St. Albans Fire Page 7

  The same thought had occurred to Joe. “It’s early yet. I wouldn’t worry too much. You know who that is? Looks like a basketball player with a weight problem.”

  Jonathan nodded. “Billy St. Cyr. Neighboring farmer to the south.”

  “No kidding?” Joe remembered the name. “He’s the one Cal said he’s been arguing with for twenty years.”

  They inventoried the assembled faces, exchanging information on the few they knew so far. Joe figured that before this was resolved, they’d probably have a conversation with almost everyone here.

  “How ’bout the blonde?” he asked eventually.

  Michael cast him a look. “You didn’t meet her? That’s Linda, Jeff’s wife.”

  Joe grunted softly. “She was asleep when I met the others. She’s very pretty.”

  Jonathon didn’t respond, leaving Joe to his own reflections. In fact, Linda Cutts Padgett was a beauty. Even tired to near haggardness, she was endowed with the same soft and vulnerable radiance that had made the young Julie Christie such a hit in Doctor Zhivago. On her looks alone, Jeff had to count himself a lucky man.

  Joe shifted his focus to the rest of the family, noticing that the grief he’d witnessed the day of the fire had changed into a different, more volatile, complicated kind of tension.

  The minister became its first victim, attempting to arrange the seating. His hopes had clearly been to line them up patriarchally with Cal first, then Marie, followed by Jeff, Linda, and the two kids. But Marie would have none of it. She brusquely pulled Cal down the line, placed him between her and Jeff—casting a loathing glare at the latter—and fired a quick snarling comment at the minister that brought him up short.

  Jeff showed no notice. He was tending to his children, getting them to settle down, while his wife merely stood there, staring blankly at the ground, a thousand miles away. When it came time for them all to sit, Jeff gently lowered her to her chair, as if tending to an ancient Alzheimer’s victim.

  By then, Joe’s eyes were on Calvin. When they’d first met, he’d taken the farmer to be an appeaser by instinct, naturally resolving all conflicts within range. But he wasn’t that way here. Despite the minister looking at him imploringly, there was no deflecting of Marie’s both barrels from Cal. In a rough approximation of his daughter’s apparent catatonia, he seemed to be functioning on automatic pilot.

  The service had barely begun when, from their elevated knoll, the two police officers saw another car pull up by the side of the road. From it, a young woman began making her way up the path toward the group.

  Joe took in the short skirt, streaked hair, and a glint of silver from an eyebrow post, before turning back to the family, his attention drawn by a sudden sharp sound.

  Marie Cutts was standing, her arms rigid, her chair toppled backward. Seen this way, thin and tensioned, her profile highlighted by the sun, she was pure gargoyle of old, perched in muted mimicry of some demonic spirit.

  Until she let out a scream.

  “No. Not her. Not here. Get her away.”

  The minister stalled in midsentence, Calvin looked up at her quizzically, as if she’d shattered a profound daydream. Jeff was the first to act, reaching across his father-in-law to offer comfort. But, of course, that was precisely wrong. Marie recoiled from his touch as if he’d been on fire, violently jarring the minister, who had to lurch not to drop his Bible.

  Jonathon Michael was dispassion personified, whispering, “Let me guess: Marianne Kotch? Should we do something?”

  Joe said, barely moving his lips, “Not yet.”

  His book safe, the minister rallied, grabbing Marie by the shoulders, his body language supportive but disciplining, as if warning her to behave or else. He steered her back to her chair, which Jeff had righted, and almost pushed her back into it. He then nodded to the young newcomer, directed her to a spot as far from Marie as possible, reopened his Bible, and asked of his audience, “Shall we resume?”

  They did, including Marie, who sat beside her husband in furious, silent, impotent defeat, as glowering as Cal appeared lost.

  “Wow,” muttered Jonathon, “I wonder why she showed up.”

  Joe was still watching Marianne Kotch, her head held high but her stance suggestive of a deer’s about to bolt.

  “I think I’ll ask her,” he said.

  He had the opportunity after the service. Because of where the minister had placed her, and her own reluctance to mingle, Marianne stayed far back of the crowd, among the other headstones, biding her time until she got a clear run to her car.

  Gunther stepped off his small mound and approached her casually.

  “Marianne?” he asked as he drew near.

  She eyed him suspiciously. “So?”

  “Nothing much,” he responded affably. “Nice of you to pay your respects.”

  “Not according to the mom from hell.” Her voice had a sulky false confidence he was all too used to hearing.

  “She’s suffered, too.”

  “It’s not my fault he’s dead,” Marianne said petulantly.

  “Seeing the world through her kind of pain hardly makes you clear-sighted.”

  She frowned and stared at him. “You a preacher?”

  He laughed softly. “Cop. I’m looking into his death.”

  She took a half step back, bumping into a headstone. “I should’ve known,” she said angrily.

  Gunther kept his voice quiet and comforting. “Should’ve known what? That we’d investigate? Don’t you want to know who killed him?”

  She looked troubled. “He was killed, then? It wasn’t an accident?”

  “Until we hear otherwise, we’re assuming it wasn’t. That’s why we’re finding out as much about Bobby as possible.”

  Marianne’s expression soured. “Bet you got an earful about me.”

  Joe nodded. “That must be hard, knowing that.”

  She flared up again. “They can all get fucked. What I do is my business. I don’t care what they say.”

  He smiled. “I can see that.”

  Her face flushed. “Up yours,” she spat, and tried to walk away.

  He took a risk and caught her arm, hoping it wouldn’t cause an uproar. He got lucky. As soon as he stopped her, she seemed to deflate and just stood there, staring at the ground, breathing fast.

  “I’m sorry, Marianne. I’m sorry that he died, and I’m sorry that Marie can’t see what he meant to you.”

  She looked up at him, her eyes glistening. “You don’t get it. I dumped him. I thought he was a pain in the ass—a moony-eyed, shit-on-his-shoes, lovesick pain in the ass.”

  Joe thought back to Rick Frantz, who, days before being shot in mid-drug deal, had been seen kissing this girl in a parked car. “And who may have been the most decent boyfriend you ever had,” he suggested.

  Her eyes wandered to about halfway down the buttons of his coat. “Yeah… Well, maybe. Turned out decent and boring were kind of the same.”

  “Still, he didn’t deserve this.”

  She wiped her eyes with the heels of her hands, smearing her makeup and making herself look even younger than she was. “He wasn’t my type, but he had his moments.”

  “Can you tell me a bit about him?” Joe asked.

  She gave him a questioning look. “Tell you about him? That’s what I meant. There wasn’t anything to tell. All he wanted was to hold hands.”

  Gunther didn’t respond, choosing instead to wait her out. As if reacting to a question, she added, “Okay, maybe more than that, but it was still like a big frigging deal. I mean, Jesus, he asked me to marry him. How stupid is that?”

  “What were his plans after you got married? He must’ve said.”

  She laughed sadly. “Shit, yeah. Did he ever. Can you believe it? We were supposed to settle down and live with his folks. ‘Just like Jeff and Linda,’ was what he said.” She spread her arms wide. “Look at me, for Christ’s sake. Do I look like I belong on a farm, much less playing house with the Dragon Lady? Jesus, that wou
ld’ve been World War III right there.”

  He couldn’t repress a smile. “It does seem like a tight fit.”

  She shook her head. “Tight like a straitjacket. You got that right.”

  “I heard you took up with him in the first place to get back at Barry Newhouse.”

  She was caught by surprise. “You been getting around.” She let out a sigh. “Well, I wish they were wrong, but I guess that’s true. Barry was being an asshole. Bobby seemed the perfect way to stick it up his butt.”

  Again, Joe remained still.

  And again, she reacted as if accused. “Well, Bobby was perfect. Like a choirboy. And it’s not like I stayed with him just because of Barry.”

  “You fell in love with him, after all?”

  She tossed her head, the tough girl regaining her dignity. “Yeah, right. Not likely. Talk about a match made in hell. No, I didn’t fall in love. But you couldn’t not like the guy. He was so… you know… earnest. It was so dopey, it was cute. For a while.”

  “You dumped him once earlier.”

  She looked uncomfortable. “Shit, what don’t you know?” she said. “I tried, yeah. But he took it so hard, I felt sorry for him. The second time, though, I wasn’t backing down.”

  “That was just before the fire?” Joe asked.

  Her eyes widened. “That’s what I was telling you. It was the same day. When I first heard about it, I thought maybe he’d killed himself.”

  “You don’t still think so?”

  Her mouth dropped open. “Holy shit. I didn’t know that’s what happened.”

  Joe held up both hands to stop her in her tracks. “No, no. It didn’t. But I need to ask you: Was he that depressed that night?”

  “He wasn’t happy. Pulled the same routine he did the first time—crying and everything. But it didn’t get to me as much. I thought maybe even he knew we weren’t too good for each other by then.”

  “Did he say what he’d be doing that night?”

  She looked rueful. “What? Like killing himself? No. He was wicked bummed out, and he left. That was it.”

  Joe returned to an earlier topic. “What about Barry? He must’ve been angry after you and he split up.”

  “He wasn’t happy,” she admitted.

  “Did he say he might go after Bobby?”

  Her tone was dismissive. “He said he’d break him in two, but it didn’t mean anything. Barry’s all talk. That’s one of the reasons I dumped him. Plus, if it ever got down to it, Bobby probably could’ve kicked his butt. Barry’s not in great shape, and Bobby was pretty strong.” She paused before adding, “That would’ve been fun to see.”

  “So Barry didn’t say anything specific?”

  “No.”

  “What about Rick Frantz?” he asked.

  She stiffened. “What about him?”

  “You were seen kissing him in the supermarket parking lot. Rick must’ve wanted you to himself.”

  “You don’t know Rick. Even with all your snooping around.”

  “So it’s not serious between you two?”

  “Nothing’s serious with Rick. I was with him because I was sick of Bobby and needed a break. Who told you about that anyhow? I can’t believe this place. You can’t take a shit around here without everybody knowing.”

  Joe ignored her. “You went to school with Bobby, didn’t you?”

  “Till I blew out of there, yeah. I was a year ahead of him.” She added with unintentional irony, “I’m older.”

  “How was he treated there? Any troubles?”

  Her expression darkened. “His troubles weren’t at school. They were at home, with that mother.”

  Joe rested against a large granite stone behind him, hiking one leg up for comfort. Most of the mourners were gone by now, and a small crew of workers had appeared to tidy up the burial site. Jonathon Michael was chatting with someone by the distant road. In the opposite direction, there was, just discernible, the tiny streak of a boat’s wake far out in the middle of the lake, where the water was no longer frozen.

  “Did he and his mom have a bad relationship?” Joe asked.

  “You saw how she is,” Marianne burst out, pointing down the road.

  “That doesn’t tell me how they were with each other.”

  She made a face. “Weird, if you ask me. She’s got a mouth on her like nobody’s business—always tearing people down, including her own family. But Bobby seemed clueless.”

  “Did she spoil him?”

  “No. She gave him shit, too. But it wasn’t as bad, and he didn’t seem to mind, so they kind of canceled each other out.”

  “Like a mutual understanding?”

  “Yeah,” she agreed. “Not that you could really tell. It was just something I noticed.”

  Joe reflected a moment on what he’d learned so far. “Was Bobby a happy guy?” he finally asked.

  She crouched down and gathered a little snow in her hand. The presence of snow seemed at odds with the pleasant temperature. It was a good sign for maple sugarers, who needed warm days and cold nights.

  “Yeah,” she said simply. “He was looking forward to a good life.”

  “No conflict with the way his sister and Jeff got the farm instead of him?”

  Marianne looked up, surprised. “Oh, no. That worked out perfect. He thought Jeff was a great farmer.”

  She straightened and tossed her tiny snowball underhanded so that it landed without a sound on top of another grave. “Maybe that’s what I noticed about him and his mom. It really drove me crazy. Nothing bothered him—working for his brother-in-law like a hired hand, the Dragon Lady’s bitchiness, being trapped in that house with all those whacked-out people. He totally didn’t get it when I said I’d sooner be dead than move in there.”

  A combination of compassion and curiosity about part of her story made Joe bring up a subject he’d avoided until now.

  “I was sorry to hear about Rick Frantz.”

  She shook her head like a mother dismissing a mischievous pet. “Yeah. What a jerk, huh?”

  It wasn’t the reaction he’d expected, and confirmed the lack of seriousness she’d claimed concerning the kiss Marie had witnessed.

  “You’re not surprised?” he asked.

  She turned and tilted her chin toward the fresh hole now filled with Bobby Cutts’s body. “That surprised me. Rick getting shot is right up there with water being wet. Bobby was supposed to find some girl who liked cows as much as he did and make babies with her.”

  She looked over her shoulder at him, her face suddenly much older. “Guess that shows you, huh? You done with me?”

  He nodded. “Yeah. Thanks for your help.”

  “No sweat.”

  Joe watched Marianne walk unsteadily across the frozen ground in her high-heeled black boots, her hands out to both sides to keep her balance, her bright green fingernails flickering in the sunlight.

  “Guess that shows you,” he echoed softly.

  Chapter 9

  GUNTHER WAITED TO RETURN TO THE CUTTS house until long after the funeral, close to nightfall. He didn’t want to appear as people were still milling about as usual following a service, but he also didn’t want too much time to elapse before asking the family more questions.

  He used another approach to the house than he had on the day of the fire. Then he’d come from the south, where the road curved around and delivered him abruptly to the dooryard. The northern reach, however, was entirely different. Cresting a hill not a half mile away, it afforded a view that would have been picture-perfect before the black hole of the burned barn ruined everything. From the rolling fields and clumped trees in the foreground, to the pristine white farmhouse and scattered outbuildings, and finally to the far-distant ski mountain crowning the horizon, it was all so emblematic of Vermont’s touted virtues as to moisten an adman’s eye.

  But the cremated remnants of the barn were just as symbolic, as Joe was discovering—not just of the tragedy now crushing its owners but of the broader pli
ghts of family dysfunction and grinding economic struggle. If tourists driving by such sylvan centerpieces only knew, he thought, they wouldn’t see the rural life with such dewy-eyed romanticism.

  He rode down the hill, pulled off the road, and got out of his car. Marie Cutts appeared at the farmhouse’s front door as if on cue.

  “What do you want?” she called out to him, her voice sharp and unpleasant.

  “Hi, Mrs. Cutts. Sorry to bother you. I just wanted to ask a few more questions.”

  “We’ve done talking to you. You know what to do. Go out and do it.”

  He approached the building, walking slowly. “That’s what we’re doing. We have quite a few people working on this, each one of us making sure every detail is covered.”

  She glared at him suspiciously. “What’re you saying?”

  He smiled slightly. “That my job is making sure I’ve asked all the right questions here.”

  She wasn’t buying it. “The right questions? The ones you like the answers to, you mean. My son was slaughtered the same as all those cows, but I’m starting to hear that the police think one of us had something to do with it. What the hell were you thinking, coming to my son’s funeral?”

  “I wanted to pay my respects…”

  “That’s bullshit. I saw you talking to that whore afterward.”

  Jeff Padgett appeared in the doorway behind her and placed his hands on her skinny shoulders. “It’s okay, Mom. Let him come in.”

  She shrugged him off violently and pushed by him to leave, saying, “Don’t you tell me what to do. It’s not your place yet.”

  Padgett looked at the ground briefly before he slowly straightened and forced a smile. “It’s been very tough on her.”

  “I’m sure it’s been tough on you, too,” Gunther said, stepping onto the porch and remembering a similar exchange with Calvin.

  “I loved him, but he wasn’t my son.”

  “Good point.”

  “Who would you like to talk to?” Jeff asked.

  “Your wife, actually, if she’s up to it.”

  Padgett nodded carefully. “I guess so. She seems a lot better. Got the wind back in her sails—better’n the rest of us.”

  “You don’t sound convinced.”