Checking the Traps, page 7
part #3 of Isabel Long Series
“How do you get down there?”
“There’s a ramp that leads to a path, but this ain’t the weather for it. See where Larry’s standin’? It starts near there. But it’s too slippery with this rain and the river this high, especially with your arm like that.”
I nod at Gary.
“Let’s do it another day. I hope to be out of this contraption in a few weeks.”
I squint, trying to find something manmade within the trees. Dammit, this rain is making it harder. Next time I’ll bring binoculars. From a map I found online, the state’s land ends at about the bridge. Private land is downstream. I point with my free hand.
“Is that a roof over there?”
Gary follows my hand.
“Sure looks it. I see smoke comin’ from a chimney.”
“How would you get up there?”
“That road continues past where we parked. It turns to dirt a ways. There are some big-ass second homes some city folk built up there and camps. Victor’s brother has a camp about a mile up.”
Camp is a local word for cabin. That’s what the locals use to get away or go hunting in the fall. Some, presumably Victor Wilson’s brother, live in them year-round. The city folk prefer homes that are larger and grander. Certainly, Sam worked on enough of them, building those ridiculously elaborate staircases they wanted.
“There can’t be a lot of people living up there full time,” I say. “We’ve been here how long and nobody’s driven by. Course, in a couple of months that will change when the park gets going.”
“So, it’d be easy for somethin’ to happen on this bridge this time of year and nobody see it,” Gary says.
“That’s a possibility.”
I pull out my phone and fumble with one hand to get off a shot. This isn’t gonna work.
“Hey, Gary, I need your help.” I show him my phone’s screen. “See that white button there?”
“Yeah.”
“I’m gonna focus on different parts of this river. When I tell you, could you press your finger against it?”
The corner of Gary’s mouth curls upward.
“Sure.”
For the next few minutes, I point and Gary presses. I take photos of the river and the woods around it. We move, so I can shoot the bridge and the road. I check the images. Most will work. Anyway, even before we go on that hike along the river, I plan to bring my mother here to have her check out the place.
“I’m done,” I announce to the brothers. “Do you mind driving up that road? I wanna see what’s there.”
“No trouble at all.” Gary sticks two fingers in his mouth to make a sharp whistle. “Hey, bro, we’re takin’ off.”
First Poems
I put off drawing up my list of contacts and instead dive into the box of Cary’s poems as soon as I get home. But first I had to tell Ma everything about our field trip from what we did on the bridge to what I could see from the road, which wasn’t much since the houses all have long driveways although Gary did point out the one for Victor Wilson’s brother. Mailboxes were on the paved section, where postal delivery typically ends in the sticks. Those on the unpaved section likely don’t live here full time, or if they do, they pick up their mail at the post office or have one of those boxes banked in a line where the asphalt ended.
I brew myself some tea and open the cardboard box on the kitchen table. It’s taped shut and somebody scrawled CARY’S POEMS across the top with a black marker.
“Give me a holler if you find anything interesting in there,” my mother calls from the other room.
“Don’t worry. I will.”
I peel off the tape and lift the flaps. The box contains old-fashioned composition books with mottled black and white covers. Cary wrote on the front of each, bless him, the dates he began and finished and what I fathom is a title in a draftsman-like print. I count seven and spread them on the table in order. Here are their names: The Early Ones, Book Deuce, Thrice, Home for Me, Red Tail and Others, Country Boy, and The Hired Hand.
I take a quick peek. Some books are more filled with writing than others. A few are a bit battered or stained, likely by coffee. One, Country Boy, has a charred corner as if it had caught fire.
Loose papers are on the bottom of the box, and interestingly, a copy of Cyrus Nilsson’s book, Deep Blue, which has this inscription on the cover leaf: To Cary, an aspiring poet. I also find two books by Robert Frost, one by William Butler Yeats, and another by Carl Sandburg. Here and there, Cary has underlined sections. He’s starred the poems he liked.
I go for Cary’s oldest book, The Early Ones, and flip through the pages. Most of the poems are short. Here’s the first, called “Cherie.”
I love my wife
She’s the best of my life.
She’s got hair that’s gold
And a face that’s not old.
She makes my food
And all things good.
I am a lucky sir
To know her.
Yup, it’s rather childish. As I go from page to page, so are most of the poems in this book, but they are the early ones. He even wrote a couple of limericks, including a raunchy one about his brothers. A couple are take-offs from Dr. Seuss. The poems are written with a neat hand, so I am guessing Cary copied them from somewhere else. He includes a dedication, to Cherie, of course. I smile at his author bio: Cary Moore is a highway worker by day and a poet by night in the hilltowns of Western Massachusetts.
I pat the notebook’s cover. People do have to start somewhere, even poets. This book tells me this guy wasn’t a lout. Cary thought and put words together. He was clearly in love with his wife. I am guessing they were newly married by the date on the front. He was also influenced by the poetry he read as a kid because every one of them rhymes.
I eye the other books on the table. I plan to read them in sequence. I will also talk with the people who knew him, so I get the broadest picture possible.
What inspired Cary to write poetry? When did he write? Why? I can think of about twenty other questions, and there is only one person who can answer them.
I glance at the clock. It’s close to four.
Ma peers up from her book.
“You find something already?” she asks.
“No, no, but I’ve decided who I want to talk with first. Cherie,” I say. “By the way, I think you’re overdue for a haircut.”
My mother smiles. When she lived back home, as she calls it, she had her hair done once a week, a wash and set most times, and a cut every six weeks. She went to the same place for years. The woman did my hair for my high school senior prom, which tells you how long she’s been in business. But weekly trips to the beauty parlor, as Ma calls it, hasn’t happened since she moved in with me last year. I take her to a salon in the city, where she complains about the cost, especially since I treat her. Maybe Cherie’s Beauty Shop will be more to her liking.
I run upstairs to check Gary’s list hanging on my Isabel Long CSI wall next to a print of his brother’s photo. I add two names: Bob Montgomery, the retired state trooper who lives in Conwell, and Jeff Murray, who used to own Titus Grocery. I scribble park ranger with a question mark. Cary died on a Saturday. It was too early for campers, but somebody could have been on duty that day.
My notes from that cold case file, plus clippings for Cary Moore’s obit and the news brief are tacked up next to the large map of the hilltowns I used in the last two cases.
I dial Cherie’s number. The phone rings, and I’m figuring a machine is going to pick up when a woman answers.
“Cherie’s Beauty Shop,” she says.
I introduce myself.
“Your brother-in-law, Gary, said he left a message about me. He’s asked me to look into your late husband’s death.”
“Oh, that. I don’t… ”
I get the feeling she’s going to cut me off like I’m some annoying telemarketer, so I move fast.
“I heard you cut hair very well. My mother needs a cut, wash, and style. I was hoping I could set up an appointment, and we could talk then. I don’t want to take time away from your business.”
“Talk.”
“Gary gave me a box of your husband’s poems. I’d like to ask you some questions about them.”
“Poems. I, uh, don’t… ”
“This could be a way you can get to know me, and if you feel comfortable, we could talk more about Cary another time. It would help my case. By the way, Gary is hiring me for this case. I’m not expecting any money from you.”
Cherie lets go of a long sigh. I’m trying to figure out which woman I will be meeting: the sweet young thing Gary claims his brother married or the fallen woman who got herself into trouble at the Rooster. Or is she a combination of both?
“Why’s he doin’ this?”
“Gary? My guess is he loved his brother and wants to know for sure what happened to him. He doesn’t believe the official story.” I soften my voice. “Do you?”
“I just dunno.”
Hooray. I just got my toe in the door.
“Maybe talking would help.”
Silence.
“Alright.” There’s more silence on the line. “Were you serious about your mother?”
“Yes, I am. She needs a haircut really badly. I wouldn’t say this to her face, of course. I wouldn’t want to hurt her feelings. She’s ninety-three.”
Cherie makes a slight gasp that could count as a laugh. Humor was always a part of my arsenal as a reporter.
“I have an opening at nine tomorrow. That work for you?”
That’s early to get Ma out of the house, but I’m gonna take it.
“It does. See you then.”
When I go downstairs, Ma glances up and marks a place in her book with a finger.
“How’d you make out?”
“Just fine. You’re getting a haircut tomorrow. It means you’ll have to get up earlier than usual. Your appointment is at nine.”
“Nine?” Ma laughs. “Well, all for a good cause I suppose.”
The Car
Ma goes to bed early for her, which is midnight instead of one a.m., and she’s up early for her, before eight. I admire her dedication to solving mysteries, I joke as we get in the car. Or more likely, she’s excited to be getting her hair done again. Besides, afterward we are visiting Annette at Rough Waters Junkyard to check out the car, red, of course, she thinks Ma might like. My visit to Rough Waters is two-fold. I’m betting Annette knew Cary Moore and could give me some inside info, considering he’s originally from Caulfield. Yes, I added her to my list of contacts.
Following Cherie’s directions, I go the back way from Conwell to Titus, which means I’ll pass Jack’s house. Jack called yesterday to say he was taking Fred out for steak at a restaurant in the city to celebrate a job well done. He sounded pretty damn proud of himself over the phone, and he should be. The Rooster’s main room has two fresh coats of paint and everything will be back in place when the bar reopens tonight. The plumbing got fixed in the men’s room. Jack joked, “I got one of those toilets with a bulls-eye in the bottom, so maybe those guys will have a better aim.”
I told him I would see for myself when I stop by tonight. Have a fun time with Fred, I said.
As I approach the edge of Jack’s land, I hit the brakes and slow the car when I spot a car in the driveway, Lisa’s car, to be exact, parked beside Jack’s pickup. Fred’s is gone. The dogs are barking their heads off on the front porch to be let inside.
Shoot, what’s that woman doing here?
“Looks like Jack’s got company,” Ma says.
“Looks it.”
“Those aren’t Massachusetts license plates on that car, are they?”
Damn, Ma’s got good eyes.
“Uh-huh, the car’s from South Carolina. It belongs to Jack’s ex-wife. I told you about her.”
“Isn’t it kind of early for a visit?”
“Or she was here overnight.”
The words slip from my mouth before I think them through. I can’t hide how I’m feeling. A little worry mixed in with something else. Suspicion? Jealousy? Hold on, Isabel. Take it easy. Take a deep breath. You learned as a reporter not to jump to conclusions. Get the facts first. There could be a reasonable explanation Lisa’s car is parked next to Jack’s pickup eight-thirty in the morning.
“Oh, Isabel, I hope that’s not true.”
I sigh.
“Tell me about it.”
Cherie Moore
Cherie’s Beauty Shop is located inside what used to be a garage off her ranch-style home. Somebody, perhaps Cary, did a nice job replacing the garage door with a wall and two large windows. The entrance is through the breezeway connecting it, a handmade sign says, and the house, which is painted a rather bright shade of pink.
Cherie is inside, straightening up her workstation when we enter. She’s one those small-boned women who’s skinny enough to wear teenagers’ clothes. Her hair is short and obviously dyed blond, likely the color she had as a girl. I’m guessing she’s in her thirties. When she smiles, she looks prettier than when she doesn’t even though the smile she gives Ma and me is a bit hesitant. I don’t blame the woman. She didn’t ask me to investigate the death of her husband. After six years, she must have moved on.
She walks over. Her head tips to one side as we go over the usual glad-to-meet-you pleasantries.
“Are you ready, Maria?” she asks my mother.
Ma is studying the pink-painted walls with the photos of women glancing over their shoulders with big smiles because they are so damn pleased with their new hair-dos. The beauty shop has the usual equipment – a sink, chair, and mirrors behind a workstation covered with an assortment of beautifying tools. It’s obvious this is a one-woman operation.
Ma smiles.
“I feel so at home here,” she says.
Cherie nods.
“Why don’t you have a seat?” she says. “We can talk about what you’d like me to do today.”
Ma hands me her purse.
“That would be nice,” she says.
For the next several minutes, I leave Cherie and Ma alone. There’s a leatherette couch to the side, where I choose to sit. I don’t want to make Cherie uncomfortable hovering behind her. Besides, it’s a good spot to watch her talk with my mother about how short she wants her hair, not too much, and would she like to change her style, no. Then, they’re at the sink.
“This water’s not too hot, is it?”
“No, no, it’s just right,” my mother answers.
All I can say is I’m in deep trouble if I find out Cherie killed her husband. Ma would never believe it. She answers all of Cherie’s questions with a cheery note to her voice as she gets her hair shampooed and conditioned. They’re the usual questions you ask a stranger like where you live, who you live with, etc., you get the picture. I’m not surprised at Ma’s reaction. Cherie’s Beauty Shop reminds her of the salon in her hometown where she went for years until she moved in with me. This is nothing like the fancy-shmancy place, Ma’s words, not mine, that I’ve taken her to in the city.
Ma looks up from the sink.
“This is a very nice place,” she says. “Do you and your little girl live here alone?”
Ma’s voice is so friendly, I am certain Cherie couldn’t take offense. That question makes me so happy I feel like hugging her, but instead I wait for Cherie’s answer.
“It’s just me and Helen.” She reaches for a towel. “I like it that way.”
Cherie wraps a towel around Ma’s head and guides her to the chair. She glances over her shoulder.
“You wanted to ask me about my Cary?” she asks.
I smile when she says “my Cary.” She was his golden girl and a lot of other sweet things in that first book of poems.
“First, how do you feel about my investigating your husband’s death?”
Cherie concentrates on combing my mother’s hair into sections.
“I heard Gary’s message about you, but I didn’t pick up.” She holds a strand of hair upward as she cuts the ends with a neat snip. “He’s been thinking all along that my Cary didn’t kill himself, that somebody else was responsible.”
“Today, I only want to ask you a few questions about Cary’s poetry.”
Through the mirror, I see her smile back at me.
“You’re interested in his poetry?”
“Gary brought over the box containing your husband’s notebooks and papers for me to borrow. I’ve only gone through the first one, but it got me thinking about why he wrote poetry. There aren’t many men around here who do it.”
“Cary was a good student in school. He said he might’ve wanted to go to college, but that wasn’t gonna happen with his folks.” She raises the scissors. “He was the first in his family to graduate from high school. Do you believe that?”
Yes, I do.
“When did Cary start writing?”
She combs and cuts my mother’s hair as she talks.
“When we were going out, he’d write me mushy things on cards and notes. I have those somewhere,” she says. “I think he got ideas for poems when he was drivin’ truck for the town, especially when he was plowin’ in the winter. He’d keep his eyes on the road, but his mind would wander. He started keepin’ a notebook in the cab of his truck, and on his breaks, he scribbled stuff down.” She laughs. “The other guys on the crew kidded him about it, but he didn’t care.”
“When did he write?”
“At night usually, on the weekends some. He did it at the kitchen table. He wrote on paper. He didn’t use a typewriter or computer. When he was finished with a poem, he’d write it down in one of his notebooks.”
“Did he show you his poems?”
“All the time. He read them out loud, too. They changed over the years. You’ll see. They get more serious.”
“One of the notebooks looks like it caught on fire.”
“I came home one day and saw Cary throwing it into the woodstove. I grabbed the book and put out the fire. I think he was going to burn ’em all. He wouldn’t tell me why, but he was upset about somethin’.”
