Checking the Traps, page 15
part #3 of Isabel Long Series
The Silent Old Fart shares the Cyrus Nilsson story, of his hard upbringing to his success. I catch the other Old Farts giving each other glances of disbelief. Before he retired, the Silent Old Fart was an electrician, one of the best around, according to Sam. He came when he said he would and got the job done for how much he estimated it would cost. He wasn’t much on chitchat, but then again, neither was Sam.
“Cyrus has quite a following,” the Silent Old Fart says. “He really triumphed with that book, Deep Blue. But in my opinion, the one that followed was nowhere as good. I’m hoping he redeems himself with his new book. It’s a memoir with poetry, a novel concept, I’d say.”
The Fattest Old Fart closes one eye.
“Is this for your case, Isabel?”
I smile. I’m not about to divulge the real reason for asking.
“My mother and I are going to his poetry reading. I was hoping one of you could fill me in.”
“You’re a poetry fan?” the Skinniest Old Fart asks.
“Me? No, my mother is,” I lie.
I down the rest of my coffee. I have ten minutes to go before my prompt daughter shows up, and I’m about ready to give my farewells when the Visiting Old Fart clears his throat.
“Did you fellas hear about Jack Smith’s ex-wife?” he announces. “Seems she’s planning to stick around for a while. Heard Jack hired her at the Rooster to cook. You think they’ll get back together?”
I see the Fattest Old Fart’s head wag back and forth ever so slightly. Across the way, the Old Fart with Glasses gives a low, horizontal wave. I half-expect him to say, “Ixnay onyay ex-wifeyay,” in Pig Latin code, but he doesn’t, and the Visiting Old Fart doesn’t catch on to the signals. I don’t know the man very well. He’s one of those newcomers who moved here long enough ago that he thinks he can achieve native standing, but if so, he’s fooling himself. I’ve lived in Conwell longer than him and know better.
Probably the Visiting Old Fart is unaware of my relationship with Jack. I’ve never seen him at the Rooster. He must’ve not been paying attention when the Bald Old Fart talked about Jack and me going for that walk along the river. But the Visiting Old Fart keeps going on about Lisa, what an attractive woman she is, how maybe she’ll rekindle her relationship with Jack. How does he know Lisa? She’s living in her folks’ house next door to his.
Blah, I’ve heard enough. If I had any doubts about the woman, the Visiting Old Fart is certainly doing nothing to ease them.
I get to my feet.
“You’re leaving already, Isabel?” the Skinniest Old Fart asks.
“Ruth should be here any moment with the baby, and I don’t want her to have to drag me outta here again. She’s gotta get to work on time. See you soon.”
I actually have plenty of time to meet Ruth. I just don’t like how this conversation has turned and hope the Visiting Old Fart doesn’t become a Regular Old Fart. If so, I may call him the Ignorant Old Fart or the Know It All Old Fart.
I stand outside my car and wait for Ruth. When I look up at the trees, the buds are starting to loosen. Damn, when will this spring break?
That’s when I hear my name being called. The Fattest Old Fart walks toward me.
“Sorry about that back there,” he says. “We like teasing you a lot, but that guy was outta line. We told him as much.”
I sigh.
“You guys are sweet for doing that.”
“Well, we don’t want you to stop coming,” he says.
I laugh.
“Yes, you would lose a good source of your entertainment.”
“That too. But I’m thinking we’d miss you.”
I stand on my toes to give the Fattest Old Fart as much of a hug I can manage with my sling.
“Thank you,” I whisper in his ear as Ruth’s car turns the corner.
More Poet’s Notes
I put Sophie down for her nap, and the good baby doesn’t make a fuss. Besides, the dog and I kept her busy playing all morning, so she was pretty tuckered out. Then, I bundled her up and took her outside to breathe some of that cool spring air. She’s crawling now, and the ground is cold and muddy, so there wasn’t much she could do but sit on my lap on the back step and watch the dog, Maggie, go nuts running around. I figure I have an hour or so to read more of A Poet’s Notes before she wakes up.
According to Cary, the Big Shot Poet comes back refreshed and inspired from Cape Cod. He returns the book, Country Boy, and says he wants to read more. Cary agrees.
Then, there is some news from the Big Shot Poet. Cyrus is having a house built on a piece of land he bought in Titus. Cary is down about it. He likes the perks of living next to a famous poet, but Cyrus claims he wants more privacy. What’s the sense in being famous? I guess that’s a fair question from someone who isn’t.
“Hey, Ma, you’ll want to hear this one,” I tell her as she pours the cat some fresh water from the tap.
I’ve been giving her bits and pieces from Cary’s notebook.
“That’s useful,” she says near the sink.
I find a confession from Cary: I’m a drunk and I can’t help myself. Ask my boss. The page is missing after that, and I’m wondering if this was the first time Stan caught him drinking on the job. This was in the fall.
As I flip through the remaining pages, I see this notation frequently: I’m a drunk. And one time: I thunk I was a drunk. Now I know for sure.
I find a bit of a shocker around Labor Day. Cyrus wants to pay me for five of my poems. He says he will include them in his next book of poetry. A hundred bucks a pop. Now I am a real published poet.
“Oh, my God,” I say.
“What did you find, Isabel?” my mother calls from the other room.
I bring the book to her.
“I wonder if Cary thought his name would be on those poems,” I say.
“Maybe. If he did, he was being… ”
“Naïve?”
Ma hands me back the book.
“You took the word right out of my mouth,” she says.
Back at the kitchen table, winter continues in Cary’s notebook. He keeps track of the storms and snow depths as he plows and sands Penfield’s roads. He writes a poem called “Inches.” I recall commuting that winter to the Daily Star’s newsroom, and yes, it was a tough one. More like feet. But Cary is in a happy place. He writes about the money the Big Shot Poet paid him. The book is now in the hands of the publishing house’s editor.
Darn, I hear Sophie making a fuss upstairs. I still have some to go in this book. I think about what Dancin’ Dave told me about the argument Cary had with the Big Shot Poet at Baxter’s. Did Cyrus take advantage of Cary? Right now, it looks it. And right now, the baby is getting louder. I leave everything in its place. I’ll finish this later. Duty calls.
More Notes
I am reading Cary’s “Notes of a Poet” when Ruth arrives. The baby is on my lap, trying to grab anything she sees. She drops whatever toy I give her. She’s got her eyes on the paper and my laptop, but she forgets all about them when she sees her mother. Her arms are up, and Ruth sweeps her into hers.
“What do you have there?” Ruth asks me.
I show her the cover.
“It was written by my latest victim, Cary Moore. He was a highway worker who wrote poetry.”
“Isn’t he related to Gary and Larry Beaumont?”
I try not to smile too much at the tone of Ruth’s voice. Not only doesn’t she approve of my being a P.I., she wouldn’t approve of me having a Beaumont as a client.
“Yes, he’s their brother, half-brother actually. But outside of a drinking problem and some drugs, he doesn’t seem to be anything like Gary or Larry. He seems a lot more sensitive.” I pause. “He’s my new case. Gary hired me.”
Ruth frowns as I fill her in on the details.
“I don’t understand why you took this case. Didn’t other people approach you?”
“Sure, but those cases didn’t interest me,” I say. “Gary’s not that bad once you get to know him. Really, Ruth.”
She stares at my sling.
“Just be more careful this time.”
I raise my one free hand.
“I promise no more high-speed chases in my mother’s car.”
I get a nice eye roll from my daughter. She sure has a talent for it. But then again, she got it from me.
“I’m gonna hold you to that,” she says.
After Ruth leaves, I am back into it. Cary is psyched about being published. Construction on the Big Shot Poet’s house is under way. He’ll be moving mid-January and his house in Penfield is up for sale. Despite Cary’s cheery voice, reality looms ahead.
Thank You Very Much
“Rooster Bar and Grille,” Jack says over the phone, and after he hears my voice, “Isabel, how are you?”
“I just wanted to say thank you very much for finding that notebook.”
“It was helpful?”
I do want to thank Jack, but I’m also being his nosy little girlfriend and wondering how Lisa’s training went.
“It was,” I say thinking of a vague way to bring up the topic. “How’s it going over there?”
“Pretty quiet even for a Wednesday. It turned out to be a good night to show Lisa around.”
“How’d that work out?”
Jack chuckles.
“She’ll do fine. She’s here. You wanna ask her yourself?”
I hesitate.
“Not really,” I say.
He laughs harder.
“Just pullin’ that long leg of yours, Isabel. She already left,” he says. “Gotcha.”
“Yeah, you did real good, you joker,” I say. “Have you heard anything about Carole?”
“Mike says she went home from the hospital. She’ll be out a couple of weeks. After that she won’t be able to lift anythin’ more than twenty pounds.”
I smile to myself, thinking there will indeed be an end in sight.
“I’d say that was pretty good news.”
“Uh-huh,” Jack says.
A Visit with Cherie
It turns out to be school vacation, so we find Cherie and Cary’s daughter, Helen, in the front yard, throwing a ball to a cute mutt of a puppy. She acts shy when I tell her we’re here to visit her mother. About all I can get from the girl is that the dog is named Apples.
“That’s a good name,” I tell her.
“I thought it up.”
Cherie greets us at the door and leads us to the living room, where a print of a young Jesus hangs over the flagstone fireplace. She and my mother talk hair while I wait my turn. A plate of store-bought cookies is on the coffee table. I smell coffee brewing in the kitchen. Dang, I’m gonna have to eat at least one to be polite. Ma and I also accept a cup of coffee, which Cherie brings us.
Finally, we are in our places. Ma and I are on the couch, Cherie on a side chair. I get my thank you for meeting us out of the way. She is aware I have Cary’s A Poet’s Notes because I told her on the phone last night. She’s also aware that I plan to give it to her when I’m done with this case.
“I’m gonna ask you a lot of questions. Some of them might be hard to answer. Just do your best. Alright?”
“Alright.”
“First, do you have any information about a, uh, business arrangement Cary had with that poet Cyrus Nilsson?”
“You mean that he paid Cary for those poems?”
“Right. Did Cary think they were going to have his name on them?”
She heaves a sigh.
“He did. Cary thought Cyrus was going to include them in the back of his book, sort of introducing him. What’s that word Cary used? He would be his protégé.” She frowns. “That was sure foolish of him.”
“Do you think Cyrus might’ve led him on?”
She still frowns.
“I dunno. Cary didn’t tell me anythin’ about it until he found out. He wanted it to be a surprise for me.” She waves her hand. “Besides, Cary thought that man walked on water.” She glances at the print of Jesus. “Only one man can do that.”
I keep my judgmental side about religion in check. After all, I’m still taking my mother to Sunday Mass although truthfully I mostly daydream through the service. But I certainly don’t want to lose this woman with one of my smart-ass remarks. My feeling is that if religion works for Cherie, so be it. I take a sip of coffee and reach for a cookie to buy some time.
“I heard from a couple of people the two of them got into an argument at Baxter’s when Cary found out.”
The features on Cherie’s face tighten.
“He was so upset when he came home that night. He couldn’t even sleep. He just sat at the kitchen table drinkin’ and readin’ those poems of his over and over. I felt so bad for him. Nothing I said made him feel better.” She stops. “That’s when he tried burnin’ his books in the woodstove, but I wouldn’t let him.”
Beside me, Ma makes a low cough. She’s reminding me of one of the questions we went over on our ride here.
“What happened after that night?”
“He was pretty worked up. He tried callin’ Cyrus, but he wouldn’t answer his phone. One day, Cary went over to his house to meet him. But that was a waste. Cyrus was gonna call the cops on him. He got outta there fast.”
I recall my conversation with Carole, who was the Big Shot Poet’s housekeeper then.
“His cousin, Carole, told me about that.”
Her fingers tighten around her coffee cup.
“He started talkin’ about suin’ Cyrus.” Her voice drops. “But that didn’t happen.”
I finish the sentence for her in my head: because Cary died.
“You said Cyrus spoke at his funeral. You didn’t mind him doing that considering how upset he made Cary?”
“I was pretty upset, too. I just let him. He did say some very nice things about my Cary, but I kept thinkin’ about how he made him feel.” She looks directly at me. “You should’ve seen my brother-in-law, Gary, that day. I had to beg him to take it easy.”
“You said before that Cyrus wanted to see Cary’s poems later.”
“In a way, I’m glad Gary took them. I had an excuse to say no. I wouldn’t have given them to Cyrus anyways. And I’m sure Gary wouldn’t either,” she says. “By the way, I’d like ’em back when you’re done. They do belong to me.” She gets to her feet. “Just a sec.”
Cherie stands at the picture window, checking on her daughter and the puppy. She is a good mom.
Then, she’s back.
“We only got the dog a few days ago.” She smiles. “Helen named her Apples. My Cary would’ve liked that.”
I bet her Cary would.
“I’ll be glad to give you the box,” I tell her. “I have another question. Does the name Victor Wilson mean anything to you?”
That question draws a deeper frown.
“Him? He’s one of Gary and Larry’s buddies. Just like them he’s up to no good.”
“Did Cary spend any time with him?”
“Sometimes he went over there with his brothers. I didn’t like it at all. People can get crazy when they start usin’ that stuff.” She sighs again. “I learned that the hard way. It took me a while to get straight.”
I take one of those deep breaths.
“Is it true you and Victor, er, used to spend time together.”
Cherie bites her lip.
“Yeah, he was part of my bad time. I was hangin’ with a wild crowd then. He was kinda nice to me. Plus, well, he gave me things.”
I sit back. I hate torturing this woman.
“Ma, you have anything you’d like to ask Cherie?”
“Not right now.” She gives Cherie an encouraging smile. “She’s doing so well answering your questions.”
That’s my cue.
“I’d like to ask you about that day.” Actually, I’d like to ask her about the previous day when Stan fired him, but that would betray his confidence. Besides, what good would it do to tell her? “What do you remember?”
Cherie thinks before she answers.
“Something must’ve happened the day before at work cause he was awfully upset when he got home.”
Ma and I exchange glances. I didn’t have to ask her after all.
“Did he talk about it?”
“Maybe he wasn’t doin’ a good enough job. Stan was a pretty fair boss. But Cary was drinkin’ heavy in those days.” She wipes away a tear. “I never asked, but I wondered. I wish I had. But he might not have told me.”
“You’re doing great. Keep going.”
“Cary woke up late. He was doin’ stuff around the house when he got that phone call. I was lyin’ down. I got tired easily when I was carryin’ Helen. I had clients at my shop all mornin’, so I’d been on my feet.”
“You have any idea who could’ve called?”
She shook her head.
“Not a clue. But he shot out of here,” she says. “He didn’t say where he was goin’, but he did tell me, ‘I’ll be back before dinner.’”
“That doesn’t sound like a man who was going to kill himself,” I say.
“It doesn’t make sense. He really wanted our baby.” Her voice cracks in places. “When he didn’t come home that night, or even call, I got so desperate I tracked down his brothers to go look for him. I ended up callin’ the cops, too. I was sick worryin’ about him. He’d never done anythin’ like this before.” She wipes the tears beneath her eyes. “I found out what happened to him two days later.”
“I just learned Paul at the ranger station is your brother.”
“Yeah, he is.”
“That must’ve been hard for him seeing Cary’s body in the river.”
“Yeah, even though they didn’t get along.”
“Why’s that?”
“The drinkin’ got to him. He was the same way when I had my bad time. I was worried he was gonna call the state about Helen.” She lets go a sigh. “But I found my way back.”
Ma and I trade smiles and nods. I am happy for Cherie, but a little surprised her brother was such a tight ass. I didn’t know that about him. Then again, a child was involved. Should I add Paul Roberts to the suspect list? Maybe. He did say he was away that day watching his boy play ball on his college team. So, maybe no.
