AS THE SPARKS FLY UPWARD (7 page)

“Will you help me with the dishes, My?”

“Sure.”

They went into the kitchen, leaving Bernard far away in his reveries.

A few days later Bernard and Misty were tracing their usual path among the trees. It was a bitterly cold day. Their breath billowed like white clouds before their faces. It had snowed heavily the night before, and their tracks fled away behind them, stretching back as a tangible link to the cabin. Bernard was not in a good mood. He had begun to suspect that he was putting on weight. Not much, of course—he never did gain much—but enough. Maya, after breakfast that morning, had glanced at his waistline critically. “Sweetheart, maybe you’d better take the dog for a walk.” Snooky had agreed. “Yes, Bernard, why don’t you take Misty out today? It would do you good.” Bernard had protested furiously, but to no avail. Here he was, trudging along, bundled up in his down coat against the frigid cold.

Misty seemed delighted, as always, to be outdoors. The cold did not seem to bother her. She bounded along, sniffing eagerly at invisible objects. Bernard followed behind, a dark glowering bundle of heavy clothes and scarves. The cold usually did not bother him either—he went outdoors in the winter with just a light coat on—but this did not qualify as merely “cold.” It was, he decided as he walked along, arctic
hell. He had had to break the ice in the sink this morning. It was more than time enough to be heading home. Surely they had put in enough time in Snooky’s cabin. His thoughts lingered luxuriously on central heating.

Misty gave a peculiar little yelp and strained forward at the end of the leash. Bernard pulled her back irritably. She ran around in circles, winding herself neatly around a bush, then disappeared. Bernard cursed and followed her.

“What is it, Misty? Misty? Come back here, you … what is it?”

When he finally found her, she was sniffing at something half-hidden under the bush.

“What is it?” he asked irritably. It was a large dark object. Visions of half-dead animals, of hunters and deer, of Roger Halberstam’s unfortunate rabbit, floated through his mind. He began to unwind the leash from the bush.

“What
is
it, Misty? Come here right now.”

Misty, like most faithful dogs, paid no attention to what he was saying. She whined and surged forward on the leash.

“Oh, all right,” said Bernard in disgust. He followed her around the back of the bush. There was something on the ground there, half-buried in the ice and snow … was it an animal? Bernard shut his eyes, shuddered, then leaned forward to look.

“We’re going to have to put him on a diet,” Snooky was saying at that very moment. He and Maya sat on opposite couches, their legs stretched out toward the fire, steaming cups of cider next to them. “A diet, Maya. There’s no other way. He’s getting really hefty.”

“Bernard always gains weight in the winter. He’s like a bear.”

“Or a squirrel.”

“Whatever. He loses it naturally in the spring. Bernard is very much in tune with the seasons.” Maya sipped her drink. “You know, Snooky, Bernard is right. This stuff could make you sick. It’s gone off already.”

“Not yet, Maya. Not yet. And it’s almost finished, you
know. Do you realize by the time you leave we’ll have used up twenty gallons?”

“What on earth possessed you to rush out and buy twenty gallons?”

“I don’t know, My. I had just arrived here, and I lost my head. I thought it was the most delicious thing I had ever tasted in my life. It’s fresh from the orchards.”

“Well, all I can say is that you’ve turned me off the stuff forever. When we get back to Connecticut, I hope I never see a drop of it again.” Maya looked up as the door opened and her husband came in. “Oh, there you are, sweetheart. How was your walk?”

“We were just talking about you, Bernard. We were just saying that it’s time you went on a little—”

“Wait a minute,” said Maya. Bernard had taken off his big bulky hat and she had seen his face. “Sweetheart? What’s wrong?”

Bernard headed for the nearest chair, Misty trailing behind him, and sat down heavily.

“I have seen something bad,” he said.

Maya reached over and took his hand. “What is it?”

“Somebody has to call the police,” Bernard said. “Bobby Fuller has been shot to death in the woods.”

Detective Larry Bentley of the Wolfingham police force was, Bernard reflected, not so much big as just plain mean. He was very short but very wide, and he somehow conveyed an impression of toughness and durability, like rawhide. He had a square face with piggy features and small squinty eyes. His dark thinning hair was combed carefully over a bald spot in back. He was not someone whom Bernard would ordinarily invite as a house guest, and he wished very fervently that Detective Bentley was not sitting in the living room of the cabin right now.

“I don’t understand, Mr. Woodruff,” said Detective Bentley. “What were you doing out in the woods?”

“I was taking a walk.”

“Right.” The thought of anyone, particularly a visitor, taking a walk on a sunny November day in the Vermont woods seemed to strain the detective’s power of imagination. “With your dog?”

“Yes.”

“This dog?” He made a vague gesture with his foot.

“Of course this dog. Do you see any other dogs around here?”

“Now, now, Mr. Woodruff. It’s my job, you know, asking questions. It doesn’t do any good to blow up. I might have to take you down to the station for questioning. So you were walking with your dog in the section of the woods you showed me earlier, and …?” He waited with his pen hovering in the air.

“As I told you before, Misty began to sniff around that bush. She got herself wound around it, and while I was unwinding her, I saw something lying in the snow. Something large and dark. It was half-buried, so it took me a while to figure out what it was.”

“And it was …?”

“A package from Peking,” said Bernard. “Do we have to go through all this again? It was Bobby Fuller’s body. He was lying there, shot through the head.”

“Mmmmm.” Detective Bentley was writing furiously. He ripped the top page off his pad and crumpled it up in his pocket. “Hmmmm. Yes. And then you—?”

“Went to the moon.”

Bentley looked up reproachfully. “Mr. Woodruff.”

“Took a nice walk, enjoying the woods covered with snow.”

“Mr. Woodruff.”

“Came right back here to the cabin and had Snooky call you,” said Bernard irritably. “Why, I can’t imagine. It doesn’t seem that anything is getting done.”

“All in good time, Mr. Woodruff. All in good time.” Detective Bentley nodded his thick meaty head. The hair over his bald spot flopped back and forth as if possessed by a will of its own. Snooky found himself staring at it, fascinated.
I wonder if I’ll start doing that when I go bald,
he thought, grasping his full head of light brown hair in sudden appreciation. His thoughts drifted off into apprehensive visions of a balding future, while Bentley’s voice receded gently into a background drone. Bernard’s voice punctuated
the drone with short, angry rumbles.
I wonder how I’ll look,
thought Snooky, sprawled next to the hearth.
I wonder if I’ll still be good-looking
 …

Maya was thinking,
This man really is a pig. I wonder if we can serve him some of that cider?

When Snooky dreamily tuned in again, Bernard was trembling with rage and saying in a strangled voice, “That’s all I know. That is all I know. That is
all
I know. That is all
I know.”

“Now, now, Mr. Woodruff. Just doing my job. Don’t put on that tone of voice with me. So that’s all you know?”

Bernard did not reply.

Bentley scribbled something down. “You knew Bobby Fuller, didn’t you?”

“Yes. He had dinner here three days ago. He and a bunch of other people.”

“A bunch of other people?”

Bernard enumerated.

“They had dinner here?” Bentley looked around the cabin.

“Yes.”

“All those people?”

“Yes.”

“What did they eat?”

Bernard refused to answer this. Snooky said, “A really delicious beef stew. I made it myself.”

“This is your cabin?”

“Yes. Well, I’m renting it while the owners are away. They’re in France. Lyons, actually. They have some sort of business there. The lady who owns this cabin is half-French. Their name is Wuxler. Patrick and Marie Wuxler. I can give you their address in Lyons, if you like, but I’m afraid they wouldn’t be much help. They’ve been out of the country for nearly two months now.”

“I see.” The detective rose to his full height of just over five feet. “I’ll be seeing you around, Mr. Woodruff.”

Bernard nodded.

Bentley pocketed his pad of paper and left. They could hear his ancient yellow car, parked in front of the picket fence, cough slowly to life and move away down the dirt path.

“I try to do my civic duty,” said Bernard. “I find a body, and I report it. And I get treated like a common criminal for doing so.”

“Yes,” said Snooky. “And that’s Wolfingham’s finest you’re looking at.”

“Why Wolfingham?”

“It’s the big town around here. Lyle doesn’t have its own police force.”

“Neither, apparently, does Wolfingham,” said Bernard. “Is there any cake left over from last night?”

“Yes,” said Snooky.

“Bring it out here to me.”

Snooky came back with a big slice of lemon cake. Bernard placed it in front of him, cut it neatly in two and forked half of it into his mouth. Maya regarded him worriedly.

“You shouldn’t eat for comfort, darling. It’s so bad for you.”

“I’m not eating for comfort. I’m angry.”

“You shouldn’t eat because you’re angry.”

“All right, I’m not angry. I’m hungry. I had a long, pleasant walk in the woods today, and now I’m hungry.”

“Somebody’s going to have to break the news to Sarah,” said Snooky. “She’s the one who should tell Irma about it. She’ll know what to do.”

Maya stared out the window. “Do you think all those men are still there?” The detective had brought a group of men who had tramped off into the woods with Bernard and Snooky to examine the body and the surrounding area.

“Probably,” said Snooky. “I heard the medical examiner say that he was shot yesterday afternoon. Then it snowed on him last night.”

There was a short silence at this bleak image. Maya crossed her arms. “The poor man.”

Snooky picked up the telephone and dialed rapidly. “Hello? Who’s this? Gertie, it’s Snooky. Is Sarah there? No? Oh. Well, Gertie, I have some bad news. Is Irma there? All right. You’d better be the one to tell her. I’m terribly sorry, but Bobby Fuller is dead … What?… Dead. Yes. He was … well, he was shot to death in the woods … What?… No, they don’t know whether it was a hunting accident … Yes, I know those hunters are crazy. Anyway, somebody’s going to have to break it to Irma … all right. All right. I wanted to warn you. The detective from Wolfingham is on his way over, and he’s an idiot, so I wanted you to know … Okay. Please have Sarah call me when she can … Thanks. Bye.” He put the phone down. “Well, that wasn’t easy. I hate those kind of calls.”

“Those kind of calls?” said Maya. “What do you mean? Have you ever had to make one before?”

“No, but—you remember, My—I’ve received them.”

Maya’s face changed. It lost its angularity and became much softer. She crossed the room to put an arm around his shoulder. “Oh. I’m sorry, Snooks. Of course you have.”

When Snooky was five years old, he had been alone in the house when the call had come through about their parents’ car accident. The well-meaning but moronic relative who had called to offer sympathy had given it to him, not realizing that the family had not yet heard.

“We should go over to the house and offer our condolences,” said Snooky.

“We should bring something,” said Maya. “Flowers, perhaps.”

“We should get in our car,” said Bernard, “and drive very quickly back to Connecticut.”

Later, with Maya and Snooky busy in the kitchen, Bernard sat by the fire in a pensive mood. That terrible moment of realization when he was bending over Bobby Fuller’s frozen body … he shuddered. He had not known the man—he had only met him twice—but he felt sorry for
him. Whatever he had done, surely he did not deserve to die alone in the woods and be left for carrion. Surely he did not deserve that.

The Grunwald sisters were the happiest they had been in years. There is nothing like a murder in a small town to give the elderly residents a new lease on life. Alicia and Charlotte, once they heard the news, retired to their sitting room to rejoice. They were two tall, beak-nosed spinsters, with gray faces and gray eyes and gray hair. They had managed to receive a strict Victorian upbringing in twentieth-century America. Their father had been a minister, and in all their lives they had traveled no farther than the neighboring town of Wolfingham. A murder—an actual
murder
—in Lyle, in their lifetimes, had seemed too much to hope for. They sat together and twittered.

“This is terrible news,” said Alicia, the older sister.

“Terrible,” agreed Charlotte.

“Poor Irma,” said Alicia, tucking back a strand of gray hair. She had been horribly jealous of Irma Ditmar and her young lover. In her few quiet moments, she admitted this to herself. But now there was no need to be jealous, simply sympathetic, which was
so
much easier to handle. Alicia herself had never had a young lover, even when she herself was young.

“Poor Irma!” repeated Charlotte.

“Those hunters. There should be a law.”

“A law, yes.”

“Would you care for some tea?”

“Yes, thank you, Alicia.”

Charlotte, pale echo of her sister, was three years younger but looked just as aged. She was only a few years older than Irma Ditmar, and had been even more jealous of her than her sister. “Terrible for the family,” she said now. “
Terrible.
”

“Terrible!” Alicia said cheerfully. She paused, tea kettle in hand. “When do you think we should go over there and comfort her, the poor thing?”

“Oh, not yet. Not right now. It’s too soon.”

“I suppose you’re right.” Alicia poured out carefully for both of them. “There you are. Two sugars. There’s the doorbell. Why don’t you get it?”