“Just remember to lock the doors this time,” I say to make him laugh, which is the exact reaction I was hoping to get.

  “I won’t make that mistake again, but it’s not that kind of surprise.”

  “What is it then?”

  He chuckles.

  “My nosy little girlfriend’s just gonna have to wait.”

  I admit I’m nosy. Make that super nosy. I’ve made two careers out of it. But his nosy little girlfriend? I like that better.

  I force a sigh.

  “This is gonna be torture.”

  Jack’s eyebrows flicker.

  “Yup.”

  We take the back way from Titus to Conwell. The snow is gone, and the fields are getting some green as the grass begins its push from the earth. I spot a forsythia bush in bloom in front of somebody’s house along with daffodils and crocuses. This has not been an especially warm spring. Still, if I didn’t have this sling, I might be out in the yard digging and raking.

  “You okay over there, Isabel?” Jack asks.

  “I’m just thinking.”

  “You do that a lot.”

  “I can’t help myself,” I say. “Oh, we’re already here.”

  Jack talks and I listen as we walk around the area closest to his house and barn. He releases his sister’s dogs from their pen, and after they terrorize me with their barking, they forget all about me. Those mutts are more interested in getting in a good run and smell on the property.

  The farm has about a hundred acres. They’re all Jack’s now that his sister is gone. It didn’t belong to them until their parents died, much later than when he and Lisa got divorced. Perhaps I’m being prejudiced, but I could see her wanting her share in cash. But I take the high road and keep that snarky observation to myself.

  Jack’s land has large fields with long road frontage, so some developer could easily divide them into building lots, or even put in a subdivision if the town gave its okay.

  There’s a saying that the last crop planted on a farm is asphalt. But that’s not in Jack’s plans.

  He gestures toward the hayfields.

  “Eleanor did a good job keepin’ ’em up, but I don’t have the time for that. I’m thinkin’ of letting Chris take ’em over.” He’s talking about one of the Rooster’s True Blue Regulars. He gestures. “I don’t wanna lose those fields. He also asked about plantin’ corn in that section over there.”

  “I remember when your folks had a farm stand at the bottom of your driveway. Your sister would come out and wait on me. That’s before she went to work for you.”

  “That was years ago.” Jack nods as he turns around. He shakes his head. “The house and barn both need a new roof. We’re gonna have to strip the shingles on the house cause it already has two layers. That’s gonna cost me some bucks. I figure I can sell off some of that farm equipment I ain’t gonna use. I’m also talkin’ with somebody about loggin’ the trees in one section of the woods.” He mentions another Rooster Regular. “Just thinnin’, not clear cuttin’.”

  Like so many hilltown natives, Jack faces a dilemma. How can he hold onto so much land and aging buildings? Except for the sunroom, on what used to be his sister’s side of the house, it doesn’t appear much money has been put into keeping things up like paint, replacement windows, and roofs. I learned these things from Sam, and from following so many stories of people being forced to sell their properties to newcomers because they couldn’t afford to own them. At one time, farming was a way of life up here. Not anymore.

  I study Jack’s face. Somber would be an apt description. But then, he breaks into a grin.

  “Eh, sorry for being so damn serious. Wanna see your surprise?”

  “Are you kidding me?”

  His arm sweeps around and pulls me close to him.

  “What I’ve got might even help your case.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah, really.”

  Moments later, I wait at the kitchen table while Jack is in another part of the house. When he returns, I recognize what he has in his hand. I have seven of them in a box back home. Jack holds up a composition book, so I can read the front cover. Sure enough, Cary Moore scratched his name on the front and beneath it: A Poet’s Notes.

  “Shit, Jack, where’d you get this?”

  Jack looks pretty damn pleased with himself as he hands me the notebook. I flip quickly through the pages filled with Cary’s neat print.

  “Cary forgot it one night when he was drinkin’ at the Rooster. I found it on the floor when I was cleanin’ up the next mornin’ and kept it under the counter. I meant to call him about it, but I kept forgettin’. Anyway, I figured he’d come back for it if it was that important to him. I took a peek inside, but there seemed to be a lot of personal stuff.” He smirks. “I’m just not as curious as you, Isabel.”

  I place the notebook on the table in front of me. I’m being awfully polite not tearing into it.

  “There aren’t many who are.”

  “Maybe Cary forgot where he left it. He was just sittin’ at one of the side tables, writin’ in it, and then his brothers and a couple of their buddies showed up, so he stopped. I put his book under the bar with everythin’ else people leave behind here.” He pauses. “Some weeks later, he was dead.”

  I feel my eyes go wide.

  “Wow, Jack, this could be the break I need.”

  “I remembered the book last night when I was fallin’ asleep. I got up and found it in the bottom drawer of the old desk in the living room. It’s where I keep the paperwork for the Rooster. Eleanor found Cary’s book in the lost-and-found box and brought it home. I just shoved it in a drawer. Lucky thing I didn’t throw it away.”

  I pat the notebook’s cover.

  “That’s the kind of luck I need right now.”

  He hums.

  “So, what’s my reward?”

  I laugh.

  “Do you really have to ask?”

  He laughs, too.

  “I guess not.” He walks across the kitchen. “Just to be on the safe side, I’m gonna take care of this door.”

  “Smart idea.”

  A Poet’s Notes

  I don’t get a chance to read the notebook until after ten when Jack finally leaves for home after Ma and I fed him, and he helped me wash the dishes and clean up, which was much appreciated considering my one-armed status these days. I shouldn’t say finally, as if I couldn’t wait for him to get out of my house. I’m grateful he found Cary’s notebook and remembered it after all these years. It’s just another thing to like about Jack. Ma agrees this is indeed a helpful discovery. Jack, I must say, was more interested in the chicken dinner she cooked for him. Over dinner, we filled her in on our field trip to the river. My mother praised Jack for his photography skills and for keeping me out of harm’s way.

  I almost choked on my salad when I heard my mother say, “Do you think that Lisa will be able to do as good a job cooking as Carole?”

  That Lisa? Ha, Ma, good one.

  Jack smirked when he said, “I sure hope so.”

  I stayed out of that part of the conversation. Smart move, Isabel. A very smart move.

  Now, I’m at the kitchen table, my second office, with the notebook in front of me. I can’t believe I resisted going through it, and now as I do, I notice several pages here and there have been torn out. It makes me wonder what Cary wrote on them before he destroyed them, but perhaps I’ll get an idea as I read. All I need is enough to point me in the right direction for this case.

  Ma hovers beside me.

  “Call me when you find something useful,” she says before she heads to her comfy chair and a book.

  “Will do, Ma.”

  With a fresh beer and an open laptop, I start reading A Poet’s Notes, which Cary begins about three years before his death. Cyrus Nilsson hasn’t moved into that house in Titus yet. That happens two years later because that house of his probably took at least nine months to build.

  The first entry fills half a page on April 15. He claims all writers keep journals and this will be his. His plan is to jot down ideas for poems and observations. He will mention what’s happening in his life, what inspires him to write. I hope all of that is true. A quick flip shows me Cary isn’t a long writer. Some entries are only a sentence. One page can contain notes from several days. The book is nearly full, so he’s jammed a lot in here.

  To hell with it, I’m cheating and going to read the last entry. April 12 at the Rooster. I saw in the newspaper the new book of poetry by Cyrus is a hit. The story said critics say it’s his best one so far. I haven’t seen him in a few weeks. He’s been busy on a book tour. But he promised…

  That’s where it ends presumably when Gary and Larry interrupted Cary and the book was left behind. Maybe he dropped it on the floor, so they wouldn’t see he was writing. Anyway, that’s where it stayed until Jack found it when he was cleaning up. Cary died a month later.

  So, what did Cyrus promise? Damn, I better start from the beginning.

  Here’s one entry on the first page: I gave Stan that poem I wrote for him – The Peerless Plowman. I got the idea on that storm we plowed last month and finally finished it. Stan didn’t quite know what to make of it, but he took the poem and tacked it to the wall of his office.

  Cary would probably be pleased the poem is still there.

  I don’t have to dig too far to find something about the Big Shot Poet. His first mention comes a few days later.

  I take the notebook to the living room.

  “Hey, Ma, listen to this. Cyrus had me over for coffee. He saw me splitting wood outside and stopped in his car. I hadn’t talked with him since last winter, when I got up enough nerve to show him some of my poems. That’s when he told me to read and feel more. Great advice. He was away for a while. He stayed in Paris, on a sabbatical, he said, but he told me he couldn’t seem to get inspired. He said the poems he wrote were shit. He complained about meeting a deadline for his next book. I told him about The Peerless Plowman. I said it out loud from memory. Cyrus liked it. He said he’d be willing to take a look at my other stuff. Wow. That guy’s famous. What do you think?”

  “Sounds like he was smitten by the Big Shot Poet.”

  “Smitten. That’s a good way to put it.”

  I follow the seasons in Cary’s notebook. He and the other guy on the crew patch potholes and grade dirt roads after they stop being muddy. I see this note several times: Reading and feeling. And this: Write what you know. Maybe he got that from the Big Shot Poet, too.

  I haven’t come across much about Cherie or his brothers. He does mention in one entry that he reads each one to her when he’s finished. She thinks I’m so smart cause I can write poetry. I love her for that.

  The next entry about the Big Shot Poet is in June. Cary finally works up enough nerve to bring Cyrus three poems. The first one is about an owl. The others are about a red tail hawk and a rat, of all topics.

  “Damn, I better find them,” I say, and Ma’s eyes are off her book as she sees me rush upstairs.

  “Don’t run in the house, young lady,” she jokes.

  Upstairs in my office, I pull out the notebook of poems Cary calls Red Tail and Others, which has dates that match the timeframe of the one I have downstairs. I’ve barely touched this book, but as I flip through the pages, I find the poem called “Death by Owl.” Cary describes seeing one swoop near a broken stonewall and hook a mouse with its talons. His choice of words and imagery show a maturity that is lacking in his earlier works. Here’s one line: Death comes fast in a downward plunge. I can see that clearly, and considering what happened to Cary, it’s rather prophetic.

  I glance at my crime wall. It definitely needs some serious attention, certainly the photos Jack took for starters, but right now, I’m returning to the kitchen. I’ve got a beer down there.

  “What do you have there?” my mother asks.

  I hold up the notebook.

  “I’m looking for three poems Cary says he showed the Big Shot Poet.”

  “Did the Big Shot Poet steal those, too?”

  I hold up the Big Shot Poet’s book he inscribed to Cary.

  “I guess I’ll find out.”

  In the poem, “Red Tail,” Cary lies on his back in a field as he watches a hawk fly in a circular flight until a murder of crows chases it off. The rat poem is about one nesting in the woodpile. He hates to kill an animal, so he lets it live there all winter. There’s room for us both in this world.

  I check the Big Shot Poet’s book, and the three poems by Cary aren’t in there.

  A couple of weeks later, Cary writes: Cyrus says I show promise. He wants to read more of my poems. I told him about my books. He says to bring the best one over. Hot shit.

  I read more.

  I get the feeling Cary keeps the notebook with him all the time because he jots down things people say when he stops at the general store in Penfield. There are gaps in time, a few days or so, as if Cary got too busy or he forgot, but he keeps going.

  I reach an entry about Cherie. She has a miscarriage in the winter, which hits her hard. We’ll have kids someday. That’s what I told her. And they better look like her. That made her smile.

  In the summer, Cary and the other guy on the crew clear the brush along the roadsides. The Big Shot Poet hires him to do chores around his house such as painting and small repairs. Afterward they talk poetry. I wonder if that’s the real reason he has Cary over.

  Cyrus takes one of Cary’s books with him to his summer home on Cape Cod. He’s spending a month there. I told him it’s my only copy of Country Boy. He promised to take good care of it. Cary misses their sessions.

  I reach across the table for that book.

  “You’re up awfully late,” my mother calls from the other room.

  I yawn and check the kitchen clock. Damn, she’s right. It’s after midnight, and I have to get up early to meet Ruth at the store. I use a slip of paper to mark my place in A Poet’s Notes and shut the laptop. I call the dog to let her outside.

  “When I’m done with this case, I’m gonna give Cherie this book,” I tell Ma as I wait by the door.

  “Anything useful yet?”

  “I haven’t found any ah-ha moments, but I’m getting a better idea about what Cary was like.” I let the dog in after she barks outside the door. “The very last entry mentions some kind of promise from the Big Shot Poet. Too bad he got interrupted and didn’t finish.”

  “Yes, that is too bad.”

  “Well, I’ve got more to read. Besides, I can ask Cherie when we see her Thursday.” I yawn. “Don’t stay up too late.”

  “You know I will.”

  Old Farts and Poetry

  I’m minding the baby, Sophie, today, so naturally it’s a good opportunity to check in with my network of spies, the Old Farts, although this time I plan to be out of the store’s backroom before her mother, Ruth, shows up. I honestly don’t have a clue how much the Old Farts can help me with this case, but sometimes those guys surprise me with their reach through the hilltowns. Certainly, they keep up with what’s going on in my life. They probably know Jack stayed for dinner after we returned from our field trip, and then he went home. I decide not to sneak in the backroom this time. Why bother? Those Old Farts have me on their radar anyway. Of course, the Fattest Old Fart sees me first and blabs it to the rest of them.

  “Here she is, fellas, Isabel Long hot on the trail,” he says.

  We have one Visiting Old Fart among the six regulars today.

  “Howdy, fellas,” I say when I plunk myself down beside the Fattest Old Fart.

  The Serious Old Fart’s head wags back and forth before he gets to his feet. We go through our normal routine concerning the coffee and that broken espresso machine. These guys just can’t let this one go.

  “How’s the collarbone?” the Serious Old Fart asks.

  But I don’t get a chance to answer.

  “Must be pretty good if she and Jack Smith were hiking along the West Branch of the Brookfield yesterday.” The Bald Old Fart chuckles as if someone just told a dirty joke. “Heard she had Jack up on a boulder taking photos with her phone.”

  Now, wait just a minute. These guys are always spying on me, but how in the heck did the Bald Old Fart know that?

  I shake a finger.

  “It’s time to come clean, guys. On one of the times I was in here, did any of you slip something in my coffee, knock me out, then plant a chip in me?”

  Man, that gets the Old Farts going. The Old Fart with Glasses is laughing so hard he chokes on his coffee. It sprays over the front of his shirt.

  The Bald Old Fart chuckles.

  “Shoot, why didn’t we think of that sooner? It’d make our job so much easier.”

  “Job? What job? Being the nosiest men in Conwell?” I say.

  And just when the laughter simmers down, it starts up again. Even the owner, Jamie Snow, pops in from wherever he was in the store to see what all the commotion is about.

  I swear the Bald Old Fart puffs up his chest.

  “Got ya goin’, didn’t I, Isabel?” he says. “Nah, Paul Roberts, the ranger from over at Titus State Park, was in here before you showed up. He’s the one who told us.”

  I shake my head.

  “You guys are something else.”

  “Yup, that’s us alright,” the Fattest Old Fart says.

  I wait for the laughter to stop before I change the topic. A quick look at the clock on the wall tells me I might have enough time before Ruth shows up.

  “I have a question for you guys. Anyone here into poetry?”

  I roll my eyes when I hear a round of snorts as if I’m sitting back here with a herd of old bulls.

  “I am.”

  Holy crap, the Silent Old Fart speaks.

  His buddies give him a long stare. I do, too. The Silent Old Fart raises his head a couple of inches and nods.

  “Have you heard of Cyrus Nilsson?” I ask.

  “Of course,” the Silent Old Fart says with a smile. “I have every one of his books. First edition. Signed.”

  I feel like saying, “You’re shitting me,” but instead I say, “What can you tell me about him?”

 

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