Dry Stone Walls, page 14
“Mr. Mayor, I’m investigating the murder of Andrew Wilson, the real estate —“
“Yes, I know who Mr. Wilson was,” the Mayor said. “I met the man. I must say I’m not surprised somebody killed him. He was thoroughly unpleasant.”
“Well, the police have arrested Max Beasley for the murder,” Tru said. “Max’s lawyer has hired me to investigate.”
“Are you a detective?”
“I was,” Tru said. “For many years I was a homicide detective with the New York City Police Department. I’ve retired now.”
“I see. Well, how can I help you?”
“I’m talking to people who know Max, to find out if anyone dislikes him enough to frame him for a murder.”
“Well,” Bennett said, sitting back in his chair, “Max is not the easiest guy to get along with.”
“How so?”
“He’s lived here for five years,” Bennett said. “I’ve been Mayor for all five of those years. Max comes to every town meeting and he’s very vocal about how things should be done. He’s not shy about telling people when he thinks they’re wrong, or when they’re stupid.”
“So, you’re saying he’s made a lot of enemies?”
“I’m saying he hasn’t made many friends.”
Tru shifted in his chair, leaned forward.
“That’s not the story I’ve gotten from other people I’ve spoken to, Mayor.”
“Well, Mr. Lewis,” the Mayor said, “people in small towns don’t like to talk to strangers. They’ll bad mouth each other behind their backs, and to their faces, but not to strangers.”
Tru sat back. So all his interviews that day were for nothing. Everybody had been lying to him? Because he was a stranger?
“Mayor,” he asked, “are there any people in town that you would say hate Max?”
“Well,” Bennett said, “when Andy Wilson first came to town and started buying land, people were excited. They thought a company like Wilson realty coming to Hennessy might breathe new life into it. Max, however, felt the opposite. He was dead set against it. There were shouting matches at town meetings. Some people are feeling like Max might have cost them some money.”
“Jesus,” Tru said, “I haven’t heard any of this. Guess I’ve been talking to the wrong people.”
“No,” Bennett said, “they were talking to the wrong person.”
“Then maybe I’m talking to the right person now,” Tru said. “I need a list of people who were at odds with Max over the real estate thing.”
“I can do that but I hate pointing the finger at anyone —“
“You won’t be,” Tru said, “that’ll be my job.”
“Okay.”
“I do have a question for you, though, that I’ve asked other people.”
“Okay, I’ll do my best.”
“How well do you know Julie Beasley?”
“Julie volunteers quite a bit here in town,” he said. “She hasn’t held any offices, but most people know her.”
“I understand she almost got married some years back.”
“Yes,” Bennett said, “but the guy bolted. Got cold feet, I guess.”
“I heard Julie blamed her father.”
“Well, she did, for a while. Max made no secret of the fact he didn’t like Bill Granger, didn’t want Julie to marry him. Julie seemed to think he did something, or said something, that made Granger run.”
“What kind of man was Granger?” Tru asked.
“He came to town, set himself up as a furniture maker. When he and Julie started seeing each other, people thought it was a good match.”
“But not Max.”
“No, not Max.”
“How angry was Julie?”
“She didn’t speak to him for over a year.”
“And then?”
“And then she did, and she moved him in with her.”
“And when was that?”
“Oh, about five years ago. She said she was worried about him living alone in Richmond.”
“Did he have a house there?”
“He did. He sold it.”
Tru fell silent for a long moment.
“You’re not thinking Julie had anythin’ to do with the murder, are you?”
“Does anybody in town know where Bill Granger went?” Tru asked, instead of answering the question.
“Not that I know of.”
“No forwarding address?”
“You could check with our postmaster, but I don’t think so.”
“I think I’ll do that.”
FIFTY
According to the Postmaster, Bill Granger left no forwarding address. That was unusual. In Tru’s business-his old business—that usually meant that somebody did not want to be found.
Tru decided he needed to find out as much as he could about Bill Granger. Outside the post office he sat in the car and called Chief Powell.
“Tru,” Powell said, “I’m gonna start demanding part of your fee.”
“I’ll give you all of it if we can get Max out from under this charge,” Tru said.
“What can I do?”
“How much do you know about Bill Granger?”
“Bill Granger?”
“Yes, he was the guy —“
“I know who he was,” Powell said. “Why the sudden interest in him?”
“I finally talked with the Mayor of Hennessy, who gave me a totally different picture of Max.”
“Well,” Powell said, “you gotta remember that Bennett is a politician. Max hated politicians.”
“And I understand Max was very vocal about things and people he didn’t like.”
“I’d say that was true.”
“Did you know Max when he lived in Richmond?”
“I knew him a bit,” Powell said. “After all, he’s been around here a long time, but I got to know him better when he moved to Hennessy.”
“And how well did you know Granger?”
“Not well,” Powell said. “I know he had a furniture business in Hennessy, I know he and Julie started seeing each other and eventually, he popped the question.”
”What did Max have against Granger?”
“I can’t say, for sure,” Powell said.
“Well, was it an immediate dislike?” Tru asked. “Or did he just come to dislike him the more he knew him? Could he have known him before they both came to Hennessy?”
“I can’t answer all those questions, Tru,” Powell said, “but I can ask around, see if my people know anything.”
”Okay, do that,” Tru said. “I’d appreciate anything you can find out for me.”
“I’ll call when I know something.”
“Thanks.”
Tru broke the connection. He decided to see if he could find out where Granger’s store was. Maybe he could talk to some neighbors. He drove around town, figuring if he didn’t find anything he’d go back to City Hall. As it turned out, there were quite a few empty storefronts in town, and one had a faded FURNTURE sign above the door. It was a brick building that was either two stories high, or had exceptionally high ceilings.
He parked in front and got out. On the front door he saw a faded phone number, and above it the words GRANGER FURNITURE, with the “E” and “R” almost worn away.
He tried the door and was not surprised to find it locked. Peering through the grime encrusted windows he saw the empty interior, with a few pieces of broken furniture strewn about.
He walked around to the side of the building, which seemed to have a small loading dock with steps leading up to an overhead door. That one was locked, as well.
This store was on a corner lot, so there was a neighboring store on one side, behind it, and across the street from it.
First he went next door. As he stepped inside he was assailed by the different scents in the air, as the store was a candle shop.
“Good-afternoon.”
“Hello.”
“Visiting our little town?” the middle-aged woman behind the counter asked.
“I am,” Tru said, deciding on the spur of the moment to play tourist. “I was interested in looking at some furniture, but I notice the shop next door is closed.”
“Oh yes,” the woman said, “it was closed when I first opened.”
“So then you didn’t know the furniture maker personally?”
“Oh, no,” she said. “Can I show you some candles?”
“Are there other furniture builders in town?”
“Yes,” she said. “You can go and look on River Street. There’s a man there who’s lived here a long time.”
“Okay,” Tru said, “thank you.”
Tru left the shop, stopped just outside the door. It was afternoon and he was hungry. Both cafes in town served lunch, but there was one right on River Street. He decided to forgo talking to the other neighbors a while, got in his car and drove to River Street.
***
The Harvest House Café was situated right across the street from the River Street Furniture Company. He decided to eat first, and then cross over and talk to the furniture maker. Maybe he’d have some information about his competitor.
“Help ya, honey?” a middle-aged black waitress asked.
“Oh, uh,” Tru said, picking up the menu and giving it a quick look, “I’ll have the panini melt.”
“Fries?”
“That’s fine, and coffee.”
“Comin’ up.”
“Excuse me,” he said, before she could walk away.
“Yeah?”
“Do you know the man from the furniture shop across the street?”
“I know the man and the woman,” she said. “They’re a married couple.”
“Have they been there long?”
“Oh yeah,” she said, “long time.”
“Do they eat here?”
“Sometimes.”
“Are they in here now?”
“No.” There were about eight tables in the whole place, and five of them were occupied. She seemed to be the only waitress.
“Okay, thanks,” he said.
“I’ll be right back with that coffee.”
He sat back in his chair, studied the store across the street through the front window.
FIFTY-ONE
The panini was fine, the fries a little limp, and coffee a little weak, but he wouldn’t be hungry for a while.
As he left the café and crossed to the River Street Furniture Company he saw somebody in the doorway, turning the OPEN sign to the CLOSED side. A lot of the shops in town closed at four, many of them made their own days and hours.
When he reached the door he knocked on the glass, hoping they hadn’t already slipped out the back door.
A woman in her fifties came out of the back room, walked to the door and pointed at the CLOSED sign.
“I don’t want to buy anything,” he said, loudly. “I just want to talk to you and your husband.”
Looking annoyed she once again pointed at the CLOSED sign.
“Chief Powell sent me over!” he lied.
She frowned, unlocked the door and opened it an inch.
“What’s that?”
“I’m investigating the murder of Andrew Wilson,” he said. “I’m sure you’ve heard about it.”
“’course I have,” she said. “We don’t have murders around here.”
“Well, I’m trying to clear Max Beasley of the charges.”
“Why?” she asked. “If Max killed him he should pay.”
“Ma’am, could I talk to you and your husband for just a few minutes?”
“Molly! What the hell is goin’ on?” a man’s voice bellowed. He appeared from the back room, a big man with a huge belly and a long red beard.
“This man wants to talk about the murder,” she said, “and Max Beasley.”
“And Bill granger!” Tru called out.
“What the hell!” The man said. “Let him in, damn it!”
“Come in,” she said, swinging the door wide. She locked it behind him, then turned and folded her arms.
“What’s this about Granger?” the man asked.
“My name’s Truxton Lewis,” Tru said.
“I’m Larry Farrell,” the man said. “That’s my wife Molly.”
“Did you know Bill Granger when he had a shop in town?” Tru asked.
“We knew him,” Farrell said.
“It’s hard not to know everybody in town,” his wife said.
“Was he a friend?” Tru asked. “Or just a competitor?”
“He wasn’t a friend,” Larry said.
“And not much of a competitor.”
“Molly!”
“Well, he wasn’t,” she whined. “The quality of his work wasn’t even close to yours.”
Tru looked around. There were pieces every-where, most of them bare wood; book cases, chairs, tables, one highboy that looked as if it had been freshly stained. It had a SOLD sign on it.
“She’s my wife,” Larry said. “That makes her a little prejudiced.”
“Also,” she said, “Granger was an asshole.”
“In what way?”
She looked at her husband, who said, “Go ahead. You started, you might as well finish.”
“He was a womanizer,” Molly said.
“He was?” Tru looked at Larry for confirmation.
“Oh, he was always going out his back door, scurrying over to another back door, going in, doing his business, and comin’ out again.”
“Was he doing that before he got engaged to Julie Beasley,” Tru asked, “or after?”
“Both,” Molly said. “He never stopped.”
“Who knew about it?” Tru asked.
“A few of us,” Larry said.
“Did Max know?”
Larry shrugged. “Don’t know. He might’ve.”
“How well did you two know Max?”
“We saw him at town meetings,” Molly said, “listened to his rants.”
“Did you agree with him?”
“Hardly ever,” she said.
“Once in a while,” Larry said.
Molly glared at her husband.
“But we weren’t friends,” Larry hurriedly added.
Tru had the feeling he needed to talk to Larry without Molly around.
“Okay,” he said, “thanks for talking to me.”
“Sure,” Larry said.
Molly unlocked the door.
Tru stepped outside, heard the lock snap shut behind him.
FIFTY-TWO
There was a bar-and-grill down on First Street that Tru had not been to, but Julie had told him that was where people in town drank and congregated. Tru thought, judging from the broken blood vessels in Larry Farrell’s cheeks, that he probably frequented the place.
He left his car where it was and walked around the corner. The place was called Herbie’s, and as he entered he saw there was a bar on the right side, pool tables in the back, tables and booths to the left. They served food, which he didn’t know before. He thought the two cafes were the only places in town to eat.
There were several stools open at the bar, so he claimed one.
“Whataya have?” the hard looking barmaid asked.
“What’s on draft?”
“Bud, Bud Light, Coors, Coors Light, Kentucky Bourbon Ale —“
“That,” he said, “I’ll have that.”
“Pint?”
“A small glass, please.”
“Comin’ up.”
When she served him he nursed the beer and checked out the room. People who hung out in bars had a certain look to them, no matter whether it was in the city or the country. They were either morosely staring into their glasses, or happily conversing with the person or people next to them.
He was halfway through his beer when the door opened and Larry Farrell walked in. Tru felt like he was in an episode of “Cheers” when most of the people in the place said, “Larry!”
He waved and laughed, ran the gauntlet of back patting to make his way to the bar. He sat down and ordered a beer from the smiling barmaid.
Tru picked up his glass and moved over to the stool next to Larry.
“Looks like everybody knows you pretty well,” he said.
Larry looked at Tru, frowned, then brightened when he recognized him.
“Well,” he said, wrapping his hand around his pint, “it’s a small town.”
“I’m starting to realize that,” Tru said. “So that means everyone knew Max?”
“Pretty much everyone knew who he was,” Larry said.
“Did he come in here?”
“Hardly ever.”
“Why has everybody in town been telling me what a good old boy Max is?”
Larry sipped his beer, then turned and looked at Tru.
“Come on, Larry,” he said, “Molly’s not here, now.”
“Max is a sonofabitch, especially when he gets a wild hair up his ass about something.”
“Like something political?”
“You think national politics is bad,” Larry said, “you ain’t never lived in a small town. These folks take their politics real serious.”
“So Wilson Realty coming to town with money, that was a political issue?”
“It was when the Mayor was supporting them,” Larry said. “That fella Wilson went to the Mayor first, got him on his side, and then made his move.”
“And Max was against it?”
“Oh, yeah.”
“Do you think Max would kill Wilson to keep him from buying up land around here?”
Larry sipped his beer before answering.
“Naw,” he said, shaking his head, “I don’t see it.”
“What about somebody in town killing Wilson and framing Max?”
Larry looked surprised.
“That’s a little out there,” he said. “These folks’ll bad mouth ol’ Max, maybe flatten his tires or put sugar in his gas tank, but kill somebody? That’s a little out there.”
“Okay,” Tru said, “how about Bill Granger.”
“What about him?”
“Were you friends?” Tru asked. “When your wife wasn’t around?”
“Molly hated Granger,” Larry said, shaking his head, “but I didn’t think he was a bad guy. Did he think he was the cock of the walk? Oh yeah, and a lot of women around here agreed with him.”
