“I’m glad you did,” my mother and I say at the same time.

  Backyard

  I walk in my backyard, fighting off a swarm of black flies with my one free hand. Just when the weather gets good, really good, these nasty flies show up. They bite and leave welts. Up north, I hear they can drive people crazy. I pat my bound-up arm. It will be nice to get out of this sling and be ambidextrous again. I eye the grass, which will need mowing soon. My vegetable garden is bare except for the crop of rhubarb starting to grow and the garlic I planted last fall. I’d better lure Alex and Matt here with food to do some yard work.

  I just called the Titus Post Office, but the postmaster there said his driver, Sue Lehman, is on vacation. Her daughter, who lives in Pennsylvania, had a baby, so she went to help out, which is probably more information than he should’ve shared, but I’m glad for it. She’s supposed to be back next week. Dammit.

  I reach into my back pocket when my phone rings. It surprises me how dexterous I’ve become with one hand. And what I can’t do, like peel an apple, Ma takes over.

  Gary Beaumont is calling.

  “Hey, Isabel, how’s my case goin’?”

  The nice part about dealing with people like Gary is that I don’t have to make small talk. No “How have you been” or any other pleasantries are necessary. We can get right down to it.

  “So far, so good.”

  “What’s that mean?”

  “I’ve got some new leads. I’ve been talking with people. I’ll be meeting more.”

  I hear him blow smoke.

  “We should get together real soon. When can you do it?”

  Tonight, Ma and I are going to that poetry reading with Cyrus Nilsson. I plan to pin him down to a meeting tomorrow. But I’m not telling Gary that. Can you imagine him and Larry showing up? I can, and it sure ain’t pretty.

  Then, I remember Annette wants to show off the car she got for my mother.

  “Make it Saturday. It’ll have to be late in the afternoon. Conwell has its Annual Town Meeting that morning, and I’ve got some business afterward. How about four?”

  “That works.”

  “Since we’ll already be in Caulfield, we’ll come to your house.”

  “My house? You sure about that?”

  I imagine him taking a gander at his sty of a kitchen and wondering why I would bring my mother there. I have a good reason. The visit would help my mother understand the Beaumont brothers better.

  “Yeah, yeah, I’m sure, Gary. We’ll see you then.”

  Reading Cyrus

  It’s a full house at the Hayes Book Store for Cyrus Nilsson’s reading. Of course, Ma and I get there early. We can’t help it. It’s a family tradition, so we will be guaranteed a good seat. Ma has one in the front row, her preference, but I gave up the one I had beside hers when an elderly poetry lover didn’t have anywhere to sit. I stand in the back, which is fine by me because not only does Cyrus put on a good show, so does the audience, which by my observation is made up of middle-aged women who probably have the hots for Cyrus, college kids, and a smattering of wannabe poets. Yes, the Silent Old Fart, that poetry lover from the backroom of the general store, is here. We give each other nods from the opposite ends of the room. He lifts his copy of Cyrus’s new memoir. I lift mine.

  As I’ve said before, I’ve seen Cyrus in action although that time at the Penfield Town Hall, the atmosphere was different. Most of the folks who came were curious locals. He was decent not talking down to them, so he came off more like an understanding schoolteacher than a famous poet. That had to be twenty-five years ago. But for this reading, he is definitely the Big Shot Poet. I figured rightly his audience tonight would be filled with educated poetry fans, well, except for Ma and me. We’re only pretending. I even bought his new book for him to sign. It’s a ploy to meet him. Plus, I figure it’ll be a tax write-off.

  Cyrus reads from his memoir and a few of the poems it contains. In between, he banters about the poet’s life. He finds inspiration wherever he goes. Yeah, right.

  “At this stage in my life, I can’t help it,” he says.

  Many in the audience go “ah” and laugh along with Cyrus’s knowing chuckles.

  Good grief.

  The man has aged well. I will give him that. He’s kept most of his hair, which is now white, and his face has the right amount of lines to make him look distinguished and smart. His white shirt is open a few buttons. His legs are spread apart in a rather manly pose, a thrill, I’m certain, for his middle-aged groupies.

  “That poem practically wrote itself,” he says after reading one called “The Crossing.” “It came to me as I was standing on the bow of the ferry taking me to Nantucket. I stepped to the side and recorded it on my phone. What you heard tonight is pretty much what I got down that day.”

  A woman in the second row moans. Actually, she moans whenever she thinks she hears anything profound, which seems to be about every third line that comes from the Big Shot Poet’s mouth. Her response is a cross between a moan and a gasp. It’s her way of saying she is moved big time, I suppose. Honestly, I find it annoying. So does my mother, who cranes her neck to see who’s making all that noise.

  My mother mouths, “Do you think she’s in pain?”

  I stifle a laugh.

  The reading is over after Cyrus fields a few questions and agrees to sign copies of his book. He takes his place behind a table. Fans, clutching his latest, form a long line. I expected that. So instead, I sit and wait beside Ma.

  “Well, that was interesting,” she tells me.

  “Looks like we’re gonna be here a while.”

  She bends closer.

  “That’s okay. I’m not in a hurry,” she says.

  Neither am I. Instead we watch the Big Shot Poet cordially greet each fan and sign their copy of his book with a bit of a flourish. The bookstore owner hovers nearby to keep people moving, especially the women who want to linger.

  I glance up when I hear my name. The Silent Old Fart has joined us. I make the introductions, using his real name, of course. I will clue Ma in later.

  “Isabel says you are a poetry buff,” the Silent Old Fart says to my mother.

  Ma gives a chortling laugh.

  “Oh, yes, Cyrus sure has a way with words,” she answers.

  Bravo, Ma.

  After a few pleasantries about poetry and the weather, which is the longest I’ve ever heard the Silent Old Fart speak, he takes his place in line. Ma and I wait patiently for our turn. We sit too close to Cyrus’s table to talk about him. Too bad.

  Finally, it’s just Cyrus, Ma, and me. The bookstore owner is tending to business at the cash register and has his back to us.

  I hand Cyrus my copy.

  “You both were so patient,” he says. “How should I inscribe this? To one or both?”

  He smiles.

  I smile.

  “Your signature will be fine. We’ll be sharing this book. This is my mother.”

  He makes some small talk with Ma about the event as he signs. I wait for my moment and find it when he shuts the book. I pull Cary Moore’s copy of Deep Blue from my bag.

  “I see you have that one, too. I’d be glad to sign it for you.”

  I study Cyrus as he opens Deep Blue to the title page. His brow juts together when he reads the inscription he wrote to Cary Moore six years ago. His face is up.

  “It appears I already signed this one,” he says.

  “Do you recognize the name?” I ask.

  He studies the inscription and now me.

  “What’s this all about?”

  I hand him one of my business cards.

  “My name is Isabel Long. I’m a private investigator hired to look into the death of Cary Moore. Members of his family believe he didn’t commit suicide.” I pause for effect. “For this case, I’m talking to people who knew Cary, so I can get a better idea of what he was like. I understand you were, uh, friends.”

  Cyrus clears his throat.

  “He did some handyman jobs for me when I lived in Penfield. We were neighbors for a while.”

  “My understanding is that it was a lot more than that. You did give the eulogy at his funeral.”

  He glances over his shoulder, likely searching for the bookstore owner, who is thankfully still figuring out things at the register.

  “I did but only as a courtesy to the family.”

  Cyrus’s voice has lifted an octave, I presume, to inspire me with his innocence. Not so fast, buddy. Who do you think you’re messing with? I glance at Ma, who gives me that ever so slightly nod that says, “Go get him, Isabel.”

  What a mother.

  “It’s been a while. Let me refresh your memory. You both wrote poetry. You got together to talk about it quite a lot. He showed you his poems.” I pause for effect as I can see I have the man’s full attention. “And there are five poems in your book that bear a remarkably close resemblance to ones Cary wrote.”

  His Adam’s apple does little tricks in his throat as he swallows.

  “You are mistaken about that.”

  I try hard not to smirk as I pull out one of Cary’s black and white notebooks, the one called Country Boy. I hold it, so he can see the front.

  Another swallow.

  “I disagree.” I turn toward my mother. “I wonder what other people would say if they knew.”

  “Didn’t this book win a lot of awards?” she asks.

  I smile and glance at Ma.

  “Yes, you’re correct about the awards.” My focus returns to Cyrus. “I understand you might be considered for U.S. Poet Laureate. Isn’t that right?”

  Cyrus leans forward. I tighten my grip on Cary’s notebook.

  “What exactly do you want?” he says just above a whisper.

  “To talk with you about Cary.”

  “Talk? That’s all?”

  “Like I said, I’m meeting people who knew him. You’re one of them. It’s not every day a member of a highway crew writes poetry good enough for a famous poet to use. I’ve been told you did pay Cary for the poems, but my impression is he didn’t think you would claim them as your own. I also heard from several people he wasn’t happy about that at all. One of the confrontations took place in public at a bar.”

  Cyrus’s lips press together. I’ve got him, as they say, by the short hairs, if you don’t mind my being vulgar.

  “I can’t meet with you tonight,” he says finally. “I have plans. When?”

  “Tomorrow would be good. We could come to your house in Titus.”

  “You know where I live?”

  I smile.

  “We do. How about eleven? That work for you?” I pause until he nods. “And just in case we get delayed, how about giving me your phone numbers?”

  He watches as I punch numbers into my phone’s contact list with some effort. They match the ones Carole gave me, but I don’t tell him that.

  “What happened to you?” Cyrus asks.

  “I was in an accident for my last case. Somebody ran me off the road.” I drop my phone into my bag. “But as you can see, I’m pretty tough. Tomorrow then.”

  He slips my card into the pocket of the suit jacket hanging on the back of his chair. And in a case of perfect timing, the bookstore owner is back and quietly informing Cyrus about the smartly dressed people waiting for him at the store’s entrance. Cyrus gives the group a backward glance and a nod. Then, his eyes match mine.

  “Yes,” he says.

  At the Poet’s House

  The metal gate to Cyrus Nilsson’s driveway is locked. As the Subaru idles, I ponder the possibilities aloud to my mother.

  “I see three scenarios here, Ma.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “First, Cyrus could have hooked up with one of those hot women from last night and is running late getting back.”

  “That’s one.”

  “Number two: He forgot to unlock the gate and he’s waiting inside. See. It’s one of those locks where you punch in a code.”

  Ma raises herself on her seat to get a better look.

  “Pretty fancy.”

  “Uh-huh. And the third is he chickened out.”

  “You mean he took off before we got here? My money is on the last one.”

  “All in, eh?” I laugh as I check my phone. I show her the screen. “See? No messages.”

  “I suppose you could have called before you left.”

  “True. But he obviously didn’t call me to say he had something else to do. How about we give him the benefit of the doubt.” I reach for the door’s handle. “I can see the house from here. Up for a walk?”

  She points at the windshield.

  “See those no-trespassing signs on those trees?”

  There’s one every hundred feet or so.

  “Eh, that’s not gonna stop me. The Big Shot Poet did invite us, and besides, I don’t think he’d call the cops on us considering the reason for our visit.”

  I grab my bag. My mother stashes hers beneath her seat.

  “Lock it up and let’s go,” she says.

  We scoot around the gate and stroll like welcomed visitors up the long driveway. I take my time for Ma’s sake. Otherwise I would have sprinted. As we head toward Cyrus’s house, I figure it must cost him a fortune to have his driveway plowed in the winter. I gauge roads and driveways by their accessibility during the worst weather of the year. Even my own driveway is four-wheel-drive only unless you’re a local who can muscle a vehicle up a snowy incline.

  The birds are yakking it up in the trees.

  “You doing okay, Ma?”

  “Just fine,” she says. “I don’t see any cars in the driveway. What do you think the Big Shot Poet drives? A sports car?”

  “It’d be tough making it up here in the winter. I bet he has one of those rugged SUVs that looks like it should be in a war zone.”

  We reach the house. I’m not that nosy yet to check out the garage, in case Cyrus is in his house and not unlocking the gate is just an oversight.

  I knock on the back door. But the only sound inside the house comes from a barking dog. Through the window, a German shepherd does its job protecting his home. Surely, the noise would rouse Cyrus if he were sleeping.

  “Hey, there, is your master home?” I tell the dog in my friendliest voice, but the beast doesn’t stop barking. “What do you say? Try the front door?”

  “Give him a minute,” Ma says.

  We wait several minutes. Nothing. So, we walk around the yard toward the front of the house, following a nice flagstone walkway to those gigantic windows overlooking the West Branch of the Brookfield River. The dog is right there on the other side of the glass. The barking hasn’t stopped.

  “Okay, dog, where in the hell is your master?” I ask.

  Obviously, he’s not at home. He was before because I seriously doubt he would’ve left a dog inside all night, so Ma wins her bet. Plain and simple the guy split. There’s no way he would have forgotten our exchange last night. I could tell my line of questioning and Cary’s notebook spooked him. A quick peek through the windows of his empty garage confirms he’s gone.

  I dial his cell, but it goes to voice mail, which doesn’t surprise me at all.

  “Hey, Cyrus, it’s Isabel. I’m here at your house, but you aren’t. Please give me a call, so we can set up another time.”

  Ma takes a seat on the patio. She swats at the black flies that have joined her.

  “I would say being a no-show makes the Big Shot Poet look awfully guilty,” she says. “Nice view of the river from up here by the way.”

  It is indeed a nice view. Cyrus had the trees thinned, so he can keep an eye on the river even when the leaves are fully open. This appears to be the spot where he was standing when he watched Jack and me on our walk along the river the other day.

  That’s when I decide this visit is not a complete waste of time.

  “Do you mind waiting here?” I ask my mother. “There’s something I want to check out in the woods.”

  She gives me a wave.

  “Go ahead. That dog finally gave up. It’s a lot quieter now.”

  I step through the woods. I don’t know exactly where Chief Lively found those empty booze bottles, but if I recall correctly, he said if I faced the river, they were in a spot to the right of Cyrus’s house. Here the trees are sparse as craggy rock takes over. I turn around when I find a small clearing. There are enough spaces between the trees to spy on the Big Shot Poet’s house. Is that what somebody was doing? Could it have been a disgruntled Cary Moore wanting to confront Cyrus? Or was it just an over-zealous fan?

  I’m not paying attention enough to my surroundings because I stumble on the uneven rock a few feet from the ledge. The waters of the West Branch below swirl and rush around the boulders. Damn it, Isabel, you’ve got to be more careful.

  I grab my phone and snap some shots before I hustle back to Ma.

  “Anything?” Ma asks.

  “Yeah, there’s a clearing, the one Chief Lively told us about, and a really steep cliff.” I reach into my bag for my reporter’s notebook and a pen. “I’m gonna leave a note for Cyrus.”

  “As a poem?”

  I laugh.

  “Nah, but thanks for that.” I hand her the note when I’m done. “I didn’t want to be nasty, so he could say I was harassing him. What do you think?”

  She reads it over.

  “That works. The note is firm but not threatening. He can read between the lines you’re serious about this case. What if he doesn’t call back?”

  “Don’t worry, Ma. A little thing like that isn’t going to stop me.”

  Bright Idea

  I spot the hippie-dippie woman who waited on us the other day as soon as I enter the Titus Grocery. She’s bringing a plate to a customer sitting at one of the tables. I wait until she’s done before I follow her to the counter where people place their orders. Ma decided to stay in the car.

  “Can I help you?” she asks.

  “When I was in here the other day, you mentioned Cyrus Nilsson comes in here every day.”

 

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