I grab my phone and call the first number Carole gave me before I lose my nerve. This is one of those deep breath phone calls I used to make when I was going to call somebody who didn’t like talking to reporters. I’d take a deep breath and call, just like I’m doing now. The cell number is his, but it goes directly to voice mail. The same goes for his landline. I don’t leave a message. What would I say? It wouldn’t be honest of me to say I was interviewing him for an article. I bet he wouldn’t return my call if I told him why I was calling. I’m going to have to find another way to connect.

  I’m back on Google seeing if I can find more current info for Cyrus. Wait a minute, Cyrus has a website. Who doesn’t these days? But sending him an email in the contact section wouldn’t be the best way to get a response from him. But then, I see he’s giving a reading next Thursday evening at an indie bookstore in the valley. He’s just released a memoir with poetry called My Way with Words, a title I find amusing given that’s what appears he does, at least with Cary Moore’s.

  “Hey, Ma, how would you like to go to a book signing?” I ask.

  “I’ve never been to one. What are they like?”

  “The writer reads a little and talks a little. He might answer questions. He’ll sign books people buy. And in this case, I plan to corner Cyrus Nilsson at the end and see what he has to say about Cary Moore. What do you think?”

  “I think I might enjoy the last part the best.”

  “You wanna go?”

  “Might be nice to get out of the house.”

  I drink more beer and think about the opportunity to give the Big Shot Poet, my official name for Cyrus, the second or third degree. It would be good to catch him off guard.

  But I can’t let this be a distraction to my other chief suspect, Victor Wilson. Is getting caught plagiarizing a reason to push somebody off a bridge or cliff? Maybe. But a paranoid drug dealer is a more likely suspect. And as Gary showed me, Victor’s brother lives just up the road.

  I turn in my chair.

  “Hey, Ma, could you give me a reason Victor Wilson might meet Cary at the bridge in Titus instead of his house?”

  She doesn’t hesitate.

  “To throw people off. Then, Victor wouldn’t be connected to Cary’s death.”

  “One more: what kind of business would Cary have with Victor?”

  My mother laughs.

  “I believe that’s the million-dollar question you need to figure out.”

  I nod. These are good answers. Lots of fictional P.I.s have sidekicks. You know their names. Mine is Maria Ferreira aka Ma.

  “Once again, you are absolutely right.”

  As for Victor Wilson, I just want to exhaust my other options, including another visit to Cherie, before I venture into dangerous territory. The retired trooper and former owner of the Titus Grocery are in the safe zone. And I need to talk with the police chief in Titus. His name is Byron Lively. He’s been at the job a while.

  I pat my sling. Damn, I need to walk down to the spot on the river where they found Cary. How am I going to do that bound up like this?

  I check the time on my phone. It’s not too late. I do owe Gary Beaumont a call. The man is paying me after all. He answers on the third ring.

  “Isabel, you got somethin’ for me?” he asks right away.

  “First, I want you to promise me you won’t get ticked off at anything I say, so you go and beat up anybody.”

  He laughs.

  “Isabel, you’ve got the wrong idea about me. I’m not the violent type. I’m more of a mellow fellow.”

  Now, I laugh. That’s not my impression of the man. But to be honest, my opinion of Gary has changed since our early meetings. He surely loved his brother. There is some good inside him.

  “And I don’t want you to contact anybody. Then, they wouldn’t talk with me again. Got it?”

  “Got it. Let me take this phone outside.”

  From the background noise, I’m guessing he’s at Baxter’s. I hear him tell Larry he’ll be right back.

  “First, I visited Cherie.”

  “What was that like?”

  “It was just a warm-up conversation. I’m seeing her again this week and I’ll ask her harder questions then.”

  The barroom noise has faded. I bet he’s on the bar’s back deck.

  “Okay,” he says.

  “I visited Stan, the Penfield road boss.” I pause. “He told me he fired Cary the day before he died for drinking on the job. It was the second time he caught him.”

  Silence.

  “Shit. That really happened?” Gary finally says in a quiet voice.

  “Stan said he didn’t tell a soul. Even a guy I met on the highway crew didn’t bring it up, so he was on the level. As you can imagine, Stan felt bad about it. He said Cary was terribly upset.”

  Yeah, yeah, I said I wasn’t going to tell Gary about his brother getting fired, but I changed my mind. The guy did hire me.

  “Okay.”

  “My mother and I went back to the bridge. I talked with the ranger there. I wasn’t aware that he was Cherie’s brother. I might meet up with him again.”

  “Okay.”

  “Now, it gets more interesting. Remember that famous poet you told me about? It seems like something was going on between him and Cary.”

  “You’re not tellin’ me they were faggots.”

  “What? No, nothing like they were gay. It seems that poet, Cyrus, might have used your brother’s poems without permission. He pretended they were his when he published them in a book.”

  “So?”

  “Two sources told me that when Cary found out, he was pretty angry. I don’t blame him. Cyrus Nilsson was getting a lot of good press for poems he didn’t write.”

  “He stole my brother’s poems?”

  I detect doubt in Gary’s voice.

  “Believe me, in the writing world that’s a big no-no. I’ve tracked him down and plan to see him soon.” I decide to withhold info about the reading. I don’t want the brothers Beaumont storming the bookstore. “I should get a better idea after I meet him.”

  “Okay, that’s something. What else? What about Victor?”

  Yes, what is my plan for that man?

  “I’m still figuring out the best approach,” I say. “One option would be for you and me to pay him a visit. You could call to say you want to talk business, and I would join you.”

  Gary is silent again.

  “I guess I could do that. I dunno.”

  “If you won’t, I’ll just have to come up with another plan.”

  “Would you just go there by yourself?”

  “I might. I’d just catch him off guard. But I’d tell somebody where and when I was going.”

  “Isabel, you’ve got brass… ”

  “Yeah, yeah, you said that before, and frankly, Gary, I do,” I say. “One more thing. Were you aware Cherie had been, uh, seeing Victor? This was after Cary died.”

  I hear the click of a lighter.

  “I forgot about that. That’s when she was hittin’ bottom.”

  Hitting bottom is a good way to put it. I’m deciding that if Victor did indeed kill Cary, this would be a sick maneuver sleeping with his widow.

  “Did they have a relationship before that?”

  “Nah, but you never know.”

  “You’re absolutely right.”

  Clean Sheets

  I weigh my choices Monday morning: visit the Old Farts or Jack. Ha, that’s a no-brainer. I love those guys in the backroom of the Conwell General Store, but I doubt their reach extends to Cyrus Nilsson. Not to be a snob, but none seem like poetry buffs although I do plan to ask about Cyrus the next time I stop by. They’ve surprised me before.

  But I have more pressing needs. I bet you can guess.

  I doll myself up some. I don’t go too crazy. After all, this sling does get in the way. In one weird moment, I thought of showing up with nothing under my coat and really giving Jack a surprise. But then I think of having to bring a change of clothes in the car and suppose it breaks down, highly unlikely given Annette’s mechanical skills, or gets a flat, or somebody stops me to talk, or the worst possible scenario, Fred is there and I have to sit naked under my coat while I pretend to be sociable. Besides, the coat would be open because of my damn sling. So, that idea is out.

  Instead, I settle for some new underwear, black lacy and a bit on the sleazy side. I even dig out a dress that buttons in the front and some shoes with heels and hope there’s no mud in Jack’s driveway.

  I leave a note for my mother: Went to Jack’s. Be back before two. It’s only seven. Gosh, if we can’t have a whole lotta fun during the next seven hours, I’ve lost my touch.

  Ma and I have plans for this afternoon. We are meeting the police chief from Titus, partly a courtesy call and hopefully a fruitful one.

  The dogs are in their pen barking their damn heads off when I park beside Jack’s pickup truck. There will be no surprising the man with those mutts. I make a light knock, and then I’m inside the kitchen, where Jack sits at the table, drinking coffee. He’s grinning his head off. Maybe he didn’t take my threat to pay him an early morning visit seriously. But he sure looks glad I did.

  “Come to inspect those clean sheets, Isabel?” he asks.

  “They might not be so clean when we get through with them.”

  Jack coughs up a laugh.

  “Isabel, I’m shocked, really shocked.”

  “Sure you are.”

  I drop my jacket onto an empty chair.

  “That a dress you’ve got on?” He bends forward. “Heels, too?”

  “And don’t make any jokes how I was able to buy heels for feet as big as mine.”

  Jack holds up both hands as if he’s surrendering.

  “Wouldn’t think of it.”

  “And wait until you see what I’ve got on under this dress.”

  Jack chuckles.

  “Isabel, I was gonna offer you some coffee, but to hell with that idea.”

  I laugh as he gets to his feet. His hand is on my back as he steers me toward his bedroom.

  “I thought you’d see it my way.”

  Unwanted Visitor

  Jack and I are dozing in his bed, relaxed from all the fun, when a woman starts calling for him inside the kitchen. I nudge Jack.

  “Somebody’s here,” I whisper.

  Jack’s eyes open.

  “What the… ?”

  The sheet slides down as Jack sits up.

  “Well, well, look at you two,” Lisa says.

  Her head is cocked to one side. A hand is on her hip. I pull up the sheet to cover my breasts. She’s giving us a major stare-down.

  Right now, I can think of a few things I’d like to say to Lisa, but I wisely let Jack do the talking.

  “Jesus, Lisa, don’t you believe in knockin’?” he says.

  She smirks.

  “I did knock. Guess you didn’t hear me. I figured you were in here since your truck’s parked outside. I also figured you had a visitor.” That smirk hasn’t left her lips. “Didn’t think I’d catch you both in bed.”

  Jack waves her away.

  “Why don’t you wait in the kitchen while we get dressed. Okay?” he says.

  She doesn’t answer right away. She watches me reach with some effort for my underwear that’s on the floor beside the bed. If needs be, I’ll dress in front of this woman. That might be awkward given my sling although I’ve gotten a lot better fastening a bra with one hand. No way she’s going to make me feel embarrassed.

  “Sure,” Lisa says before she leaves.

  Jack and I dress.

  “I’m gonna use your bathroom,” I tell him.

  He touches my arm.

  “Sorry about that,” he says.

  “It’s not your fault.”

  “Let me find out what this is all about. I wasn’t expectin’ her to show up like that.”

  After a few minutes, I join them in the kitchen. Jack stands beside the sink. His arms are crossed.

  “Carole’s in the hospital,” he tells me. “Mike took her last night to the emergency room. She’s gotta have her gall bladder removed.” He reaches for his cell phone on the counter. “Yeah, here’s a call from him. Shoot, I missed it.”

  “Carole was in pain when I talked with her yesterday,” I say. “She was gonna see the doctor today. Guess the pain got worse.”

  “Mike called me with a message from her,” Lisa says. “She’s gonna be out of commission for a few weeks. She thought maybe I could fill in for her at the Rooster.”

  A lot rolls around inside my head, first about Carole, and then the possibility of Lisa working at the Rooster. I’m just going to have to put aside my personal feelings for the woman. Jack is in a tough spot. He needs to serve food, and hiring Lisa, who has done this kind of cooking from wherever the hell she came from in South Carolina, would be an easy solution. I couldn’t do the job with one hand. Besides, the food I cook isn’t exactly barroom cuisine. I can see the reaction if sautéed vegetables and brown rice, or even kale soup, were on the menu.

  Jack listens quietly to Lisa’s spiel.

  “What do you say, Jack?”

  He scratches his chin.

  “Guess I don’t have much of a choice.”

  Lisa snorts.

  “Uh, Jack, in case you forgot, I’m doin’ you a big favor here.”

  Jack nods.

  “Yeah, you are, Lisa. Sorry about that. I really do appreciate the offer. Why don’t you come in Wednesday, so I can show you around the kitchen?”

  “That’ll work,” she says.

  Lisa stays several minutes more while she and Jack talk over details like hours and pay, and then, finally, with a smirk or two, she’s on her way.

  Jack turns toward me.

  “You don’t mind, do you?”

  “Why should I mind?”

  “I get the feeling you don’t like Lisa very much.”

  I smile.

  “It’s only temporary, right?”

  “That’s not exactly an answer, Isabel.”

  “She’s gonna help you out of a tough spot. That’s a good thing. But if you might’ve noticed, she sure didn’t mind staring at us in bed.”

  “I did.” His eyebrows flick. “In the future I’m definitely locking that door.”

  I laugh.

  “Yeah, you never know who’ll show up. Next time, it could be Fred.”

  He tips his head toward the counter.

  “You wanna have that coffee?”

  I glance at the clock.

  “Sure, I can stay longer. Besides, I need to ask you a favor.”

  Jack makes a chortling laugh.

  “Favor? Isabel, I might be set for a while after today… ”

  “Ha, it’s not what you think,” I say. “How about coming with me to that spot where Cary Moore died? I want to walk along the river, but with my shoulder I might need a hand among the rocks. I’d ask my mother, but I think I’d be better off with a big, strong guy.”

  Jack spoons coffee into the maker. He glances over his shoulder.

  “A big, strong guy? If you put it that way, I’m game.”

  A Chat with the Chief

  Ma and I have a date at three with Byron Lively, the Titus police chief. He’s held that job forever it seems, and it would be great to have an off-the-record conversation about what he’s seen the residents of his dinky little town do. But today I’m asking him about Cary Moore’s death. When Chief Lively returned my call last night, his suggestion was to meet at the Titus Grocery Store, and I went along with it. He had to make an appearance earlier in magistrate court to defend a few speeding tickets that were being contested. Besides, in the mid-afternoon, the lunch crowd would be over. I told him that works for us. Of course, my mother wants to come along. He didn’t mind. He probably heard about her deductive powers via the hilltown grapevine.

  What’s Chief Lively like? He’s one man who doesn’t live up to his last name. He’s sort of a grump actually. In all the years I was reporting, I never heard him crack a joke. I rarely saw him smile. But he was an honest cop who didn’t mind my calling him for information about a case, and for me, that counted a lot.

  “What’s this place like we’re going to?” Ma asks when we’re about a mile from Titus Grocery.

  “A bunch of hippie-dippie types bought the place off some New Yorkers who bought it off some locals,” I answer. “The food’s good if you don’t mind waiting. They never seem to be in a rush.”

  “That’s alright. I stopped being in a rush a long time ago,” Ma says.

  “Excellent point. When I was a reporter, I used to stop in here to see what was happening in town.”

  “Was this one of your traps?”

  I laugh.

  “It was. The New Yorkers kept their ears and eyes open. They gave me some good tips for stories. By the time they sold the place to the hippies, I was an editor. I let my reporters do the checking.”

  I pull into the lot and park beside the Titus police cruiser. Chief Lively, who is in uniform for his court appearance, is inside talking with one of the locals, a guy who’s a Rooster Semi-Regular. The chief faces the door, so he nods when he recognizes me. He breaks away and gestures toward a table that has a coffee cup and a manila folder.

  I make the introductions.

  “It’s nice to meet you, Chief Lively,” my mother says. “Isabel, why don’t I get us something to eat and drink? Go ahead and start without me.”

  I follow Chief Lively to the table. He’s got one of those thin weathered Yankee faces with a long space between the bottom of his nose and upper lip. Norman Rockwell could have used him as a model for one of his paintings.

  “So, you have a case in my neck of the woods,” he says.

  “As I said over the phone, Cary Moore’s family wants me to look into his death.”

  “You mean his brother, Gary?”

  I nod.

  “Yes, he’s the one who’s hired me. You have any dealings with him?”

  His fingers curl around the coffee cup.

 

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