He’d put off seeing Mac since Fay called with the news of his return. He smiled. She’d put one over on the old man. Said he had a scowl a mile wide on his face when Hartley arrived with Boomer, though Fay suspected Mac was almost— almost—relieved to be found. The old man wasn’t going anywhere now; Colm was pretty sure of that. Fay and Hartley were keeping a close eye on him. Mac seemed subdued, according to Fay. After all, he was anemic, and frail-looking—all skin and bones. And maybe, just maybe, he was worried about Glenna.
Jeez. Who should he meet coming out of the Flint house but Kevin Crowningshield, as dapper as ever. A smile on his face—”pumpkin grin,” Colm called it. Thrusting out his hand to shake Colm’s, as if they were bosom buddies. Reluctantly, he took it.
“The police called. Just now. It was Bagshaw all the time. Bagshaw used a poison called superwarfarin to kill those birds. They found it on the feet—that’s how they absorb it from the feeding perch—through the feet. He’d admitted it, too, used some kind of perch he bought through a catalog—Killabird or something. It’s illegal in this state.” He withdrew his hand, grimaced. “But it doesn’t bring Angie back.”
“Killabird uses fenthion—that won’t harm humans,” Colm informed Crowningshield. “But superwarfarin will— especially if the victim is on blood thinners. He evidently used it when the fenthion ran out. That’s why it took so long to recognize the poison in her system.” He heard his voice expressionless. Crowningshield hadn’t hurt his wife, so why was he so down on this guy?
The man’s voice got throaty; his breath sounded raggedy. “She could have been saved. I blame them all. I blame those women at that Healing House for not letting me see her. I blame Bagshaw, blame the police for dragging their feet, blame the doctors. ...” His fists were clenched so hard, the bone shone through the knuckles.
Colm cleared his throat. It was unfair of him to judge the man this way, he supposed. Crowningshield was obviously in pain. He just didn’t like him, that’s all. With some men, you had bad vibes. Ruth, of course, would say he was jealous. Maybe he was.
“It was my land, too,” Crowningshield went on, blowing his nose, lifting his chin, his shiny black shoes planted on the porch floor. “I showed them the deed; I got it from the lawyer.”
“Already?” said Colm.
“Well. . . well, I have to settle things. While I’m here. I mean, I have to get back to Chicago. My work. I’ve been away from it too long. The work will help.”
Colm nodded, went on into the house. He heard Crowningshield’s rented car start up, and then turn off— engine trouble? He was sorry for the man, and yet angry. The guy would be contacting a Realtor next, he bet, but Colm was pretty sure he himself wouldn’t be the one called. Selling the Healing House land out from under the women. Making a bundle, no doubt. With Bagshaw in trouble, maybe Crowningshield could buy up the land next door, as well. Develop it.
Jeez, but Colm hated real estate. Why was he in it— except to walk the land, escape the mortuary? Of course, it was nice to see a young couple’s faces when they signed for their first home, though he winced at the mortgage they took on their backs. Like carrying a hump around with you for thirty years. Maybe he should go back into teaching. He’d tried for a time, but the kids ran all over him. He was a patsy for any excuse: “The computer ate my paper....” Yeah, right! He’d take a test, he decided. See what career he was really suited for. In his late forties? Still living with his dad? Jeez.
He found Mac slumped over the kitchen table, stirring a cup of hot cocoa, a soggy marshmallow in the middle. There were a couple of half-smoked cigarettes in an ashtray. The old man squinted up at Colm with a sly smile.
Colm decided not to scold. Anyway, he still had Crowningshield on his mind. “Ever seen that guy before? The one who just walked out the door? Ever see him back when you lived here?” He looked out the window. The man had the hood up, was peering in at the engine.
Mac shrugged. “Looks slightly familiar. Might have seen him around town sometime. Not around here, though.”
“Killian Precision ring a bell? Got any more of those marshmallows?” Then he put a hand on his belly. He didn’t need them. He slid into a chair across from Mac.
Mac thought a while, slurped his cocoa. “Couple guys I knew worked there, one of the Bagshaws, I think.” And when Colm looked interested, Mac added, “I said, I think.
Think.
I don’t
know.
Now let’s get back to me. You got me; I give up. I can’t run anymore. You wanna tell the police I killed that guy in the hole? I’m yours. I need a long nap.”
“I don’t
want
to tell them anything, Mac. I just want them to know you’re alive. So Glenna won’t be a suspect.”
“If she’s not a suspect, then I am. Ever think of that, buddy? I ran off—somebody put that guy in the hole. They’ll point the finger at me, right?”
“If you didn’t do it, you don’t have to worry.”
“Oh, I have to worry all right,” said Mac, brooding into his cocoa. His whiskers dipped into the cup and came up brown.
“One of the Bagshaws worked at Killian Precision. Do you recall when?”
“Hell, I don’t know. Time passes. It blurs. You can find out if you go there.”
“It’s no longer in operation.”
“So? There are ways. I don’t have to tell you; you’re a—”
“Pseudo-detective,” Colm interrupted. That was his career now. Pseudo-detective. Jeez.
Mac laughed, a wheezing sound that spit out cocoa onto the vinyl tablecloth.
Fay would be glad when Mac left, Colm bet. She wouldn’t get any rent out
of him.
He heard her upstairs, running a vacuum.
Mac was looking serious again. “I saw him in Alibi—that’s where I saw him. Younger version, of course.”
“Who?”
“That guy who just left, Crown something. You asked me, right? He got in a fight, yeah, fisticuffs. Bartender had to heave the two of ’em outta there. It was a good one.” He smiled at some image he was projecting on the white wall.
“Two? Who was the other? What was the fight about?”
“How the hell do I know?”
“Who was the other? I asked.”
“Oh. Well, I think—one of the Bagshaws, the womanizer, that one. Maybe that’s what the fight was over, a woman. Most likely.”
“That’s all you know? You don’t remember when, or what they said to each other?”
Mac sighed, swallowed his marshmallow. Colm watched it lump its way down through his throat. Then he said, “It was just before I left. Month or so maybe, I don’t know. Couple of weeks. Then that guy, that Bagshaw—he came here to the farm.”
“Go on.”
Mac stood up suddenly, spilling the cocoa. “Nothing, just nothing. Had business here, that’s all, I guess. He sold fertilizer or something. That’s all I know. I’m sick of answering questions. If we’re going downtown, let’s go. Get it over with. Show ’em I’m me, Mac MacInnis. Do I have to take out my teeth? Prove to ’em Glenna didn’t kill me?”
“Hopefully, it will help Glenna.”
“Yeah, hopefully,” Mac said, his face a mask, and snatching a dark red cardigan sweater from the back of the chair, sighing loudly, he plodded to the door. “Let’s get it over with, I said, okay?” He pulled out a cigarette. “I need a nap.”
* * * *
Chief Fallon sat back in his swivel chair, peeled a banana. Bananas contained fiber, iron, he told Colm; his chiropractor advised him to eat them. For one thing, he had a bad back: “Last week, I put something, um, out. The wife finds me flat on the floor—I can’t move. I have to crawl to the, um—”
Colm repeated his request to see Alwyn Bagshaw, and finally Fallon sent him over to the jail, where they were holding the man. “Sure, ask away. And good luck. We can’t get anything out of the son of a gun. He just raves on about some Antichrist. We got him a lawyer, but now the guy’s telling him to plead not guilty. When we’ve got him against the wall. He’s guilty as hell of offing those birds. That’s crime enough around here. Wait till the Audubon Society gets hold of that one. Poisoning birds.”
“What about those women? Angie Crowningshield? Two others with traces of it in their systems? Lucky for them we found out when we did.”
“You got a point there,” Fallon said. “You got a point.” And as Colm left the office, he yelled, “That Flint woman, he swears he left her at the convenience store. The clerk says he never saw her. I got a man interviewing the neighbors. Okay, see if you think Bagshaw’s telling the truth. He’s senile, a little nuts. Raves on about some Annie, says she ruined him. There was an Annie, someone he went with back when. One of our detectives checked on it. She lives in California now. Alive and well, right? Hasn’t seen old Bagshaw for twenny years. The old man lives in the past. So go, um, ask... At least your man MacInnis has his act together. If it really
is
old Mac.” He grinned. “I’ve got him on hold here until...”
Colm shut the door on the rest of the sentence. He was concerned about Mac, and Glenna, too, yes, but obsessed— he had to admit it—with Kevin Crowningshield. With unanswered questions, like Denby Bagshaw’s relationship with Crowningshield. Why would Crowningshield want to stay at the Flint place, a marginal farm? He had money, so why not stay at the inn? Was there some reason behind that? Nothing obvious—yet. Colm just wanted to know some things, that’s all.
Though Fallon was right. Bagshaw just rambled on, raving about the Healing House. “It ain’t right; it ain’t normal,” he whined at Colm. “Them women, prancing about half-naked. I don’t hold with that. Where’s the men? You tell me where’s the men? Woman needs a man to keep her down. Like Annie ... But I fooled her. I fooled Annie.”
“I want to know about your brother,” Colm interrupted. He started up the small recorder in his pocket. Hoped the battery worked. Colm wasn’t very good with machines. Of course, it wasn’t an official interview. “Denby. He worked at Killian Precision?”
Alwyn slitted his eyes. “Why you want to know that for?”
“He drowned,” Colm said. “Back in ‘75, it was in the
Independent.
I looked up an old copy. Wasn’t that a bit odd? I mean, just the year before, he dove off the rock at the quarry and landed on some woman, half-drowned
her.
That was in the papers, too. Would he dive off if he couldn’t swim?”
Alwyn considered, ran a hand through his white hairs. Colm noticed that his left middle finger stuck up, like he was always giving someone the finger. In a way, it was true. “Yep, yep, he could swim all right. But his truck couldn’t. He drowned in his truck. Body floated off into the lake. Try dredging up that big lake?”
“You know Glenna Flint’s husband, Mac?”
“Maybe I do.” Alwyn slumped back on the bench. “Well, he’s dead. Buried in that hole. Sure. Look, I’m tired. I got problems. Police took me outta my home. They can’t do that. A man’s got a right to his privacy. Get me outta here!” He stretched out a hand. The backs looked clawed, like bird feet.
“You didn’t think of those women’s rights, did you? When you burned those birds? Buried what was left in that garden?”
“It was my property. I got a deed, too. It’s in my closet. If they let me out, I’ll show ’em. They got no right coming on my property.”
“It was
half-yaw
property; we have a deed from next door.” Colm was guessing. He needed time to go check on Crowningshield’s deed. He’d go after this interview. “Some of the bird remains were on the, um, Crowningshield property.” It was a nice lead-in. “Ever seen him before? Kevin Crowningshield? He was the dead woman’s husband. He owns the property now. So he says.” Colm held a photo under Bagshaw’s nose. Fay had taken it, smart lady.
“No.”
“Denby knew him, though. They both worked at Killian Precision. In the same year. Then Denby was fired. Why was that?”
Alwyn burst out laughing. It sounded like a rooster crowing. “He got that woman knocked up, that’s why. She worked there. She come round to the house once. Looking for him, wanting him to marry her, that’s what Denby said.” He exploded with laughter. “Denby, he wasn’t the marrying kind. He just took what he needed. Didn’t need no wedding ring. Took ’em and then throwed ’em off.” He looked angry now, jumped up and grabbed Colm’s shoulders. “You son of a bitch, you bastard, you took my Annie. You ruined her. You got ever’thing you ever wanted. You just took it, you—”
Colm grabbed Alwyn’s shirt. It was worn from washing, and a button shot off. Something gold shone through. It was a ring, on a thin chain. He pulled it out. A ring with a bone crossed with an arrow. “Where’d you get this?” he yelled.
But Alwyn was hollering now about the devil, spitting as he harangued; he shoved Colm’s hand back. Colm gave up the questioning. He’d heard what he wanted anyway. He’d seen what he wanted. He knew now whose skeleton was in that hole. What he didn’t know was who had buried it there.
But they’d want proof. More dental work, more X rays. Jeez. More dentists. Let Fallon handle it this time, some other full-time cop.
Now Colm was the one bedeviled. He blew on his glasses to clean them—where Alwyn had spit—but he only smudged them more. He called the guard to release him, walked out with skewed vision.
* * * *
Eustacia had a bull calf. In the end, it shot out, like a rush of toothpaste you’d almost given up trying to squeeze. Eustacia rolled the calf over, licking it. She’d be one of the good mothers. But a bull calf would have to be sold, fattened up and eaten, unless it was used for stud—and how many bulls did the cow population need? Now if this happened to humans . . . Interesting concept, but rather dull, Ruth thought, considering Colm. A dull world without Colm. Without Kevin? But Kevin was leaving, just for an overnight; he’d left a message on her answering machine, apologizing about being unable to keep their date for a drink. He’d been cleaning up loose ends, seeing a Realtor about the Healing House land. He was short of cash, he’d said, and he needed to sell the land. Well, it was his business. Though Colm would make something big out of it. It had been kind of nice, actually, having two men around.
“Come on, Ruth,” she said aloud. Kevin had loved his wife. He wasn’t interested in Ruth. Was he? He was a handsome man, though. Strong square chin, those penetrating eyes—a warm chocolate color. They kept changing somehow, brown to black.