The Wolf in Winter (16 page)

“Do you remember when you saw her last?” I said.

“January twenty-second,” said Candy. “A Tuesday.”

“Can you tell me what you talked about?”

Candy’s eyes welled up.

“She told me she was going away. Got a job. I was sad. Annie was my friend.”

Molly patted her on the arm again.

“Did she say where the job was?” I asked.

“Prosperous.” Candy struggled with the word slightly, so that it came out as “Prospuss.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yes. She said. She told me she was going to Prospuss. She had a job. Was going to clean, like Candy.”

“And did she mention who had given her the job?”

Candy thought.

“No. They had a blue car.”

“How do you know? Did you see them?”

“No. Annie told me.”

“Candy is very interested in cars,” Molly explained.

“I like to know colors,” said Candy. “What color is your car?”

“I have two cars,” I said.

“Two cars!” Candy said, clearly shocked. “What color?”

“One red, and one blue. I used to have a green car too, but—”

“Yes? But?”

“I didn’t really like the color.”

Candy considered this. She shook her head.

“I don’t like green. Like red.”

“Me too.”

Candy grinned. We’d bonded. Clearly, anyone who preferred red cars to green could not be all bad.

“Annie didn’t tell you the make of car, did she?” I said.

“No, just blue.”

“And the people who owned it, did she tell you anything about them?”

“They were old.”

She took another sip of her hot chocolate.

“How old?” I asked. “Older than I am?”

Candy giggled. “You’re not old.”

“So older?”

“I think so.” She yawned. “Tired. Time for bed.”

We were done. Candy stood to leave, carefully holding her mug of hot chocolate so that it didn’t spill.

“Candy, is there anything else you can tell me about Annie?” I said.

The blue car was something, but it wasn’t much.

“Annie told me she’d write to me,” said Candy. “She promised. But she didn’t write.”

She turned her attention back to Molly.

“Must go to Prospuss,” said Candy. “Find Annie. Annie’s my friend.”

“Charlie is going to look for Annie,” said Molly. “Aren’t you, Charlie?”

“Yes,” I said. “I’ll look for Annie.”

“Tell her Candy said she must write,” said Candy. “Mustn’t forget her friend Candy.”

With that, she trotted off to her room. Molly and I said nothing else until we were sure she was gone.

“She would have written,” said Molly. “She wouldn’t have wanted to disappoint Candy.”

She swallowed hard.

“If I’d been here when she left, I’d have made sure that she gave us details of where she was going. I’d have asked to meet these people who were offering her work. But all the full-time staff were at a meeting that day with the Department of Health and Human Services over on Griffin Street, and we just had volunteers manning the shelter. Volunteers, and Candy.”

Anything I might have said would have sounded trite, so I said nothing. Instead, I took one of my business cards from my wallet and handed it to her.

“If you or Candy can think of anything else that might help me, or if anyone else comes around asking about Annie, I’d appreciate it if you’d give me a call. Also . . .”

“Yes?”

“I don’t think Candy should talk too much about that blue car. I think it might be better if she kept it to herself.”

“I understand. We didn’t lie to Candy, did we? You are going to keep looking for Annie? I mean, I’d hire you myself if I could afford to.”

“You forget: I work cheap.”

This time she didn’t smile.

“Somehow, I don’t believe that’s true. What you charge and how you work are two different things.”

I shook her hand. “I’ll be in touch.”

Molly showed me to the door. As she opened it, there was movement behind us. Candy was sitting on the stairs, just out of sight of the office.

She was crying, crying beyond consolation.

I FOUND SHAKY IN
his bed at the Oxford Street Shelter. They’d done their best to keep him comfortable while the injury to his head was
healing. He still had a headache, and his scalp had begun to itch, but otherwise he was doing as well as could be expected for someone who had been hit over the skull with a liquor bottle. I put him in my car and took him to the Bear for a burger and a beer. When he was settled in his seat, with a rodeo burger on order and a Shipyard Old Thumper in a glass before him, and Cupcake Cathy had fussed over him some, I told him a little of the day I’d had. After all, I was working for him. I’d made him pay me a dollar while he was lying on the hospital gurney. One of the nurses had taken it amiss, and my reputation at Maine Medical was now probably lower than that of most ambulance chasers.

“So he definitely went to Prosperous?” said Shaky.

“He didn’t just go there; he got run out of town. Twice. The first time politely, the second time less so.”

“He could be a stubborn man,” said Shaky.

“He was a bright one too,” I said. “Brighter than I am, at least, because I’m still not sure what he was doing nosing around an old church.”

“Do you believe what that cop told you?”

“I’ve no reason not to. The job Jude’s daughter spoke of could have fallen through. She might have changed her mind about it, or that old couple, if they existed at all, could have reconsidered their Good Samaritanism while she left to get her bags. Or she might just have been unlucky.”

“Unlucky?”

“She was a vulnerable woman living on the streets. There are men out there who’d regard someone like her as easy prey.”

Shaky nodded and took a long sip of his beer.

“I know,” he said. “I’ve met enough of them in my time, and they don’t all sleep on mats on floors.”

“You may be right,” I said. “In my experience, the worst of them wear suits and drive nice, well-maintained vehicles. But one thing is certain: as far as the services in Bangor are concerned, Annie dropped
off the radar on the day she spoke about that job. I went by the women’s shelter on my way back down here, and nobody has seen or heard from her since then.”

“And this woman, this Candy, she’s certain Annie said she was going to Prosperous?”

“Yes, but that doesn’t mean Prosperous is where she ended up.”

“So what are you going to do?”

“Go back there. Look for a blue car. See what happens.”

“Wow, good plan. You have it all worked out. And people pay you for that?”

“Not a lot,” I said, pointedly. “And sometimes not at all.”

CHAPTER

XXVI

In the living room of Hayley Conyer’s house, Morland steepled his hands over his face, closed his eyes, and made a prayer of thanks to a god in whom he did not believe. It was force of habit, and no more than that. It looked good for him to go to church on Sundays. All of the most influential citizens in Prosperous were members of one congregation or another. Some even believed. Just like their ancestors back in England who had carved faces into the walls of their church, their faith could encompass more than one deity. Morland was not of their kind. He no longer even knew what he believed in, apart from Prosperous itself. All he could say for sure was that no Christian god impinged on his consciousness.

He was weary from arguing, but at least his view had prevailed, for now. As the guardian of the church, it was Warraner and not Morland who had Hayley’s ear in times of crisis, but on this occasion Morland had managed to sway Hayley. He had been helped by the absence of two members of the board: Luke Joblin was attending a Realtors’ convention in Philadelphia, and Thomas Souleby was currently under observation at a sleep clinic in Boston, having recently received a diagnosis of sleep apnea. In times of crisis Hayley could act without a vote from the board, but Morland had convinced her that the situation wasn’t that desperate. The detective was simply asking questions.
There was nothing to link the death of the girl’s father to the town, and the girl herself was no more. Unless the detective could commune with the deceased, he would find his avenues of inquiry quickly exhausted.

Hayley Conyer poured the last of her tea into her cup. It must have been cold and unbearably strong by now, but she wasn’t one to let things go to waste. To her right sat Warraner, his face frozen. That was the other thing: Warraner had wanted them to take action, but he couldn’t specify what kind of action. Killing the detective wasn’t an option, and Warraner had no solution of his own to offer. He just didn’t like seeing Morland get his way. Warraner would rather have been the king of nothing than the prince of something.

“I’m still not entirely happy,” said Warraner. “This man is a threat to us.”

“Not yet,” said Morland, for what seemed the hundredth time. He removed his hands from his face. “Not unless we make him a threat.”

“We’ll discuss it again when Thomas and Luke have returned,” snapped Hayley. She seemed as weary of Warraner as Morland was. “In the meantime, I want to be informed the moment he returns to Prosperous,
if
he returns here. I don’t want to have to wait to hear it from the pastor.”

Warraner’s face thawed into a smile. Morland didn’t react. He simply wanted to be gone from the house. He stood and took his coat from the chair.

“If he comes back, you’ll know,” said Morland.

He was hungry. Alina would have done what she could to save some dinner for him, but it would still be dried to hell and back by now. He’d eat it, though, and not just because he was hungry. He’d have eaten it even if Hayley Conyer had force-fed him caviar and foie gras during their meeting. He’d eat it because his wife had prepared it for him.

“Good night,” said Morland.

“Just one more thing, Chief” said Hayley, and Morland stiffened as surely as if she’d inserted a blade into the small of his back.

He turned. Even Warraner seemed curious to hear what it was she had to say.

“I want the girl’s body moved,” said Hayley.

Morland looked at her as though she were mad.

“You’ve got to be kidding.”

“I’m far from kidding. This detective’s presence in Prosperous has made me uneasy, and if that body is discovered we’ll all be fucked.”

Warraner looked shocked. Even Morland was surprised. He hadn’t heard Hayley Conyer swear in a coon’s age.

“I want the girl’s remains taken beyond the town limits,” she continued. “
Far
beyond. How you dispose of her is your own concern, but get her gone, do you understand?”

In that moment, Morland hated Hayley Conyer more than he had ever hated anyone before. He hated her, and he hated Prosperous.

“I understand,” he said.

This time, he didn’t call her a bitch when he was alone again. He had a stronger word for her instead, and he used it all the way home. He’d dig up the body the next day, just as he had been told, but he wouldn’t do it alone, because fucking Harry Dixon would be right there alongside him.

“Fuck!” shouted Morland, as he drove. “Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!”

He slammed the steering wheel hard in time with each use of the word, and the wind tugged at the branches of the trees as around him the woods laughed.

CHAPTER

XXVII

There were three towns within a two-mile radius of Prosperous’s limits. Only one, Dearden, was of any significant size; the other two were towns in the same way that Pluto used to be a planet, or a handful of guys standing at a crossroads counted as a crowd.

Every town has someone who is a royal pain in the ass. This role divides pretty evenly between the sexes, but the age profile is usually consistent: over forty, at least, and preferably older; usually single, or with the kind of spouse or partner who is either lost in hero worship or one step away from murder. If a meeting is held, they’re at it. If change is in the air, they’re against it. If you say it’s black, they’ll say it’s white. If you agree that it’s white, they’ll reconsider their position. They’ve rarely held an elected position, or, if they once did, no one was crazy enough to reelect them. Their self-appointed role in life is to ensure that they’re nobody’s fool, and they want as many people as possible to know it. Because of them, things get done more slowly. Sometimes things don’t get done at all. Very occasionally, they inadvertently do some good by preventing from happening that which might ultimately have proved to be unbeneficial or actively destructive to their community, but they manage to do so only on the basis that even a stopped clock is right twice a day.

If a town is sufficiently large, there may be many such persons,
but Dearden was big enough to contain only a single such entity. His name was Euclid Danes, and even a cursory Internet search in connection with Dearden threw up Euclid’s name with a frequency that might lead one to suspect that he was the only living soul in town. In fact, so omnipresent was Euclid Danes that even Dearden wasn’t big enough to contain him, and his sphere of influence had extended to ­encompass parts of Prosperous too. Euclid Danes owned a number of acres between Prosperous and Dearden, and it appeared that he had made it his lifelong business to singlehandedly resist the expansion of Prosperous to the south. His land acted as a buffer between the towns, and he had steadfastly and successfully fought every attempt by the citizens of Prosperous to buy him, or force him, out. He didn’t seem interested in money or reason. He wanted to keep his land, and if by doing so he irritated the hell out of the wealthy folk up the road, then so much the better.

Euclid Danes’s house was the original bad-neighbor nightmare: poorly kept, with a yard that was a kissing cousin to wilderness and littered with pieces of unidentifiable machinery that, with a little work and a lot of chutzpah, might even have qualified as some form of modern sculpture. An original Volkswagen Beetle was in the drive. In an open garage beyond stood the skeleton of a second Beetle, scavenged for parts.

I parked and rang the doorbell. From somewhere at the back of the house came the sound of excited barking.

The door was opened by a stick-thin woman in a blue housecoat. A cigarette smoldered in her right hand. In her left she held a small mongrel puppy by the scruff of the neck.

“Yes?” she said.

“I was looking for Euclid Danes.”

She took a drag on the cigarette. The puppy yawned.

“Jesus, what’s he done now?” she said.

“Nothing. I just wanted to ask him a few questions.”

“Why?”

“I’m a private investigator.”

I showed her my identification. Even the puppy looked more impressed by it than she did.

“You sure he’s not in trouble?”

“Not with me. Are you Mrs. Danes?”

This provoked a burst of laughter that deteriorated into a fit of coughing.

“Jesus Christ, no!” she said, once she’d recovered. “I’m his sister. There’s nobody desperate enough to marry that poor sonofabitch, or if there is, then I don’t want to meet her.”

I couldn’t see a wedding ring on her finger either. Then again, she was so thin that it would have been hard to make one fit, or, if it did, the weight would have unbalanced her. She was so skinny as to be almost sexless, and her hair was cut shorter than mine. If it hadn’t been for the housecoat, and the pale twig legs that poked out from under her skirt, she could have passed for an elderly man.

“So, is Mr. Danes around?”

“Oh, he’s around somewhere, just not here. He’s on his throne, holding court. You know where Benny’s is?”

“No.”

“Head into town and take the first left after the intersection. Follow the smell of stale beer. When you find him, tell him to get his ass home. I’m cooking meat loaf. If he’s not sitting at the table when it comes out of the oven, I’ll feed it to the dogs.”

“I’ll be sure to let him know.”

“Much appreciated.” She held the puppy up at eye level. “You want to buy a puppy?”

“No, thank you.”

“You want one for free?”

The puppy, seeming to understand that it was the object of discussion, wagged its tail hopefully. It was brown, with sleepy eyes.

“Not really.”

“Damn.”

“What’ll you do with it?”

She looked the puppy in the eyes.

“Feed it meat loaf, I guess.”

“Right.”

She closed the door without saying another word. I remained where I was for a few moments, the way you do when you’ve just had something that might have passed for a conversation if you weren’t paying attention, then got back into my car and went to look for Benny’s.

BENNY’S WASN’T HARD TO
find. Dearden was no metropolis, and there was only one intersection of any size at the heart of town. It didn’t even have a signal, just a quartet of stop signs, and Benny’s was the sole business on its street. Actually, Benny’s was the sole
anything
on its street. Beyond it lay only woods. Benny’s was a squat redbrick building whose sign had been provided by the Coca-Cola Company at least thirty years earlier, and was now faded and yellowed. It also lacked a possessive apostrophe. Maybe Benny didn’t like to boast. If so, it was a wise move.

A certain odor comes with a bar that isn’t cleaned regularly. All bars smell of it a little—it’s a product of spilled beer that has ingrained itself into the floors and storage spaces, along with whatever chooses to propagate in old yeast—but Benny’s smelled so strongly of it, even from outside, that birds flying above were at risk of alcohol-induced disorientation. Benny’s had added an extra component to the stink by combining it with rancid grease: the extractors at the back of the building were caked with it. By the time I got to the door, Benny’s had put its mark on me, and I knew that I’d end up stinking of the place all the way home, assuming my arteries didn’t harden and kill me first.

Curiously, it didn’t smell as bad inside, although that would have been difficult under the circumstances. Benny’s was more of a restaurant than a bar, assuming you were prepared to be generous with your definition of a restaurant. An open kitchen lay behind the counter to the left, alongside a couple of beer taps that suggested microbrews were regarded as a passing fad. A menu board on the wall above had adjustable plastic letters and numbers arranged into the kinds of prices that hadn’t changed since Elvis died, and the kinds of food choices that had helped to kill him. The tables were Formica, and the chairs wood and vinyl. Christmas tree lights hung on all four walls just below the ceiling, providing most of the illumination, and the décor was old beer signs and mirrors.

And, you know, it was kind of cool, once my eyes had adjusted to the gloom.

Music was playing low: “Come Together,” followed by “Something.”
Abbey Road.
A big man in an apron stood at the grill, flipping burgers.

“How you doin’, ” he said. “Waitress will be with you in a minute. How is it out there?”

“It’s cold. Clear skies, though.”

“Weather Channel says it could go down to ten degrees tonight.”

“At least you’re warm in here.”

He was sweating over the grill. Nobody was going to have to salt a hamburger.

“I always got insulation.”

He patted his massive belly, and I instantly recalled Candy, back in the Tender House in Bangor, watching her weight and counting marshmallows. It reminded me of why I was here.

A compact middle-aged woman with huge hair materialized out of the darkness. I had already begun to make out half a dozen figures scattered around, but it would have taken a flashlight shined on their faces to discern their features.

“Table, hon?” said the woman.

“I was looking for Euclid Danes,” I said. “His sister told me he might be here.”

“He’s in his office,” she said. “Table at the back. She send you to bring him home?”

“Apparently she’s cooking meat loaf.”

“I can believe it. She can’t cook nothing else. Get you a drink?”

“Coffee, please.”

“I’ll make it extra strong. You’ll need it if you’re going to stay awake listening to his ramblings.”

Euclid Danes looked like his sister in male drag. They might even have been twins. He was wearing a shabby blue suit and a red tie, just in case he was suddenly required to interfere in someone else’s business. The table before him was covered with newspapers, clippings, random documents, assorted pens and highlighters, and a half-eaten plate of french fries. He didn’t look up as I stood over him, so lost was he in annotating a sheaf of reports.

“Mr. Danes?” I said.

He raised his right hand while the fountain pen in his left continued to scrawl across the page. His notes were longer than the report itself. I could almost hear the rise of frustrated sighs at some future meeting as Euclid Danes stood, cleared his throat, and began to speak.

A long time went by. My coffee came. I added milk. I took a sip. Oceans rose and fell, and mountains collapsed to dust. Finally, Euclid Danes finished his work, capped his pen, and aligned it with the paper on which he had been working. He clasped his hands and looked up at me with young, curious eyes. There was mischief in them. Euclid Danes might have been the bane of life in Dearden, but he was smart enough to know it, and bright enough to enjoy it.

“How can I help you?” he said.

“You mind if I take a seat?”

“Not at all.” He waved at a chair.

“Your french fries?” I said, pointing at the plate.

“They were.”

“Your sister is going to be annoyed that you’ve eaten.”

“My sister is always annoyed, whether I eat or not. Is she now hiring detectives to monitor my habits?”

I tried not to show surprise.

“Did she call ahead?”

“To warn me? She wouldn’t do that. She’s probably at home praying that you make me disappear. No, I read the papers and watch the news, and I have a good memory for faces. You’re Charlie Parker, out of Portland.”

“You make me sound like a gunfighter.”

“Yes, I do, don’t I?” he said, and his eyes twinkled. “So how can I help you, Mr. Parker?”

The waitress appeared and freshened my coffee.

“I’d like to talk to you about Prosperous,” I said.

CHIEF MORLAND PICKED UP
Harry Dixon at his home. He didn’t inform Harry as to why he needed him, just told him to get his coat and a pair of gloves. Morland already had a spade, his pickax, and flashlights in the car. He was tempted to ask Bryan Joblin to join them, but instead told him to wait with Harry’s wife. Morland didn’t want her to panic and do something stupid. He could see the way she was looking at him while Harry went to fetch his coat, as if he was ready to put her husband in the ground, but it hadn’t come to that, not yet.

“It’s all right,” said Morland. “I’ll bring him back in one piece. I just need his help.”

Erin Dixon didn’t reply. She sat at the kitchen counter, staring him down. She won, or he let her win. He wasn’t sure which. In either event, he simply looked away.

Bryan Joblin was sitting by the fire, drinking a PBR and watching some dumb quiz show. Bryan was useful because he didn’t think
much, and he did as he was told. A purpose could always be found for men like that. Empires were built on their backs.

“How long is he going to stay here?” said Erin, pointing at Bryan with her chin. If Bryan heard her, he didn’t respond. He took another sip of his beer and tried to figure out on which continent the Republic of Angola was situated.

“Just until the next girl is found,” said Morland. “How’s that coming along?”

“I’ve driven around some, as has Harry,” said Erin. “It would be easier if we could move without that fool tagging along with us everywhere.”

Bryan Joblin still didn’t react. He was lost in his show. He’d guessed Asia, and was smacking the arm of his chair in frustation. Bryan would never serve on the board of selectmen, not unless every other living thing in Prosperous—cats and dogs included—predeceased him.

Morland knew that Bryan alternated his vigils between Harry and his wife. He was currently helping Harry out with an attic conversion on the outskirts of Bangor. Bryan might not have been smart, but he was good with his hands once he worked up the energy to act. In practical terms, there wasn’t much Bryan could do if either Harry or Erin decided to try something dumb while he was with the other spouse, but his presence was a reminder of the town’s power. It was psychological pressure, albeit with a physical threat implied.

“As soon as we have a girl, he’ll be gone,” said Morland. “You brought him on yourselves. You brought all of this on yourselves.”

Harry had reappeared with his coat. He’d taken his time. Morland wondered what he’d been doing.

Harry patted his wife gently on the shoulder as he passed her. She reached out to grasp his hand, but it was too late. He had moved on.

“You have any idea how long we’re going to be?” he asked Morland.

“Couple of hours. You got gloves?”

Harry removed a pair from his pocket. He always had gloves. They were part of his uniform.

“Then let’s go,” said Morland. “Sooner we get started, sooner we finish.”

EUCLID DANES ASKED ME
why I was interested in Prosperous.

“I’d prefer not to say,” I told him. I didn’t want the details to end up in one of Euclid’s files, ready to be raised at the next meeting.

“You don’t trust me?” said Euclid.

“I don’t know you.”