Dead at Breakfast (17 page)

“Now who would that be?” asked Peg, her interest refocused.

“Do you know Deputy Babbin?”

“Buster! Such a sweetheart! I've taught boys like that.”

“We've all taught boys like that,” Maggie said, smiling. “You know, we're awfully sorry about Cherry Weaver being arrested.”

“Oh, it's a terrible thing. I was saying to my sister, I really don't know what to make of it. I wouldn't have thought . . .”

“Well that's what I wanted to ask you. You knew her when she was little?”

“She was in one of my first classes.”

“We always remember our first ones, don't we?”

Peg agreed, pleased to be talking with someone who knew the territory.

“She wasn't bright like her sister, of course,” said Peg.

“Did you teach Brianna too?”

“No, but it's a small school. Brianna always won the spelling bee. Everyone thought she'd go to college. She'd come in at lunchtime to see Cherry, and that little girl just lit up every time. Nice children.”

“Tell me about Cherry.”

“She was one of those ones who see words backward?”

“Dyslexic?”

“I think so. We only did prereading in kindergarten at that time, and she could handle that, but she struggled later. She was a sweet child. She made me a May basket. She . . .” Peg caught herself and stopped.

“What?”

“Oh, I was just going to . . .”

Maggie said, “Go on. I've heard it all.”

Peg said, “Well. When I thanked her for the basket and told her what a dear little girl she was, she said she liked me better than she liked her mother.”

“Ah,” said Maggie. She had indeed heard this story before, and it was a very tricky moment for a teacher, especially in a small town. You're pleased to be loved, but you also know that something is wrong in one of your families, and what if anything should you do about it? She nodded sympathetically.

“Of course I said I was sure she didn't really and she seemed stung. Disappointed in me. I still remember that. She was shy of me for a while, but she got over it. A very sunny nature she had then. I was always sorry about how it changed her, later. She'd come back to visit me when she was in fifth and sixth. Just drop in during recess and sit in my classroom, on one of those little chairs, and play with the guinea pig. When she was in my class, I had chosen her to take the guinea pig home over Christmas. She was so proud of that.”

“I love it when they come back,” said Maggie. Though in fact it gave her pause when a kid would rather hang around with grown-ups than with her own age group.

When Maggie related this conversation at Barb's, where they had repaired for an early lunch to compare notes, Hope said, “I think Cherry's mother must be a Capricorn.”

“Because?”

“She's such a hard-ass.”

“Apparently. Does your soul patch man know the Weavers?”

“Intimately. He ran with Brianna and her friends in high school, and half the time Cherry was with them, because Beryl Weaver was working nights. He said Cherry didn't like her mother, and when I asked him what made him say so, he said ‘have you met her?' When she drove the school bus she threatened to tape their mouths shut if they weren't quiet. She kept a roll of duct tape on the dashboard. Actually used it a time or two.”

“Did he mention the father?”

“He did. He worked for a tree surgeon summers and weekends when he was in school, and Roy Weaver was part of the crew, when he felt like earning a buck. Roy used to taunt the high school kids. His way of greeting them was to grab them hard by the crotch and say, ‘Just wanted to see if you'd grown a pair.' Then he'd laugh. My guy said it really hurt.”

“Lovely. Did he know anything about Cherry being in trouble?”

“Yep. You were right. And he's the one who drove her to the mall.”

“Back up.”

“Here's the story. A lot of tree work is winter work. Did you know this? You get ice and snow coating the tree limbs, the limbs fall down and take down the power lines—in the worst weather, the tree men are out in bucket trucks eighteen hours a day, clearing away the deadfall so the power guys can fix the lines. He says your hands and feet are so cold when you get home that you soak them in cold water and it feels as if it's boiling. I told him I knew the feeling.

“So some of the linemen had these hand warmers that you carried in your pockets. They burn for hours. They work like cigarette lighters, but enclosed somehow—I just took his word for it.”

Maggie had her phone out and was Googling “hand warmers.”

“Well, look at that,” Hope said, when Maggie showed her the screen. “I had no idea. I should have them in every pocket. Anyway, my guy showed one to Cherry and she got excited and wanted to get one for her father for Christmas. He didn't know she was planning to steal it.”

“And she was how old?”

“Fifteen. But unfortunately, it wasn't the gizmo she stole first. It was . . .”

“Don't tell me.”

“Yes. The lighter fluid it runs on. If you get the fanciest kind,
something Zippo makes, it doesn't give off as much smell and that's important if you're hunting. Her dad's a gun nut. You don't want your prey to . . .”

“Got it,” said Maggie. “So she was arrested at fifteen for stealing a fire accelerant, and now they've got her for arson and felony murder.”

“Exactly. She must have been pretty poor at stealing. She also lied about it, which doesn't help. She told the police she wanted it for her boyfriend. They wanted to talk to the boyfriend so she made up a name. When they couldn't find him she said he'd just joined the navy . . .”

“Oh the poor booby.”

“And all because she was embarrassed that she was trying to be a hero to her dad.”

“I assume Detective Gordon knows about the arrest, even though it shouldn't be on her record?”

“Of course he does.”

“What made your church friend tell you all this?”

“I think he'd been dying for someone to ask him. He's got a little sneaker for Cherry would be my guess. And he hates the dad. Also, he might have spent just a little bit of time in the slammer himself. He suggested that he didn't think it was the right place for Cherry.”

“I thought that looked like a prison tattoo.”

Detective Gordon was waiting when Buster carried his bulky treasure into the barracks in Ainsley. He said, “What happened to you, you run into a bakery truck?” Buster looked down and brushed at his uniform shirt, showering croissant flakes onto the floor.

Shep took the bagged suitcase into the evidence room, where he and Buster and a crime tech donned plastic gloves. “Let's see what we got here.” He took the suitcase from the trash bag and set it on the table. The crime tech took out a pair of tweezers and began
fussily picking up bits of horse plop and vegetable matter and dropping them into plastic bags.

Shep took the suitcase.

“Detective,” said the tech, “I was going to dust for prints first.”

“After will do fine,” said Shep. He popped the clasps and opened it.

It was almost empty. There was a plastic bag with the Oquossoc Mountain Inn name and logo on it, and on the other side, “laundry” printed in moss green script. There was also a pair of heavy leather gloves, a thing like a weird butterfly net, and an apparatus that looked like the kind of grabber you use to pick up your socks from the floor when you've had a hip operation and can't bend over. Shep's mother had to use one of those for months after she broke her pelvis.

Shep picked up the laundry bag and looked in.

“What's in it?” Buster asked.

“Underpants,” said Shep. He used to say “panties,” but his wife had broken him of it by calling his underwear panties and shirties and socksies until he got the point. He picked up the butterfly net thing and held it up. It didn't look new, and it didn't look random; it was a four-foot-long double bag made of slippery material, and had a triangular frame at the top attached to a telescoping handle. “Now what the hell do you make of this?” he asked. “You ever seen a thing like this before?”

“Nope,” said the crime tech.

“Sure,” said Buster.

The other men looked at him. “It's a snake bag,” he said. “You pick up the snake with those tongs, and pop him into the bag, then you whip it closed with these.” There were ties attached at the top. Shep stared.

“Well, aren't you a fountain of wisdom today,” he said.

“How does the snake like it?” asked the tech.

“Depends on how used he is to people, and what kind of a mood
he's in. They don't mind the bag once they're in it. It's like a den in there. Don't usually like the tongs so much though, unless you're real good at using them.”

They all contemplated the equipment.

“This stuff belong to that Niner guy?”

“I guess it must,” said Buster, “but I didn't see it in his room. All he had, that I saw, was a hook and a pair of handler's gloves. And not these gloves. His are a different color.”

“A hook.”

“A snake hook.” Buster got out his notebook and drew a picture of a pole with a curved metal hook on the end. Then he added a snake, suspended in loops from the hook about a third of the way along its body. “You got to practice some to learn to slip it under without hurting him, and you have to get him in the right spot, third or halfway along, so he doesn't slip off, or strike.”

There was a silence.

“I got to tell you,” Shep said, “this is seriously creeping me out.”

Buster shrugged.

“I guess we better see if little Cherry has a thing for snakes,” Shep added. “And go over this whole rig for prints, inside and out.” He patted along the inside of the suitcase, then unzipped one of the side pockets. Out came a little sewing packet, a tube of stain remover, a couple of packets of nail polish remover wipes, a corkscrew, and a fat amber vial of pills. The prescription was for Lisa Antippas, oxycodone, take every 4 to 6 hours as need for pain. Quantity 90.

“Ninety?” asked the crime tech. “What was she going to do, open her own drugstore?”

M
onday morning,
the Antippas household had been buzzing since 6:00
A.M.
Sophie and Ada had done their own hair and makeup, but Artemis's stylist was with them with a rack of dresses that had been lent by eager designers.

Sophie had announced she was wearing her own clothes, but when she saw how her sister looked in a black silk Calvin Klein sheath, she too began trying things on. In the master bedroom, their mother was having her makeup redone, because she'd started to cry and had ruined it the first time. The makeup artist was dyeing her eyelashes black, so she wouldn't end up with mascara all over her face.

In the guest suite, Glory's hair was being blown out by the guy who used to style her for her talk show. She had spent the previous afternoon with twists of foil all over her head having her highlights done and the room still smelled of peroxide. Behind her, the bed was covered with dresses and suits, and a seamstress sat patiently watching the blow-out, waiting to do a last-minute fitting as soon as Glory decided for sure what she wanted to wear.

Jeremy, in the suit his father had bought him for his college graduation, was sitting outside by the pool under a shade umbrella. It was a bright day, perfect California weather. His mother could see him out the window, and knew by the way he was moving his shoulders and head, that he was lost in whatever music was stream
ing into his ears through wires too tiny for her to see from this distance. Artemis was in his head and singing to him.

In the living room, Manuela and Freddy sat stiffly in their best church clothes. Outside, two long limousines sent by Forest Lawn sat ready to take them all to the Staples Center.

Shep Gordon was off duty on Monday, at the Columbus Day parade in Ainsley with his wife. His stepson was playing the drums in his high school marching band and his wife's sister and her children were with them, standing in the drizzle, the kids poking each other and failing to pay attention or keep still as they waited for Donnie to pace proudly by. There was only a skeleton staff back at the state police barracks that morning, so it was Detective Flax who took the call from the crime lab. They had had no trouble finding a match for the prints all over the snake handling gear in Ms. Poole's suitcase. They belonged to Henry Rexroth.

Flax hated to interrupt Shep on his day off, but he knew he'd want to know. The only reason either one of them thought to tell Buster was that Buster was in uniform, working the parade. Things rarely got out of hand at eleven in the morning on a fall Monday in Ainsley, but the Harley club would be riding. They were mostly retired guys with their wives riding pillion or in sidecars, but a lot of them were veterans as well, flying American flags, and if you got a handful of crunchy granolas dressed like Indians chanting something like “Columbus was an Imperialist Tool,” there could be trouble. Buster stood beside his cruiser, which was parked across one of the side streets to prevent anyone from inadvertently driving onto the parade route, wearing his shades in spite of the drizzle, popping one fist against his open palm, trying to look menacing.

Gabe Gurrell was at a loose end. His hotel was virtually empty. Mrs. Babbin and Mrs. Detweiler had driven off to do some sight
seeing and have lunch with a friend in Bar Harbor. Normally this would be a busy weekend, but the news about the fire had caused a rash of cancellations in spite of how cheerfully the website announced that fall color was at its peak and the inn was ready to welcome and cosset guests.

The new girl on the desk seemed to have things under control, so Gabe went to the kitchen, looking for Sarah. He found that Oliver Brooks was running the lunch service, which consisted of a handful of walk-ins. He should have known Sarah wasn't there when the kitchen sent him the BLT he had asked for instead of green slime.

Gabe went up the back stairs to Sarah's apartment. If there was silence he wouldn't knock, afraid she'd had another migraine and was napping, but when he reached her door, he could hear the sound of the television.

She answered the door. She was wearing jeans and a sweatshirt, which startled him; he rarely saw her out of her chef whites these days.

“Sorry,” he said.

“That's all right. I was just . . .” She trailed off and opened the door wider, which he took as an invitation to see for himself. He stepped in, and she closed the door behind him and went back to her chair.

“I came to see . . . Could I take you out to dinner tonight?”

She looked up, distracted.

“Where?”

Not the answer he was expecting.

“What would please you?”

Another pause. Her eyes kept cutting back to the television. She picked up the remote and muted the sound from the broadcast.

“Little Savannah Roseff, who trained with me here, is cooking in a new place on the other side of the lake. I heard she was doing my coffee soufflés and I hope it's not true.” The dessert soufflés were a signature dish of Sarah's.

“Let's check it out,” said Gabe.

Sarah was watching the screen. He had to move to her side to see what was on it.

The Antippases' funeral thing for the daughter. On the screen was a static shot of a mountain of balloons, stuffed animals, posters, and bouquets stacked against a barrier outside the Staples Center. On the pavement at the foot of the mound was a row of current magazine covers, all with pictures of Artemis. Artemis smiling, a publicity still from the Disney days. Artemis with her head thrown back and eyes closed, a mic in her hand, while beyond the stage a sea of people waved cell phones over their heads, the screens glowing like candles in the dark. Artemis in a sequined cobalt mermaid gown, grinning and holding up a Grammy award. Artemis in sweats with her head down, her lawyer clutching her elbow, doing a perp walk after one of her many DUIs. They cut to a live shot of teenage girls, one white and one black, weeping and holding a homemade poster that read
gone to soon
. Then a shot of limousines, with motorcycle escort, proceeding gravely through the crowds that were waiting to see the celebrities arriving.

“What's the place called?” Gabe asked.

Sarah clicked the television off. “The Firepond,” she said. “It used to be a blacksmith's shop. On a stream. Very pretty.”

“I'll see if they're open,” said Gabe.

No response.

“I'll let you know,” he added.

She was looking out the window at the gray sky, a moody contrast to the unreal brilliance of the California day the rest of the world was watching.

Gabe Gurrell had been kinder to Sarah than any man had ever been. Her father had been nearly fifty when she was born, and he was an old-fashioned man given to unpredictable angers, and never completely comfortable around women or children. Gabe was a
completely new experience. He was patient and forgiving and despite being in a seemingly perpetual state of harassment, had a blessedly even temper. Which was probably exactly why Sarah felt no pressure to accept his proposals. He never rattled his saber or suggested there would be any consequence if she kept him dangling too long. But lately she had felt a certain longing, and wondered if she'd left it too late to try to share a life with a good man.

When Sarah was a girl, there were things she wanted the way only lonely children can want things, without any understanding of how unreachable or unreasonable they might be. She had wanted to be a veterinarian and have six children and live in a house full of animals, like Doctor Doolittle. Also, she wanted to be a famous singer, which would mean everyone would love her. The music teacher at her elementary school thought she had perfect pitch. In third grade she sang “I Dream of Jeannie with the Light Brown Hair” in an assembly on Stephen Foster, and Mrs. Lee went into transports. Her parents even found the money for her to study voice for several years. Come to think of it, the happy family dream and the rich and famous dream were the same dream, because when she was famous and everyone loved her, she would marry a man who looked like Harrison Ford and have six children and live in a house full of animals like Doctor Doolittle. That had been her plan.

The other thing she had wanted desperately was a little bay pony named Cinders. Cinders belonged to the boy on a nearby farm who got polio because his parents didn't believe in vaccinations. Sarah's parents couldn't afford both the upkeep on a pony and voice lessons. The pony, Sarah reflected, would have been dead in the ground these past thirty years by now. But there were ponies here, and Clarence and Walter, and often there were children. She would go to dinner with Gabe, and then they'd see.

Gone to soon
. Gabe went back to his office, shut the door, and turned on the television in the corner. He was slightly embarrassed that he wanted to watch this, and he told himself that he wasn't merely drawn to the spectacle, or to the pleasures of witnessing painful and intimate feelings that are none of his business. He wanted to see Mrs. Antippas and her sister. They were known to him, they were real to him. He was part of this story but it was weird to be part of something on the same screen that brought you
American Idol
or
Survivor
.

And then he couldn't seem to turn it off. He watched the stream of music gods and movie stars climbing out of their limousines and walking between the walls of people. Alicia Keys. Mariah Carey. The governor of California. Justin Timberlake. Rihanna. Two regulars from
Saturday Night Live,
where Artemis, irreverent and transgressive, had been a favorite, according to the reporter murmuring into her microphone. A feed from inside the auditorium, where a gold-plated casket was covered in white flowers. Orchids and roses. A gigantic screen on the stage showed a video of Artemis in performance, while the crowd filling the hall stared as if frozen, wiped their eyes suggestively, or in some cases fell to sobbing.

Here came Lisa Antippas limping slowly down the aisle to the reserved seats in the front row. She was leaning on a young man the reporter identified as her son, Jeremy. Next came Glory on the arm of a large unidentified man with the look of a bodyguard, and then the twins, Sophie and Ada, on too-high heels, holding on to each other. The reporter intoned, “This is our first glimpse of the family since the death of the troubled superstar. They are grieving a double tragedy today, first the death of a daughter and sister, followed by the bizarre death of the singer's father, Alexander Antippas, in a hotel fire on Thursday in the state of Maine. After the service here at the Staples Center, there will be a procession to Forest Lawn, where Artemis will
be laid to rest. We're told that later this afternoon, the family will have a second service in a chapel at Forest Lawn, a private farewell to her father, who will be buried beside the daughter he outlived by only two days. You wonder what this family can be going through . . .”

The shot switched to outside again, where another motorcycle escort accompanied yet another limousine. The network reporter, in dark suit and dark glasses, said softly into his microphone, “Well that's right, Allie. There's been a rumor here for several hours that the First Lady and her two daughters, who reportedly are heartbroken Artemis fans, would be attending the service here today, and that was their limousine that just moved through security here on their way into the center. Security is extremely tight as you can imagine . . .”

The coverage moved back inside to where the video onstage was of Artemis, backlit on a night stage, singing the soaring anthem that had become her hallmark, her supple voice rippling the grace notes with a power and control that seemed preternatural. To hear her was to yearn yourself to say one more thing to someone loved and lost long ago, and simultaneously to seem to see this gifted girl-woman emotionally naked. You couldn't listen to her sing this song without wanting to rescue her yourself, Gabe thought.

When the shot switched to an image of the sodden and blackened hole in the new wing of his own hotel, he felt a sudden burst of rage against Alexander Antippas. Imagine being the father of this glorious, damaged girl, and not bothering to go to her, to honor and say good-bye to her in spite of the way the story had ended.

Well, Antippas was with her after all. Gabe hoped he was down on his big fat incorporeal knees begging her forgiveness.

Oh, man. This week had really been hell on all of them.

Shep had Buster with him when he arrived at the inn to question Henry Rexroth, since the visit was snake-related. The new girl on the desk telephoned up to Mr. Rexroth's room for them.

“Mr. Rexroth, you have some visitors. Should I send them up?”

In his bare room, with its one armchair and all his writing materials out on the small desk, Henry Rexroth rolled his eyes to the ceiling. Send them up? Here?

He emerged into the lobby, thinking possibly it would be that nice couple he had met at the Congo church in Ainsley on Sunday, but it was not. He hesitated only slightly before crossing the room to Shep and Buster. There was a large trash bag standing beside Shep's foot, with a yellow tape across it on which was printed the word
EVIDENCE
.

“Good afternoon, gentlemen,” he said. “Sorry I'm not dressed for company, I was just finishing up a sermon.” He was wearing flannel trousers, and a dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up.

Shep said, “We'd like to ask you a few questions, Mr. Rexroth. Would you like to do it here, or at the station?”

Henry Rexroth thought this unnecessarily bullying in tone.

“Here would be fine,” he said calmly. “Let's go to the library.” He led the way, and Shep stayed right on his heel. Buster brought up the rear, carrying the trash bag.

Mr. Rexroth and Shep took high-backed wing chairs on opposite sides of the cold fireplace. Buster pulled the broad sliding glass-paneled pocket door closed behind them, shutting them off from the lobby, and put the bag down on the floor between Shep and Rexroth. At a signal from Shep, Buster pulled on plastic gloves and took the suitcase out of the bag. He set it on the floor at Rexroth's feet. Rexroth's face was completely still. He didn't even blink. Shep nodded, and Buster opened the suitcase.