Checking the Traps, page 9
part #3 of Isabel Long Series
He swipes a jacket and cap from the chair beside his desk and drops them on the floor.
He eyes my sling.
“Hurt much?”
“Only when I laugh,” I joke. “And when it rains. It’s getting better. I hope to lose this thing soon.”
“Heard that was some driving you were doin’ that day, Isabel. Maybe I should hire you.”
“Thanks for the offer, Stan, but I don’t think I could manage those big trucks you guys drive. Besides, I did end up crashing my mother’s car.”
Stan offers me a cup of coffee, but I decline. I’ve had the coffee here. I wouldn’t want to offend the man, but it’s two times stronger and three times worse than the stuff in the backroom of the Conwell General Store, which says a lot. This is the kind of stuff that will keep you up all night plowing.
“You said you wanted to talk about Cary Moore.”
“Uh-huh, I want to learn more about the man. He probably spent more time with you and the other guy on the crew than he did with his family.” I pull out a notebook, which I feel is a less obtrusive approach than recording with my phone. “Mind if I take notes?”
He waves a hand.
“Go ahead.”
“Just to be clear, this conversation is strictly off the record.”
Stan nods and gets up to close the office door. He slides shut the window overlooking the garage’s bays. He obviously doesn’t want anybody overhearing our conversation.
“I trust you, Isabel.”
Yes, we have a history. But I’ll start off with a softball question.
“How long did Cary Moore work for you?”
“Almost nine years.”
“Was he a good worker?”
Stan doesn’t answer right away. He makes a sound in the back of his throat.
“I’m gonna tell you somethin’ I’ve been keepin’ to myself all this time.” His chest does a slow rise and fall beneath his denim work shirt. “It ain’t been easy.”
I stop writing.
“Take your time.”
“Okay, here goes. I fired Cary the day before he died.”
“Oh.”
“It was the second time I caught him drinkin’ on the job. The first was a year before. I knew the man had a problem. He promised to clean up his act, and he did for a while. Or at least I didn’t catch him at it.” He frowns. “I just couldn’t give him another chance. My job would’ve been on the line, never mind if he did something stupid with a piece of equipment.”
“How did he take it?”
“As you can imagine, not well. He started crying. He said he’d do better. He made all kinds of promises. I sure felt like shit cause he and Cherie were gonna have that baby. But I couldn’t let it go. Twice was enough.”
“You said you’ve been keeping this to yourself.”
He nods.
“You’re the only other person who knows. I didn’t even tell my wife,” he says. “I hadn’t put in the paperwork yet, so as far as the town goes, Cary was still working on the highway crew when he died.” He shakes his head. “You can imagine how I felt when I heard he jumped off that bridge the next day. I still feel that way when I run into Cherie and their girl.” His head keeps moving. “I send them money at Christmas. Anonymously. It ain’t been easy for Cherie although she appears to be in a better place now.”
I would say a lot better than when she was sleeping with Victor Wilson.
“She told me she found, uh, religion.”
“You saw her already?”
“Yesterday. I wanted her to be aware of what I’m doing. We didn’t go very deep. I’ll find another time for that.”
“I wish I could take it all back,” Stan says. “But I can’t.”
I give Stan a moment before I launch my next questions. He was just a guy doing his job, a decent guy, I will add.
“Did you happen to call him at home the day he died? I was told he left his house in a rush after he got a phone call.”
“It wasn’t me.”
As I study Stan’s pained expression, I decide I’ll keep this part of our conversation to myself, at least for now. He was only doing what he had to do as the town’s road boss when he fired Cary Moore. I sure as hell won’t mention it to Gary. I could see him losing it. Anyway, I have other people to meet before I come to any conclusions about his brother’s death.
But this bit of news doesn’t help Gary’s theory.
“Maybe Cary didn’t commit suicide,” I say. “That’s what his brother thinks.”
Stan nods.
“I don’t like Gary Beaumont one bit. Not many people do. He and his brother are bad news. But I hope he’s right on this one.”
“If he is, do you have any ideas who could be responsible?”
“No, I don’t. Except for the drinkin’ part, he was a hard worker. He was well liked in town.” Stan pauses. “He was really into that poetry of his. He’d show me that stuff he wrote. I didn’t get some of it. But I could tell he had somethin’ goin’ on between those two ears.” He snorts a soft laugh. “I used to call him the Redneck Poet. He liked that.”
“The Redneck Poet?”
“He even wrote one about me.” He points toward a paper tacked to the wall above his desk. “He called me the Peerless Plowman.”
“Mind if I take a look?”
“Go right ahead.”
I stand so I can read the poem. Yes, Cary handwrote it. I take a photo with my phone.
Here’s “The Peerless Plowman.”
Night and day the Peerless Plowman sees the road ahead.
He drives alone
Pushing snow aside with his truck’s long blade.
No harm will come to those who follow.
The Peerless Plowman watches the weather.
Hey, guys, a storm front’s moving in, he tells us,
Get the trucks ready before it does.
We can’t let the people down.
I glance back at Stan. He wipes away a tear.
“That’s quite the tribute,” I say.
“He was kinda shy when he handed it to me. I remember what he said at the time, ‘Here you go, boss. Thought you might like it.’ I told him I did.” He pauses. “But back to your question. My educated guess is that it might have somethin’ to do with his brothers’ business. Makes sense, doesn’t it?”
“Well, it’s my job to find out.”
Paul the Ranger
My mother is ready to go on our field trip to the bridge in Titus after I return from my meeting with Stan Gifford aka the Peerless Ploughman. She and I don’t plan to do much walking, but I want Ma to see the spot and what’s around it, so she has a real good feel for the place. I did show her the photos I took the day I went with the Beaumont brothers, but that’s not enough. I need her help to keep my winning streak alive.
“When are those trees going to open their leaves?” Ma asks in the car. “Your brother says it’s already happening back home.”
“We live higher up than there, about a thousand feet more,” I say. “Don’t worry. It’ll happen.”
My mother laughs.
“I’m not worried. I’m just sick and tired of seeing brown all the time.”
“You won’t get an argument from me. There’s the sign for the Titus State Park. We’re gonna turn here.”
I keep going until we reach the bridge. It would be too much if I park where Gary did the other day and make my mother walk. The bridge is wide enough, so I’m going to stop right here. I step around to get the door for my mother and offer her my free hand.
“You sure it’s okay to leave the car here? I’m not an invalid, Isabel.”
“We’re fine. Not many people come to the park this time of year. Watch your step, Ma.”
The West Branch of the Brookfield River is cranking just like the day I was here with the Beaumont brothers. Further downstream, a fisherman in waders works the waters with his pole and line. But Ma and I aren’t interested in him. Like me she notices the significant drop from the bridge immediately.
“I don’t think anyone would survive a fall like that,” she says. “That’s real rocky down there.”
“I agree.” I point. “If you follow my hand, that’s where Cary’s body was found.”
“In those boulders? Too bad that’s so far away. I don’t think I could walk there. The ground looks too rough.”
“With my arm like this, neither could I.”
Ma’s head swivels as she studies the river and the woods around it. She bends to examine the bridge’s metal framework. She knocks on the metal.
“There’s no way that iron would give way,” she says.
She eyes the woods to the left of the river. I tell her what’s up there.
“I was thinking of driving into the park,” I tell her. “Let’s see if I can find a ranger.”
“Sure. I’ve seen enough.”
The park’s gate is open, and surprise, a guy in uniform is leaving the ranger station. I park the car.
“I’ll be right back,” I tell Ma.
I recognize the ranger immediately when he turns my way. His name is Paul Roberts, and it’s my good luck he lives in Conwell. Actually, we are acquaintances. One of his boys went to school with my boys. He was an assistant coach on their baseball team.
I smile and make my approach.
“Hey, Isabel, I haven’t seen you in a long time,” Paul greets me.
“Yeah, it’s been a while. How’s the family?”
“Everybody’s doin’ just fine,” he says. “I see your arm’s in a sling. I heard about that crash. You okay?”
“Yes, I’m fine. It could’ve been a whole lot worse.”
“What brings you here today? Nothin’s goin’ on right now.”
Paul has a full beard, which is graying like his hair, and one of those friendly faces that makes me think he’s about to tell a good joke. But now isn’t the time for that.
“I’m actually here on business.”
“Business?”
“You might’ve heard I’m working as a private investigator.” I can tell from his face he has. “Gary Beaumont hired me to look into his brother’s death. Did you happen to be working here when Cary Moore’s body was found in the river?”
“Sure was. We were getting ready for the season. Lots to do this time of year,” he says. “The fisherman who found him had me call it in. Cell phones were kinda useless up here in those days.”
“Do you have any time to talk about it?”
“Right now? Sure. Come inside.” He bends to look inside my car. “You have somebody with you?”
“My mother. Let me get her. She helps me on these cases.”
“I heard that, too.”
The air is cold and damp inside the unheated ranger station. We sit at a desk behind the counter where people pay for camping passes and get information. I’m going to make this quick for my mother’s sake.
“The cops say Cary Moore jumped to his death a couple of days before his body was found,” I say. “What do you recall about it?”
“I wasn’t workin’ that weekend. My youngest son was playin’ ball for his college team, and his game was close enough to drive to. But I stopped at the park on the way back just to check on things. That’s when I noticed a pickup truck in that turnoff. When I got a closer look, I recognized it was Cary’s from that wooden bumper on the back. He made it himself.” He nods as he recalls. “I figured it must’ve broken down, and Cary left it there. But I cut him a break. If the pickup had been there Monday when I came to work, I planned to call him to get it outta there. I was just about to when that fisherman found his body.”
“Tell me about that.”
“After I called the cops, I went to the spot with the guy. I saw it was Cary right off the bat even with his injuries.”
“Did you know him well?”
“Sure. He was my brother-in-law.”
“Your brother-in-law?”
“Yeah, Cherie’s my sister.”
I give Ma a glance as I let that set in. Who would’ve thought Paul would have a personal connection to the case? But then again, this is the hilltowns where families are like roots in a forest.
“What did you think of Cary?”
“He was an okay guy. Nothing like his brothers.”
“Gary doesn’t think it was a suicide.”
“Yeah, Gary came in here one time, rantin’ about it. He was a complete asshole.” He turns toward my mother. “Sorry, ma’am.”
“Not excusing his poor manners, I believe Gary is frustrated by his brother’s death,” I say.
“But threatenin’ my ass doesn’t help.” He gives my mother another apologetic nod. “He made me kinda nervous.”
“Been there, done that. Gary’s a lot nicer to me now.”
My mother clears her throat.
“Do many people commit suicide at the bridge?” she asks.
Good one, Ma.
“There’s a history here. I don’t have a number, but my guess is there haven’t been enough to put in one of those call boxes, so people can talk with somebody to get help. They won’t even put up a sign with information like that. We’ve only had one since Cary’s death, a woman. She was from out of state like some of the others. I dunno how she found the place. It’s not as bad as some other bridges, thank God, like the Golden Gate in San Francisco or that one in New Mexico. But some people get it in their heads… I wish they wouldn’t.”
I glance at Ma to see if she’s satisfied, and she nods.
“Do you remember anything else about that day?” I ask. “Maybe somebody said something afterward about what they saw?”
Paul stops for a moment. He’s thinking back.
“One woman called the office to say she saw a man hitchin’ on the main road the same day Cary was supposed to have jumped. But she wasn’t from around here and couldn’t give a good description.”
“Hmm, that’s interesting.”
“Isabel, sorry, but I was about to head out. Let me think about this some more and get back to you. Alright?”
I nod.
“If you don’t mind. Who lives in that house overlooking the river? I believe it’s the first driveway on the road. It’s long and through the trees, so the house wasn’t visible from the road. But when I was standing on the bridge, I could see it was huge and had lots of windows.”
“I know which one you’re talkin’ about. It belongs to some famous poet. He used to live in Penfield, next door to Cherie and Cary, but he had this house built. I’ve run into him a few times when he’s been walkin’ his dog. His name’s Cyrus.”
“Cyrus Nilsson and, yes, he is kind of a big shot poet.”
“He claimed people kept botherin’ him in Penfield. He likes his privacy.”
Ha, Mr. Big Shot Poet, I’m going to find a way to invade your privacy.
I fish for a business card in my jacket pocket. The cards were a gift from Ruth, which amuses me since she doesn’t approve of my being a P.I.
“Thanks, Paul. Here’s how you can reach me.”
The Country Plowboys
I make a beeline for the men’s room at the Rooster after I ask Jack to tie my apron and I say howdy to Carole. I joke, “Keep a lookout for me, will you, Jack?”
“Uh, Isabel, if you gotta go, the ladies’ room’s the other way,” he jokes back.
But Jack is aware of what I’m doing. I want to check out his handiwork and to see if any of the guys have left their mark already on the men’s room wall. When I first started working here, I poked my head inside just to see for myself what this room looked like. Sam had warned me it could get ripe in there. I held my breath and did a bit of speed reading on the walls. By my observation, guys were obsessed with their trucks, the sizes of men and women’s anatomies, sports, of course, plus some red, white, and blue. Some just left their name as if they were claiming this spot as their own. Of course, there were lots of obscenities.
My favorite? “My truck is bigger than your truck.”
Jack finished painting this room Wednesday. Two days later, the new graffiti has already begun. Jack expected it. Somebody wrote: “Yankees suck.” Somebody else wrote: “You suck.” Then, it gets a whole lot raunchier. I bet you can guess how. There’s more to read, but one of the Rooster True Blue Regulars comes up beside me. The place isn’t officially open, but he’s here anyway.
“Do you mind, Isabel?” he says with a laugh. “I gotta take a piss.”
“Go right ahead, but you might wanna shut the door,” I joke. “And don’t forget to wash your hands.”
“Very funny, Isabel.”
Jack motions me to come behind the counter.
“I’ve got somethin’ to show you,” he says. “I forgot all about it. Here you go.”
Jack hands me a paper. I immediately recognize Cary Moore’s handwriting. It’s a poem he called “The Barman.” It’s a lot more sophisticated than his second book of poetry, aptly named Book Deuce, which I read this afternoon after Ma and I returned from our field trip and before I got myself ready for work. Cary got heavy into rhyming with Book Deuce. Sometimes it works, a lot of the time it doesn’t. They remind me of the poems I read when I was a kid in elementary school. It appears Cary read them, too.
But here’s “The Barman.”
What’ll it be tonight, boys?
The barman asks each one.
Give me some hope in a bottle.
Give me courage.
Give me love.
The barman laughs.
Sorry, boys, it’s only beer.
He even signed the bottom.
“I like it a lot,” I tell Jack. “You should frame it and hang it behind the bar. Want me to do that for you?”
Jack’s face squeezes into an amused squint.
“Really, Isabel?”
“Yeah, really, Jack. Let me put it in my bag.”
Typical for a Friday night with music, the Rooster draws a full house. Tonight’s band is the Country Plowboys. I saw them play at Baxter’s a while back when I was on a reconnaissance mission to meet the Beaumont brothers for my last case. The band’s members consist of guys who drive plow trucks. Shoot, this might be my lucky night. Maybe they knew Cary Moore. I will have to figure out when I can talk with them. I can’t do it on the band’s break. The bar’s too busy for that. Thirsty dancers want more booze. Besides, there are too many ears in this joint to hold a private conversation even if I followed them outside with the smokers. I’ll just have to catch them after they’re done playing.
