“Gus is little friendlier than me,” he says.

  “Well, that’s a relief.”

  The dog, a large German shepherd, runs out to greet his owner before he checks me out. I must have passed the test because he high-tails it into the woods.

  “Good boy,” Cyrus greets the dog when he’s back, and then he turns toward me. “Please come inside.”

  The house’s interior, like its exterior, is over the top with high ceilings and lots of wood trim. The kitchen has more cabinets than any normal home cook would ever need. Of course, there’s a big-ass open staircase in white oak, part of the woodworking knowledge I acquired from being married to a carpenter. Sam worked on a number of these types of houses when he subbed for a contractor. He complained about the excess. Cyrus must be doing well to afford such digs.

  “Very nice house,” I say.

  Cyrus mentions the name of a local hotshot building contractor as he leads me to a room with an enormous amount of glass that overlooks the West Branch of the Brookfield River. These were the windows I spotted when the Beaumont brothers brought me to see the bridge. He points toward an overstuffed chair facing the view for me. He takes its twin. I decline his offer for coffee or tea. Frankly, I couldn’t handle another dose of caffeine. The dog circles, then sits at his master’s feet. Cyrus reaches down to give him a pat.

  “What exactly do you want to ask me?”

  I could come out and ask if he killed Cary, but that’s not the way it’s done.

  “Like I said earlier, I’m trying to get a better picture of the man,” I fib. “From what I understand, you started taking Cary under your wing when you lived near him in Penfield.”

  He sits back.

  “I was just being neighborly at first. I needed a handyman to help out with chores around the house. One day, he admitted he wrote poetry, too.” His mouth curls in one corner as if he’s going to smile, but he doesn’t. “I saw the potential, so I became his mentor. It was a first and last for me. I liked Cary. I also liked that this country guy who worked for the town’s highway department was trying to write poetry. He was so humble about it, which, frankly, is a rarity in my world.”

  “I’ve read a journal he kept. He wrote about getting up enough nerve to show you his poems.”

  “His early stuff was rather immature, but the man’s talents grew rather fast. I hope I can take credit for some of that.” He fingers the chair’s arm. “I told him to write like it’s never been written before. He took my advice to heart.”

  “Everywhere I’ve been for this case, people have showed me the poems he’s written for them, like his boss at the highway department and the owner of the bar in Conwell.”

  He nods.

  “I particularly enjoyed his down-home country perspective,” he says. “Many people try to achieve that, but it was in his blood.” He makes a quiet chuckle. “I used to joke he was the redneck poet. We laughed about it.”

  I smile at the last comment. That’s what Stan, Penfield’s road boss, said, too. Cyrus appears to have relaxed enough for me to dig deeper, but I’ll play him some more.

  “Do you think his poems could’ve been published in a book?”

  “With the right connections, yes.” His finger rubs the chair’s arm. “That’s how I got so far so fast. I fell in with the right kind of people.”

  “Right kind of people?”

  “I once was very young and very handsome. I wasn’t too particular about my relationships. And I had a good story. A poor boy from upstate New York who went to an Ivy League school on scholarship and could turn words into poems.” He sniffs. “That helped a lot. One thing I’ve learned is that there is writing, and then there is the business of writing.” He gives his head an appropriate shake. “But like any business, you have to keep producing something new.”

  Hmm, we’ve finally come to the turn in the conversation I need. Stop playing around Isabel. Just spit it out.

  “Is that why you bought those poems from Cary?”

  Cyrus frowns.

  “Yes,” he says quietly. “I had reached a point where nothing inspired me. But I was under a great deal of pressure to produce. Not a very good combination for a famous poet. I certainly didn’t want to be known as the former boy wonder.”

  “From what I’ve read, Cary’s poems received the most critical acclaim in that volume.”

  Cyrus presses his mouth tightly before he speaks.

  “Who would have thought the best poems in that book were the ones I didn’t write?”

  “My sources say Cary was upset you took credit for his poems. Is that correct?”

  The only sound in the room is the dog’s snoring.

  “That is correct.”

  “Is it ethical to pay someone for their poems and pretend they’re yours?”

  Cyrus gives me a steady glare.

  “Let’s just say we had a misunderstanding.”

  “Misunderstanding?”

  “Yes.”

  “That book won a few awards and a lot of good press. I bet the pressure wasn’t lifted after it came out.” An idea pops into my head. “Is that why you asked Cary’s widow for all of his books?”

  Cyrus’s lips move although no words come out.

  “No comment.”

  When somebody says “no comment,” it usually means the person is guilty as hell but won’t admit it.

  “Fine. Now, I’m going to ask you a question I’ve asked everyone connected to this case.” I wait for his nod. “Where were you on the day Cary went into the river? Do you remember the date?”

  “How could I forget? But only because of what happened two days later when they found him. To answer your question, I was home with Gus.”

  “Anybody with you?”

  “No. I was busy writing most of the day. I did go out that evening to have dinner with friends.” He pauses. “This might not have anything to do with your case, but I do remember at one time hearing a gunshot coming from the woods.”

  A gunshot? This is something new. Cary wasn’t shot, and as Cyrus surmised, some local guy could have been shooting in the woods just for the hell of it.

  “Where was it coming from?”

  “I’m not sure, but it wasn’t that far away. It could have come from across the road. I don’t own the land there. It’s not unusual to hear people firing off guns around here. People sure love their weapons.” He stops. “It might’ve been late afternoon. The only reason I remember is that I had just let Gus out. When I heard the shot, I got worried, but he came right back when I called him.”

  “That is interesting, but as you said it could have nothing to do with the case,” I say. “How did you hear about Cary’s death?”

  “That Monday, I could see through this window something was happening below on the river. When I went outside to get a better look, a body was being pulled from the waters. I didn’t find out it was Cary until I went to the store. Everybody was talking about it.” He shakes his head. “Such a tragedy.”

  I study Cyrus as he talks. His hands sweep here and there as he makes a point. He seems sincere, but he certainly has had practice performing in front of people.

  “Yes, it was.”

  He raises his head.

  “I did give the eulogy at his funeral. I wanted to do that at least for him.”

  Sure, and throw everybody off by coming off as a nice guy. But, of course, I don’t say that.

  “If you don’t mind, I’d like to backtrack a little. I was talking with your former housekeeper, who told me about an incident a short time before Cary’s death. He was pretty angry when he showed up at your house. Did you call the police?”

  His mouth puckers.

  “What good would that do? I called my lawyer instead. I considered taking out a restraining order against Cary. His visit unnerved me. Well, I didn’t have to go through that after all.”

  I make a mental note of that last comment.

  “Cary’s wife says he left their home suddenly that Saturday when he got a phone call. Was that you?”

  Cyrus’s lips press together into a thin, hard line before he answers.

  “No, it wasn’t from me. But I did call him the night before.”

  Whoa, this is unexpected.

  “What for?”

  “I told him I wanted to meet with him the next day.” He blows out some air. “I said we would talk about more money.”

  “Go on.”

  His shoulders rise in a quick shrug.

  “But he never showed up. He did sound awfully drunk over the phone, but I thought for sure he wouldn’t forget about money.”

  “What time was he going to meet you?”

  “We didn’t set an exact time. He was supposed to come in the afternoon. I left the gate open for him. I gave up when I had to go out.”

  “So, you never saw Cary after that time he showed up here.”

  “No, I didn’t.”

  I study Cyrus’s face for any telltale signs of a lie. It’s hard. I just don’t know the man and what he’s capable of doing. But this bit of information doesn’t clear up who called Cary that day and why he was in such a rush to leave his house. It certainly wasn’t to meet Cyrus. Or was it? Or perhaps Cyrus did call, and he’s lying.

  “Chief Lively told me he searched the woods near your house after he got a call from a family member who was convinced Cary’s death wasn’t a suicide. It was near that cliff. The chief thought it was either on state land or your property. Anyway, he found booze bottles and cigarette butts. He said there was a possibility they were left there the day Cary went missing.”

  “Yes, I remember the police chief calling me about it. I went to check. The trash was definitely on my property. I told my housekeeper to clean up the mess.”

  Carole, the Beaumonts’ second cousin, was still the housekeeper then. I’m going to have to call her about that.

  “Do you remember the spot?”

  He eyes my sling.

  “Yes, I do. If you’re up for a walk, I can show you.”

  I pat my bound-up arm.

  “I’m game. The sling’s almost ready to come off.”

  “It is a rocky location. It might be a bit unsteady underfoot.”

  I wave my free hand.

  “I’m fine.”

  “Well, then, follow us.”

  The dog rises with his master and I follow them through a side door. Cyrus has a long gait, but he walks slower, so we are beside each other. The dog runs ahead, giving chase to something in the woods.

  “Chief Lively says you have a tough time with unwanted visitors,” I say.

  “Writers need fans, but once I got spooked by a young man who came to my door. He seemed rather unhinged. We talked outside for a while. I finally got him to leave by signing the book he had on him. I hadn’t lived here that long. I found out I couldn’t expect that much from the local police department or even the state police, so I had the gate and the no-trespassing signs installed.” He stretches out his arm. “This way.”

  “The chief told me he was just checking out possible spots where Cary could have fallen when he found the bottles. I’m guessing you didn’t hold onto them.”

  Cyrus scoffs.

  “Goodness no. I had my housekeeper toss them out. That was a long time ago.”

  Our feet shuffle through the dry leaves as we veer left. Then, we stop at the edge of the woods where the rocky cliff begins. Here, a few boulders are flat enough for sitting. This is the spot I found that day when I was here with Ma.

  “This it?”

  He points toward the ground near the boulders.

  “Yes.”

  I turn to face the river. I’m a few feet from the edge, where I can watch the heavy flow of water below. When I bend forward, I see a narrow ledge several feet down. I glance briefly back toward the woods.

  The scenario forming in my brain is of Cary holed up here consuming a bit of liquid courage before he faced the Big Shot Poet. He wants more than money but also the recognition he deserves. He feels he was tricked. Plus, he was in a bad frame of mind given he was fired the previous day for drinking on the job. He’s got a kid on the way. Yeah, he would need more money.

  I am semi-deep in thought when I notice Cyrus has moved beside me. His chest lightly touches the back of my right arm. I peer up at him sideways. This is too close for comfort.

  “Does anyone beside you know Cary’s poems are in my book?” he asks.

  His voice has changed. There’s a strain of threat. It’s then that I realize he’s blocked my easy exit from the cliff. What the hell is going on? If Cyrus is indeed Cary’s killer, he could now be mine. It wouldn’t take much for me to lose my balance. I can hear him tell the officer I foolishly got too close to the edge and lost my balance. I am wearing a sling after all.

  Or he could say I went exploring his property on my own.

  “Only my mother,” I lie. “She’s my business associate.”

  “What do you two plan to do with that information?”

  “Uh, do you mind moving back? I’m a little too close to the edge here.”

  But he doesn’t move, and I realize once again I have set myself up for trouble. Dammit, Isabel, you’re smarter than this.

  “I’d like you to answer my question,” he says.

  “I will when you step back.”

  Cyrus gives my arm a slight bump as he finally moves away from me. I stumble on the loose rocks and feel myself tumbling forward, but I steady myself. I shove him aside as I get away from the edge.

  “Sorry, Isabel,” he says. “I didn’t mean to… ”

  Yes, you did, jackass.

  I don’t say anything to Cyrus. This guy is freaking me out. Instead, I give him a killer glare as I march through the woods and the driveway. I march at a very determined clip. It takes him a while to catch on to what I am doing. But then, his feet are chopping through the dead leaves behind me.

  I go faster.

  He calls for me to stop, but I don’t. He whistles for his dog.

  Crap, what’s Cyrus gonna do? Sic his dog on me? Push me to the ground and drag me over the edge of the cliff because he stole Cary’s poems? He’s definitely making me believe he’s guilty as hell.

  “Leave me alone,” I yell.

  I see my car through the trees. But long-legged Cyrus could easily catch me. The last time I moved this fast, I was chasing Eleanor Smith through the woods, and you might remember what happened next. But I get to my car before he does. I lock the doors as Cyrus and his dog emerge from the woods. He holds up his hands as if he’s surrendering or pleading. I don’t care which one. I’m not interested in finding out.

  “I didn’t kill Cary Moore,” he shouts.

  But I don’t answer. I turn the key. Has the Big Shot Poet cleared himself? What do you think?

  Got Her Number

  I’m surprised to see Lisa’s car parked in Jack’s driveway, and even more surprised to find her sunbathing on a lawn chair. She’s naked from the waist up, what the hell, and wearing a bikini bottom from the waist down. But she grabs her shirt to cover up her boobs when she notices me. Jesus, Lisa, it’s not like you have the kind of body you want to show off. You’re older than me.

  Her pink face makes a smirky smile beneath a golf visor. She yanks off the earplugs connected to her phone.

  “Hey, Iz, er, Isabel, nice weather finally,” she says.

  It’s one of those days where the temps have risen to summer-like numbers. The black flies aren’t out yet in full force. Too bad. They’d have plenty to feast on Lisa. Yeah, yeah, I’m being terrible, but I can’t help it with Lisa.

  “Uh-huh,” I say. “Be careful. It looks like you’re starting to get burned.”

  She lifts the shirt for a peek.

  “Eh, who cares?”

  “Okay, then. Jack inside?”

  She flings off her top.

  “Yeah.”

  Jack is indeed inside and on his back beneath the kitchen sink, working on its plumbing, his hobby of late.

  I crouch beside him.

  “Need something?”

  “Yeah, could you hand me that wrench? I’m almost done here.”

  “Here you go.”

  After all those years helping Sam, I know which tool is which. I giggle as Jack swears. I’m used to that, too. Minutes later, he’s scrambling to his feet and grinning at me.

  “Where were you an hour ago? I could’ve used your help,” he jokes.

  Uh, I was almost bumped off a cliff by a pissed-off poet. But I keep that to myself. I’m more angry than afraid about Cyrus’s stunt. Besides, I don’t need a lecture about the dangers of being a P.I. I have proof enough with this stupid sling I’m wearing.

  “I dunno. I’m rather expensive. I charge a high hourly rate.”

  Jack shakes his head, but he can’t lose that grin.

  “That’s not what I hear.”

  Crap, he’s got me giggling.

  “Yeah, I work cheap.” I reach up to give his cheek a pinch. “Just ask my boss.”

  Jack grabs my right arm and swings me toward him for a kiss.

  “Oh, yeah, Isabel?” he asks afterward.

  “Oh, yeah, Jack,” I say. “So, tell me what’s with the bathing beauty outside?”

  “You talkin’ about Lisa? Fred told me last night she’s movin’ in with him for a few days while the floors are getting finished at her folks’ house. The polyurethane stinks somethin’ awful. Plus there’s all that noise the machines make. Why’d you call her that?”

  I hook my thumb toward the kitchen door.

  “Uh, she’s lying on a lawn chair naked from the waist up. Actually, there’s not much else cause she’s wearing the bottom half of a bikini or maybe it’s underwear. I didn’t want to get that close of a look.”

  “Nah, really?” He goes to the window and his head jerks back. “Shit. What’s she doin’ that for?”

  “Seems to me she’s looking for some attention from somebody.”

  Jack is back.

  “Maybe I should tell her to move closer to the road. That’d get her some attention.”

  The giggling starts again. I’m thinking of guys in pickups tooting their horns.

  “Jack, oh … can you hear … the horns … oh.”

  He laughs with me.

 

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