Bag of Bones (49 page)

Ringgg . . . ringgg . . . ringgg . . .

Was that ten? A dozen? I'd lost count. Someone was really dedicated. I hoped it wasn't trouble, but in my experience people don't try that hard when the news is good. I touched my fingers gingerly to the back of my head. It hurt plenty, but that deep, sick ache seemed to be gone. And there was no blood on my fingers when I looked at them.

I padded down the hall and picked up the phone. “Hello?”

“Well, you won't have to worry about testifyin at the kid's custody hearin anymore, at least.”

“Bill?”

“Ayuh.”

“How did you know . . .” I leaned around the corner and peered at the waggy, annoying cat-clock. Twenty minutes past seven and already sweltering. Hotter'n a bugger, as us TR Martians like to say. “How do you know he decided—”

“I don't know nothing about his business one way or t'other.” Bill sounded touchy. “He never called to ask my advice, and I never called to give him any.”

“What's happened? What's going on?”

“You haven't had the TV on yet?”

“I don't even have the coffee on yet.”

No apology from Bill; he was a fellow who believed that people who didn't get up until after six
A.M.
deserved whatever they got. I was awake now, though. And had a pretty good idea of what was coming.

“Devore killed himself last night, Mike. Got into a tub of warm water and pulled a plastic bag over his head. Mustn't have taken long, with his lungs the way they were.”

No, I thought, probably not long. In spite of the humid summer heat that already lay on the house, I shivered.

“Who found him? The woman?”

“Ayuh, sure.”

“What time?”

“ ‘Shortly before midnight,' they said on the Channel 6 news.”

Right around the time I had awakened on the
couch and taken myself stiffly off to bed, in other words.

“Is she implicated?”

“Did she play Kevorkian, you mean? The news report I saw didn't say nothin about that. The gossip-mill down to the Lakeview General will be turnin brisk by now, but I ain't been down yet for my share of the grain. If she helped him, I don't think she'll ever see trouble for it, do you? He was eighty-five and not well. ”

“Do you know if he'll be buried on the TR?”

“California. She said there'd be services in Palm Springs on Tuesday.”

A sense of surpassing oddness swept over me as I realized the source of Mattie's problems might be lying in a chapel filled with flowers at the same time The Friends of Kyra Devore were digesting their lunches and getting ready to start throwing the Frisbee around.
It's going to be a celebration,
I thought wonderingly.
I don't know how they're going to handle it in The Little Chapel of the Microchips in Palm Springs, but on Wasp Hill Road they're going to be dancing and throwing their arms in the sky and hollering Yes, Lawd.

I'd never been glad to hear of anyone's death before in my life, but I was glad to hear of Devore's. I was sorry to feel that way, but I did. The old bastard had dumped me in the lake . . . but before the night was over, he was the one who had drowned. Inside a plastic bag he had drowned, sitting in a tub of tepid water.

“Any idea how the TV guys got onto it so fast?” It wasn't
superfast,
not with seven hours between the
discovery of the body and the seven o'clock news, but TV news people have a tendency to be lazy.

“Whitmore called em. Had a press conference right there in Warrin'ton's parlor at two o'clock this morning. Took questions settin on that big maroon plush sofa, the one Jo always used to say should be in a saloon oil paintin with a naked woman lyin on it. Remember?”

“Yeah.”

“I saw a coupla County deputies walkin around in the background, plus a fella I reckonized from Jaquard's Funeral Home in Motton.”

“That's bizarre,” I said.

“Ayuh, body still upstairs, most likely, while Whitmore was runnin her gums . . . but she claimed she was just followin the boss's orders. Said he left a tape sayin he'd done it on Friday night so as not to affect the cump'ny stock price and wanted Rogette to call in the press right off and assure folks that the cump'ny was solid, that between his son and the Board of Directors, everythin was goin to be just acey-deucey. Then she told about the services in Palm Springs.”

“He commits suicide, then holds a two
A.M.
press conference by proxy to soothe the stockholders.”

“Ayuh. And it sounds just like him.”

A silence fell between us on the line. I tried to think and couldn't. All I knew was that I wanted to go upstairs and work, aching head or no aching head. I wanted to rejoin Andy Drake, John Shackleford, and Shackleford's childhood friend, the awful Ray Garraty. There was madness in my story, but it was a madness I understood.

“Bill,” I said at last, “are we still friends?”

“Christ, yes,” he said promptly. “But if there's people around who seem a little stand-offy to you, you'll know why, won't you?”

Sure I'd know. Many would blame the old man's death on me. It was crazy, given his physical condition, and it would by no means be a majority opinion, but the idea would gain a certain amount of credence, at least in the short run—I knew that as well as I knew the truth about John Shackleford's childhood friend.

Kiddies, once upon a time there was a goose that flew back to the little unincorporated township where it had lived as a downy gosling. It began laying lovely golden eggs, and the townsfolk all gathered around to marvel and receive their share. Now, however, that goose was cooked and someone had to take the heat. I'd get some, but Mattie's kitchen might get a few degrees toastier than mine; she'd had the temerity to fight for her child instead of silently handing Ki over.

“Keep your head down the next few weeks,” Bill said. “That'd be my idea. In fact, if you had business that took you right out of the TR until all this settles down, that might be for the best.”

“I appreciate the sense of what you're saying, but I can't. I'm writing a book. If I pick up my shit and move, it's apt to die on me. It's happened before, and I don't want it to happen this time.”

“Pretty good yarn, is it?”

“Not bad, but that's not the important thing. It's . . . well, let's just say this one's important to me for other reasons.”

“Wouldn't it travel as far as Derry?”

“Are you trying to get rid of me, William?”

“I'm tryin to keep an eye out, that's all—care-takin's my job, y'know. And don't say you weren't warned: the hive's gonna buzz. There's two stories goin around about you, Mike. One is that you're shacking with Mattie Devore. The other is that you came back to write a hatchet-job on the TR. Pull out all the old skeletons you can find.”

“Finish what Jo started, in other words. Who's been spreading that story, Bill?”

Silence from Bill. We were back on earthquake ground again, and this time that ground felt shakier than ever.

“The book I'm working on is a novel,” I said. “Set in Florida.”

“Oh, ayuh?” You wouldn't think three little syllables could have so much relief in them.

“Think you could kind of pass that around?”

“I think I could,” he said. “If you tell Brenda Meserve, it'd get around even faster and go even farther.”

“Okay, I will. As far as Mattie goes—”

“Mike, you don't have to—”

“I'm not shacking with her. That was never the deal. The deal was like walking down the street, turning the corner, and seeing a big guy beating up a little guy.” I paused. “She and her lawyer are planning a barbecue at her place Tuesday noon. I'm planning to join them. Are people from town going to think we're dancing on Devore's grave?”

“Some will. Royce Merrill will. Dickie Brooks will. Old ladies in pants, Yvette calls em.”

“Well fuck them,” I said. “Every last one.”

“I understand how you feel, but tell her not to shove it in folks' faces,” he almost pleaded. “Do that much, Mike. It wouldn't kill her to drag her grill around back of her trailer, would it? At least with it there, folks lookin out from the store or the garage wouldn't see nothing but the smoke.”

“I'll pass on the message. And if I make the party, I'll put the barbecue around back myself.”

“You'd do well to stay away from that girl and her child,” Bill said. “You can tell me it's none of my business, but I'm talkin to you like a Dutch uncle, tellin you for your own good.”

I had a flash of my dream then. The slick, exquisite tightness as I slipped inside her. The little breasts with their hard nipples. Her voice in the darkness, telling me to do what I wanted. My body responded almost instantly. “I know you are,” I said.

“All right.” He sounded relieved that I wasn't going to scold him—take him to school, he would have said. “I'll let you go n have your breakfast.”

“I appreciate you calling.”

“Almost didn't. Yvette talked me into it. She said, ‘You always liked Mike and Jo Noonan best of all the ones you did for. Don't you get in bad with him now that he's back home.' ”

“Tell her I appreciate it,” I said.

I hung up the phone and looked at it thoughtfully. We seemed to be on good terms again . . . but I didn't think we were exactly friends. Certainly not the way we had been. That had changed when I realized Bill was lying to me about some things and holding back about others; it had also changed when I
realized what he had almost called Sara and the Red-Tops.

You can't condemn a man for what may only be a figment of your own imagination.

True, and I'd try not to do it . . . but I knew what I knew.

I went into the living room, snapped on the TV, then snapped it off again. My satellite dish got fifty or sixty different channels, and not a one of them local. There was a portable TV in the kitchen, however, and if I dipped its rabbit-ears toward the lake I'd be able to get WMTW, the ABC affiliate in western Maine.

I snatched up Rogette's note, went into the kitchen, and turned on the little Sony tucked under the cabinets with the coffee-maker.
Good Morning America
was on, but they would be breaking for the local news soon. In the meantime I scanned the note, this time concentrating on the mode of expression rather than the message, which had taken all of my attention the night before.

Hopes to return to California by private jet very soon,
she had written.

Has business which can be put off no longer,
she had written.

If you promise to let him rest in peace,
she had written.

It was a goddam suicide note.

“You knew,” I said, rubbing my thumb over the raised letters of her name. “You knew when you wrote this, and probably when you were chucking rocks at me. But why?”

Custody has its responsibilities,
she had written.
Don't forget he said so.

But the custody business was over, right? Not
even a judge that was bought and paid for could award custody to a dead man.

GMA
finally gave way to the local report, where Max Devore's suicide was the leader. The TV picture was snowy, but I could see the maroon sofa Bill had mentioned, and Rogette Whitmore sitting on it with her hands folded composedly in her lap. I thought one of the deputies in the background was George Footman, although the snow was too heavy for me to be completely sure.

Mr. Devore had spoken frequently over the last eight months of ending his life, Whitmore said. He had been very unwell. He had asked her to come out with him the previous evening, and she realized now that he had wanted to look at one final sunset. It had been a glorious one, too, she added. I could have corroborated that; I remembered the sunset very well, having almost drowned by its light.

Rogette was reading Devore's statement when my phone rang again. It was Mattie, and she was crying in hard gusts.

“The news,” she said, “Mike, did you see . . . do you know . . .”

At first that was all she could manage that was coherent. I told her I did know, Bill Dean had called me and then I'd caught some of it on the local news. She tried to reply and couldn't speak. Guilt, relief, horror, even hilarity—I heard all those things in her crying. I asked where Ki was. I could sympathize with how Mattie felt—until turning on the news this morning she'd believed old Max Devore was her bitterest enemy—but I didn't like the idea of a three-year-old girl watching her mom fall apart.

“Out back,” she managed. “She's had her breakfast. Now she's having a d-doll p-p-p . . . doll pi-p-pic—”

“Doll picnic. Yes. Good. Let it go, then. All of it. Let it out.”

She cried for two minutes at least, maybe longer. I stood with the telephone pressed to my ear, sweating in the July heat, trying to be patient.

I'm going to give you one chance to save your soul,
Devore had told me, but this morning he was dead and his soul was wherever it was. He was dead, Mattie was free, I was writing. Life should have felt wonderful, but it didn't.

At last she began to get her control back. “I'm sorry. I haven't cried like that—really, really cried—since Lance died.”

“It's understandable and you're allowed.”

“Come to lunch,” she said. “Come to lunch
please,
Mike. Ki's going to spend the afternoon with a friend she met at Vacation Bible School, and we can talk. I need to talk to someone . . . God, my head is spinning. Please say you'll come.”

“I'd love to, but it's a bad idea. Especially with Ki gone.”

I gave her an edited version of my conversation with Bill Dean. She listened carefully. I thought there might be an angry outburst when I finished, but I'd forgotten one simple fact: Mattie Stanchfield Devore had lived around here all her life. She knew how things worked.