Harvest of Bones (31 page)

“That’s all I can tell you,” she went on. “I don’t know much about Denby Bagshaw. He came around, that’s all, before I was married. Asking questions about Kevin. He said he saw me and Kevin together. I didn’t believe him. I let on that it was someone out of town.” She stared at her empty lap.

“Thank you,” Ruth said. “Thank you so much, Emma. You have a beautiful family here. You’ve been lucky in many ways, haven’t you?”

“Oh yes,” Emma said, jumping up, a tomato rolling out of her apron and onto the floor. “I’ve been lucky. My husband was a good man. I have good children—most of the time.” And she smiled as Wanda came in, holding a kitten by its stomach. “Not that way, Wanda; you’ll hurt its little tummy. Hold it under the feet, the whole body. We have to be careful of babies.”

For some reason, Ruth wanted to weep. There was that disappointment, the feeling of being betrayed somehow. Stop it, she told herself. She was just tired; she was getting her period. Five bills this morning in the mail: from the vet, Agri-Mark dues, the repair shop for the John Deere. Her life was slipping away, her farm! She wanted to sit on her own threadbare sofa and have a good cry. She thanked Emma again and ran to her pickup with the bag of tomatoes.

When she got home, the bag was leaking; it had fallen off the seat, and she’d dropped her pocketbook on top of it. What she had was tomato juice. She wiped it off her skirt, changed back into her jeans, then dialed Colm’s number. But he wasn’t there, so she left him a message; she listened, in turn, to a message from Fay on the answering machine—no sign yet of Glenna, but they were still searching. And a message from Pete, who’d be up in a couple of days he’d said (a reminder she didn’t need: They had some “down-to-earth talking to do,” he said). Then she mopped the kitchen floor—it was filthy; she’d neglected it too long. She got down on hands and knees to scrub the corners and crevices.

Then she ran out to the barn, her anger vented.

* * * *

Colm found Ruth squatting beside the new bull calf, her hair matted with hay. The other calves, along with Deborah, who had diarrhea, mooed in sympathy from their stalls. “You think you have problems,” he said, “think of that bull calf. About to be sold as chopped liver.”

“I’d keep him,” she said, blowing her nose, “but they grow so fast. I can’t keep a bull on this farm.” Though she might have to, she realized—the artificial insemination was getting too costly. But her homegrown bull wouldn’t produce the good legs, the straight flanks, the volume of milk she needed. “It’s a catch-twenty-two situation,” she said aloud.

“What is? Let’s take a walk,” he said. “Let’s talk about Kevin and Denby and Mac and Glenna. Let’s sort things out. Let’s have a think-out. I mean, I have work to do, too, Ruthie. I have to show land, houses—even if nobody buys.”

“A walk—or a think?”

“Both.”

She started to follow him out—she could use a break. The bull calf bellowed in protest, and she turned back to pat him. “How can I sell this little guy?”

“Exactly my feeling, Mama,” Colm said, and made a bellowing sound that was echoed by the other cows. “See? They agree with me.”

“Right. You going to walk in those shoes?”

He looked down at his shiny brown Rockports, then laughed and went to his car to change into boots. She was way ahead of him by then, her heavy brown hair a tangle of wind, her denim jacket billowing out behind, revealing the back other pink work shirt. “Hey, wait up—jeez,” Colm said. “We can’t talk with you running a marathon.”

She looked back, smiled. She is lovely, he thought. The freckles shone on her nose. He wanted to be Gregory Peck— what was that forties film? Running into her arms. Holding her close.

But already she’d turned, hands in her pockets, as if she knew his thoughts. He could only pick his way along the uneven ground beside her. The meadow was rich with decaying leaves, waves of purple aster. Overhead another vee of geese honked south—he’d seen them every day almost. Each time, they gave him a thrill; he could almost hear the whir of the beating wings. All the honking, he’d heard, was to keep the leader going, the guy with the toughest job. How he did it, Colm didn’t know; he had a terrible sense of direction himself.

“Tell me about the interview,” he said. “Everything. What you thought of Emma. Was she telling the truth? Was it really Crowningshield who knocked her up?”

She told him. “I knew you’d love it. That it was Kevin.” She walked on faster.

He ran to catch up. Already he was tired he was out of shape, and his lungs felt as if they were bursting. “But if it was Kevin,” he said, pacifying her, “what would that have to do with Denby’s death?”

“Exactly. I’ve been telling you. Kevin’s not a killer. He got her pregnant, okay; she was obviously a consenting partner. Though I agree: It wasn’t fair if he said he’d marry her—if she’s telling the truth here. But I figure he met Angie, fell in love—really in love. The old triangle. Emma loved him, but he loved Angie, didn’t want to hurt Emma, but—”

“So he let her have an abortion. Pay for the abortion—no guilt, right?”

“I didn’t say that. You make it sound so ... so black and white. Anyway, she only had the abortion after he left with Angie. Before that, she wanted the baby. She’s happy now— she made a good marriage, has all those children.”

He gave up on that score. He couldn’t move her: She wouldn’t want to lose faith in Kevin. In a way, he’d be sorry if it was Kevin. Maybe he should cool it. She’d lost faith in Pete; that was enough for one woman.

But he had to get Mac off the hook.
If
Mac hadn’t done it. “Do you think Emma was really telling the truth? Could she prove in court that Kevin was the man? Could it have been Denby after all? I mean, that’s the rumor that got around.”

“Oh, Denby probably started that. He loved being the Lothario. I always heard that.” She stooped to pick a stem of Queen Anne’s lace, still alive at the end of October. It was a warm day—you’d think time had ticked backward.

He suddenly realized what she was saying. “Meaning he’d have known she was pregnant.”

“Well, it got to be obvious, right? They both worked there at Killian? Anyhow, to answer your other concern: Emma kept his letters—Kevin’s. I didn’t ask to see them. But she has them, she told me.”

“Suppose Denby got hold of them.”

“How?”

“I don’t know—blackmailers have ways.” He didn’t know why he’d said that. He was searching for a motive, that’s all.

“Whoa, man.” She turned to face him, shook the lacy flower head at him. “How do we know Denby was a blackmailer? Aren’t we making grand assumptions here?”

“Maybe.” A vision of Kevin and Denby arguing at the Alibi bar flashed into his mind. “Maybe not. But I’d sure like to see those letters. You might have—”

“Who do you think I am!” she cried. “Some kind of snoop? Reading other people’s intimate correspondence?”

“If it helps find a killer—”

He could see she didn’t want to deal with that. She lunged ahead, long-legged, through the tall grasses, through an unlocked gate, into the north pasture, where the herd was grazing. He followed, got caught in the wire; it snagged his best blue corduroys. One by one, the cows turned to face him; he could swear they were laughing.

The only one who wasn’t laughing was Ruth. He’d struck a vulnerable chord. He’d as good as called Kevin Crowningshield a suspect in Denby’s killing. Though he had no proof. He’d have to see Emma Stackpole himself, her letters. For now, he had only hunches. But he had to make Ruth understand.

“Ruth,” he cried, wrenching at the wires, “help me!”

But she was hugging a cow.
A cow.
“Zelda, honey,” she said, “he’s caught. Should we help him or not?”

But the cow only swung her skinny white tail, then turned and trotted away, the other beasts following. Leaving him stuck in the fence.

* * * *

Kevin was back. He was coming over. Ruth had called him. Somehow she’d felt she had to. To tell him about Emma. Didn’t he have a right to know? Even as she heard his footsteps on the porch, she felt guilty, wanted to say, No, it’s nothing, nothing important at all.

But here he was. “Ruth?” He seemed eager to see her. There was an urgency about him, a nervousness. Though she understood, didn’t she? He’d lost his wife,
his wife .…

“I’m glad,” she told him again as he sat on the edge of a chair in the shabby living room (it looked especially shabby with elegant Kevin in it: the old slumped sofa, the humpbacked chairs, the moth-eaten carpet), “glad you’re absolved. Glad that they found the source of the poison. Can you imagine that man Alwyn Bagshaw being so careless? So irresponsible?”

He nodded, but his face was a rock. “It was my wife he murdered. I hope they give him the book. Until they brought Mac MacInnis back, I was sure—and the police were, too, I understand—Alwyn had killed his brother, too.”

“You must have met Denby, Kevin? He worked at Killian Precision, too, at one time. I think it was Alwyn told me.”

She thought she saw his face turn pink, but it might be the sun, slanting in through the window and reflecting off the glassed-in bookcase. “Denby? Well, yes, yes, he was a janitor, I believe. Not a very prepossessing fellow. Quite the womanizer.”

“Yes.” There was a silence. Her skin was flushed because of the delicacy of the subject. She couldn’t bring herself to speak of Emma. Not yet. But she needed to hear the truth from Kevin, his side of the story, how he felt.

Instead, she offered him a beer, a glass of Otter Creek Ale. “They make it right here in Branbury. Try it?”

He nodded. He could use a drink. He’d been to see his lawyer; they were trying to settle Angie’s estate. Too much happening at once, he said; his mind was in chaos. Her stepmother was flying to Chicago next week for the memorial service, and he dreaded seeing the woman. He was flying out again tomorrow, and so he was glad she’d called him today. The ale loosened his tongue, his feelings. “It’s hard being here, where Angie and I met. You can’t know what she was like. So different from city girls, so refreshing—unsophisticated. She had dark brown hair, like yours—reddish highlights; she was lovely.”

He looked at Ruth. She felt a spasm in her cheek, covered it with a hand. “She was brought up on a farm. Like you, Ruth.”

“Actually, I wasn’t.” She had to establish a difference. “My parents lived in town; Dad was an accountant, Mother a housewife, like most women in those days. I moved here when I married Pete. Grew to like it—I surprised myself.”

“Pete doesn’t know how lucky he was,” he murmured, looking hard at her. “Ruth, I... I want to keep in touch.”

She blushed under his gaze, had to turn the tables, talk about him—that was her purpose in bringing him here. She thought of Isis. She’d promised herself to speak to Kevin about the Healing House. It would put off the subject of Emma Stackpole for a bit. “That Healing House, Kevin. People get the wrong idea—anything offbeat, you know, people are suspicious. I’m sure Isis would make a good renter, pay what you ask. If you’d let her stay on.”

“Ruth, times are hard; my investments haven’t been working out the way they should. I’ve made arrangements with a Realtor.”

“Colm Hanna?”

He gave a half laugh. “Coldwell Banker—they’re the biggest outfit around. They hustle. They already have someone interested.” He turned the glass in his hands, appeared to be polishing it. “Besides, you may not understand, but—look, Ruth, Angie died there. They could have called a doctor sooner; they never let me in so I could—Ruth, she might have lived if they’d let me see her. I’ll never”—his lips tightened— “never forgive them for that.”

She nodded. Although Angie herself had ostracized him. But this wasn’t the time to bring that up again. The silence was almost palpable. In a minute, she’d scream.

“Did Angie make a will?” She had to break the silence. “Anything that would keep you from selling?”

“Is that why you called me? What you wanted to talk to me about?” His flat voice shattered her nerves.

“No, no, I just happened to think of it now.”

“Oh, there was no will,” he assured her. “She was only in her forties.” He sounded condescending. But Ruth was in deep now. It was time for the real subject: Emma.

“When you worked at Killian,” she said slowly, “you knew a young woman named Emma Stackpole?” She glanced at him, saw his hands tighten on the glass. “I happened to meet her—asking about Denby Bagshaw, you see. I mean, we’d just discovered it was Denby in that hole....”

“Go on,” he said. “You happened to meet her. Or you went deliberately to meet her?” His words dropped like crushed stones. But she had to get it out now.

“Yes. I went deliberately to meet her. To talk about Denby. The word was that Denby had gotten a young woman pregnant—and we thought it might have been Emma. He bragged about it around town. It was shortly before he died.”

“And what did she say—when you asked her? She’s married now, I believe,” he said, as though he’d postpone the answer to the first question.

“Her husband died several years ago. She takes in foster children.”

“She’s content, then; she likes children.”

She looked carefully at him. His face was expressionless, but he was watching her intently. “It was you who got her pregnant, Kevin. You offered to pay for an abortion.”

His face suddenly leapt to life. He buried it in his hands. “I tried. It was for her sake. I—I couldn’t marry her, Ruth. I’d met Angie, you see. After that, there was no one else. It would have been heartless to marry her, loving someone else.”

Ruth sank back in her wing-back chair. It had a bad leg because Vic had jumped on it once; it rocked a little with her weight. She felt seasick, but relieved at the same time. “Of course, Kevin, I realize that. You’d met Angie, fallen in love, that was why—I told Colm.”

His face hardened again. “What does
he
have to do with it?”

“He’s helping Chief Fallon, you see—a kind of moonlighting job? He and I are trying to find Denby’s murderer. Because of Glenna, you see. She was our neighbor! Is,” she amended. Though another day had passed since the “second” disappearance, as Fay called it. Fay had called again, saying there was no visible sign of Glenna Flint.