Death in the Pines (13 page)

She sat at her desk, I took a chair pulled up beside it. “I'm looking into the death of Jerry Smith's grandfather.”

“Police?” she asked without inflection. I would hate to play poker against her.

“No. Just doing a favor for a friend.”

“Friend have a name?”

“Jeremiah Smith.”

“He's dead.”

“That's why I'm making sure to do him the favor.”

“All right,” she said. She tilted her head. “You know Jerry too, then?”

“I met him last night for the first time. Do you know where I could find him?”

“He has a desk here, but mostly he e-mails his work in. Sometimes he goes to New York and visits friends. If you mean at the moment, let me check. Guys! Seen Jerry today?”

The pony-tailed young man said, “He was here early. Left a few minutes before you came in, Gina, didn't say where he was heading.”

She turned back to me. “I'll give him a message for you if you want,” she said, picking up a blue pencil with a yellow brass cap instead of an eraser and pulling a yellow legal pad across the desk. “What's your name?”

“Tyler, Oakley Tyler.” I spelled it for her.

“What's your business?”

“Retired.”

“No, really?” She grinned. “They replaced you yet? I want that job.”

So I explained about John Lincoln's death and about how I was taking time off. “I'm not licensed in this state,” I said, “but as I told you, this is just a favor for a friend.”

“You and Jeremiah Smith were friends?”

I smiled. She probably knew something about the kind of friends Jeremiah would or would not have. “Acquaintance. Can you tell me anything I might not know about his death?”

“Just a sec.” She pulled the phone over, used the brass tip of the pencil to punch in a number. Into the receiver, she said, “Jerry. Guy named Oakley Tyler is here. He says he knew your grandfather. Call when you get this message.” She hung up. “He's not at home.”

I looked at the clock. “I'm meeting him in ten minutes for lunch.”

“Then why come here?”

“I just wanted to see where he worked, wanted to ask if the paper had any inside stuff on Jeremiah that hadn't been published.”

“I'm sorry, but I only know what I read in the daily paper this morning.”

“I read it too,” I said. “Three paragraphs, ending with the police quoted as saying they had no clues.”

“We don't normally investigate crime news. Weekly, you know.”

“The day before Jeremiah was hit he told me he thought Jerry's life was in danger, too. Any insights about that?”

Gina leaned back in her chair and exhaled a substantial breath. “I don't know anything about his personal life. He covers politics and does music reviews for us, mostly, and he's never panned a politician or a performer badly enough to draw a threat against his life.” Her smile was strained. “I always thought Jerry was overeducated for this job. He has a good degree in science, but he says he burned out on that in college. He makes his living writing for us and freelancing for magazines all over the country.”

“What's he been covering lately?”

She tapped the pencil on the desk. “Nothing dangerous, nothing out of his usual line. You talked to the police about all this?”

“They weren't eager to accept my help.”

“They wouldn't consider it part of their job description to satisfy curiosity seekers or ex-PIs.”

“True,” I said. “Well, I'd better see if Jerry's waiting for me at the diner down the street.” But as I pushed up from the creaking chair, I asked, “Can you tell me anything about any Native Americans who live out in the woods near Northfield?”

She raised her arched eyebrows. “What? No.”

I had one more question. “Do you know Caleb Benson?”

Gina froze. “Not personally,” she said through stiff lips.

“I met him, very briefly. What can you tell me about him?”

She sniffed. “Richest man in town. Maybe in the state. Owns twenty to thirty thousand acres of timberland up in the Northeast Kingdom, all along the Canadian border and into New Hampshire. Inherited land from his parents and became a lumber baron.”

“How did his parents come to own that much land?”

She took a moment to square three pieces of paper on her desk. “It's a matter of public record. His father bought it piecemeal.”

“Did Benson know Jeremiah?”

She guffawed. “Not socially, certainly. Opposite ends of the spectrum—economic, political, and so on. Benson's in his fifties, and Jeremiah was twenty years older. Did Benson know of Jeremiah? Probably. He was a character, a crotchety old coot, and I say that with all due respect.” She lowered her voice. “And if you suspect Benson had something to do with Smith's death, keep that to yourself. Stay out of Benson's way. It's never a good idea to harass a rich man, and Benson's known to have a short fuse.”

“Do you have any stories on Benson in your morgue?”

“Sure, but it's mostly glad-hand stuff, with grip and grin photos. A year or two ago we did run something about how he didn't string along with the big timber companies. They were threatening to post their land against hunters if the state government didn't offer them tax breaks. That might be the only semicritical piece we ever ran on him, at least the only one where we had a sort of editorial sneer, if you know what I mean.”

“Did Jerry write that piece?”

“No, I did.”

So much for my tingling Spidey sense. “OK, before I leave, could you give me a quick profile of Benson?”

She looked up toward the ceiling and rattled off her answer as if she were rat-tatting it into a computer: “Smart guy, graduated from Harvard, a biochemistry major. His daddy meant for him to be a politician, but that went out the window when the old man died. Reclusive. Some people call him a crank, but since he's rich they express that as ‘eccentric.'” She leaned back, tapping her pencil against her chair arm. “Nasty temper. I saw him close up only one time, and he was screaming then. Political rally in front of the statehouse protesting clear-cutting. Benson is not exactly an environmentalist.” She rose. “I wrote that piece, too, although it was pretty straight reporting. I'll have Sandra dig them up and copy the articles if you want.”

“I'd also like copies of any political stories Jerry Smith has done.”

“We'll give you a sampler.”

“Thanks.” Her handshake was quick and firm. “I appreciate your giving me the time.”

“No problem. Be careful, and if you quote me, I'll deny everything.”

“I won't.” I told her I'd be back in an hour for the copies of the stories and at nearly twelve-thirty, I left. If he hadn't become tired of waiting, if they hadn't snatched him again, Jerry should be looking for me at the diner on the corner.

A
t one time I was the kind of guy who made a point of punctuality, as if expecting a gold star. I found the Coffee Corner Diner two minutes after leaving the newspaper office and walked in expecting to find an impatient Jerry at a table, but he wasn't there yet. I asked a waitress if there was a vacant booth.

“One in the back,” she said, and guided me to a booth where I could see the entire length of the place, with a row of red vinyl-covered booths on the left, a long counter with chrome and plastic stools on my right. It was fairly busy.

I scored a cup of coffee and two sections from the
Boston Globe,
and sat sipping and reading for at least fifteen minutes. Then, to my surprise, Sandra from the paper walked in, saw me, and came back to the booth.

She tossed a fairly thick envelope on the table. “Enjoy. I've got to get some take-out.”

She went to the counter, where the counterman apparently knew what she wanted already. He handed her a hefty white paper bag and a cardboard tray with three cups. She balanced them and left the diner as I opened the envelope.

Inside were photocopies of twelve stories. Jerry's byline was on all but one of them. The first was an article lambasting the idea of genetically modified crops. Sandra had thrown in two movie reviews and several editorial pieces critical of corporate lobbying activities in the State House, unsigned but with “JS” written in pale blue and circled in the corners. There was an offprint of an article from the
New Englander
magazine, a well-written piece about the environmental movement, pointing out strengths and weaknesses in a very even-handed manner.

The story of Caleb Benson's blow-up, written by Gina, downplayed the event, making it sound more like a polite exchange of ideas than a shouting match. Her piece on his publicly opposing the timber companies, on the other hand, suggested that he knew they were going to back down anyway and was just doing it to burnish his image.

At about one, I looked up and saw Jerry pushing his way through the now-crowded diner, his expression grim. I had already reached the conclusion that whatever was going on probably had no relation to anything he'd written. But it might have something to do with a piece he had yet to publish.

He slid into the booth opposite me. Today he wore L. L. Bean Velcro-tabbed blue tennis shoes, heavy and waterproof enough for walking in snow, a soft pea-green cotton shirt, and a new-looking down-filled navy blue ski jacket. He stood up to peel off the jacket and toss it onto the seat before settling down again opposite me.

“Sorry I'm late.” He looked away from me and muttered, “I had to make the funeral arrangements.”

“Will there be a service?”

Jerry shook his head. “Grandpa once told me he didn't want a funeral. So many of his friends had died that he came to despise memorial services.” He shrugged. “But four or five
people have let me know they'd like to speak a few words, remember him, that kind of thing. I guess it doesn't matter to Grandpa now. It's for his friends, not him. So I'm planning to have something, but just not a regular funeral.”

“Maybe a memorial service in a local church.”

Jerry barked once in surprised laughter. “The only one Grandpa would set foot in, and probably the only one that didn't mind him coming, was the Unitarian. I left a message on their machine this morning. They may help me put something together.”

“What about the body?”

“The police said it would be released to me today. I think I'll have him cremated and sprinkle the ashes over the woods from a light plane.” He noticed a flicker in my expression. “What's wrong?”

I shook my head, not wanting to mention my promise to return John Lincoln's ashes to the green land he treasured in memory. “Nothing. Is there a will?”

“I haven't found one.”

“I'll help if I can,” I said. “I just arranged a funeral myself last summer.”

“Thanks, man.” He took a deep breath. “OK. So we're meeting. So what do you want to know?”

“You really didn't recognize the two men in the woods?”

“No. And I don't want you to pursue it, either. What happened is my business, not yours.”

“I've made a living out of being discreet.”

He set his jaw in a stubborn way. “But if you poked around, word would get out, believe me. I don't want anyone to know what happened.”

“Got it. Do you know a blond kid, midtwenties, named Darryl?”

“Nope.”

“Do you know Bill Grinder, a mechanic? He was acquainted with your grandfather.”

“Grinder's lived around these parts forever,” Jerry said. “I've spoken to him maybe twice, and the last time—” He broke off, frowning.

“Spit it out,” I said. “I'm on your side.”

He shook his head. “It was a few months ago. Grandpa picked me up in his old truck because he said he wanted some company. He does—did that sometimes. He drove over to Caleb Benson's house first. I had no idea they even knew each other. Maybe they didn't. We didn't see Benson, but a blonde woman about my age answered the door and told Grandpa that Benson wasn't seeing anybody and he should call for an appointment. Grandpa called her Benson's bimbo, but I think it might have been his third wife. Grandpa said he married someone a lot younger. They keep mostly to themselves. For that matter, it's odd that he's been in town over the winter. He usually leaves for Sarasota in October and doesn't come back until April.”

“Your grandfather asked me if Benson had me on his payroll.”

“Did he tell you what happened after our visit to Benson's house?”

“No. What happened?”

His eyes moved as if he were reading the story. “It gets weirder. From Benson's place we drove to Grinder's garage. We get out and Grandpa goes in and starts talking to Grinder, who's on a creeper underneath an old Buick. Grandpa sort of talked to his legs, asked him if he'd ever heard of gene-jumping. He say anything to you about that?”

“Maybe it's better if you can honestly say you have no idea what your grandfather told me. What is gene-jumping?”

Jerry shrugged. “Grandpa was big into biology and forestry. He did some work for the state as a forester. And Grandma was passionate about trees. She used to tell me they had their own intelligence.”

“Spirit,” I corrected.

“Yeah, that was her word,” Jerry said softly.

“So what did Grinder say when your grandpa asked him that question?”

“Acted like he didn't know what Grandpa was talking about. Said the only ‘jeans' he'd ever heard of jumping were the ones fat women wore, something like that. Grandpa cussed a little and we left. I thought Grandpa was getting a little— overworked, you know. Happens sometimes when people get old, they develop delusions.”

“Were Grinder and Jeremiah friends?”

“This is a small community, the whole reach from Montpelier to all those little towns south of us. People who've lived here a while pretty much get to know everybody else. I don't know if Grinder was one of Grandpa's buddies. I can't tell you when they met, anything like that, but they seemed to know each other all right. I guess when Grandpa worked for the town Grinder was the guy who repaired the trucks. Grandpa talked like they'd known each other for a long time, but not like they were particularly friendly.”