interesting

he should bring up the Sondergards, too.

Maybe we ought to talk to them. I think his mentioning

them was no accident; he isn't a fool. And the same

with Willow Pretrymore ..."

Her voice trailed off thoughtfully.

Checking the mailbox, I found it empty, then remembered

it was Sunday. "Come on, Ellie. Aren't you

making him out to be more subtle than he is?"

I opened the back door. "Mike's a plain-looking,

plain-speaking guy who does what he wants and says

what he thinks, from what I can see. I admire that."

Inside, Monday galloped to meet us. "It was weird,

his story about Reuben. And I'll admit I had a bad

moment with the blood on the chopping block. But all

he'd done was kill a chicken for his Sunday dinner.

Whacked," I finished, "its head off."

"Huh," Ellie said skeptically, ruffling the dog's

ears. "I'm surprised he bothered."

I turned on the coffeemaker. "What do you mean

by that?"

She eyed me levelly. "The cat Molly was burying?

Did you get a look at it? A good," she emphasized,

"look?"

"No, why?" I picked up the gingerbread again,

meaning to put it in an airtight container, since Ellie

didn't want it.

"Because," Ellie said, patting Monday's head and

making more kind noises at her, "somebody had

wrung that cat's neck."

I dropped the gingerbread in the trash.

"Oh, and one other thing," she added. "The man

Paddy said was going to testify against Reuben? But

instead got found with a bump on his head," she finished,

"down in his own cellar?"

"You know about that?"

The coffeemaker burbled. I turned from the refrigerator

where I was getting out the cream. I had not

mentioned that part of my trip with Paddy and Terence.

"Uh-huh." Ellie reached up into the cabinet, came

down with cups and saucers. "Paddy always likes to

tell that story when the topic of Reuben comes up, so I

figured he'd told it to you. But for some reason there's

always one aspect of it he leaves out."

If he thinks leaving something out'll make him

look better, Wade had said of Paddy, he'll do it. "What

part is that?"

Sunshine from the tall kitchen window fell slantwise

on the cup Ellie was holding, filling it with milky

light.

"The man in the cellar was Paddy's father," she

said.

The telephone rang.

"Jacobia. Good to talk to you. Wish it were

under different circumstances."

"Hello, Ben." It was a voice from the

bad old days. Bennet Berman had handled

Victor's side of the divorce. "Since when are you doing

criminal cases?"

"Since never. Just getting the ducks in a row for

your ex. He'll have a criminal defense attorney, of

course. I'm not even licensed to practice in Maine."

Right; divorce as a metaphor for all-out nuclear

war hadn't yet gotten fashionable up here in moose

country, so there wasn't much real call for Bennet's

area of expertise.

"But Victor wants me on the team," Bennet went

on. "He seems to feel there are ways I can be effective."

I banished memories of just how effective he'd

been against me; as Mike Carpentier had said, that was

then and this was now.

And Victor needed all the help he could get. "So

what kind of quacking are you hearing, Ben? From the

ducks in the row."

His laugh turned mirthless. "Well. It's still the

weekend, so things aren't high gear yet. But I've got a

faxed preliminary medical report on the victim. Victor

said"--Bennet's tone was puzzled--"that you would

want to hear it."

"You're kidding." Back in the old days when I was

a money manager, Victor seemed to feel my job was