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Ch. 5 ~ A Visitor
Bob let things settle for a few days. He didn’t like to rush. Sleeping on a worry, or letting it digest for a while, seemed to be the best way to make reasonable decisions, and it felt better to be calm than to be frantic. Less chance of making emotional mistakes.
For his part, Franck was happy to let things ride. Bob had mentioned the obituary he’d printed out, which was of interest to Franck, since the deceased had been his own wife, if only for a few minutes while he had played homeowner. He remembered the Tunnel of Pain and winced. It really had been that. They had even left the machines in there. Maybe the other McIver had taken her off to die.
The obituary said she died of cancer three months ago, in August. It was a brief announcement submitted to the paper by the funeral home. Bob placed it in a new file folder, entered it into his index, and filed it in his corner office in the living room.
On some Sundays, Franck treated them both to his fabulous pancake-making talents. “Good stuff, Franck. I still like the buckwheat better,” said Bob, pushing back his empty plate and taking a sip of decaf.
“It’s a beautiful day,” said Franck, peering out the front window. There were trees in the big front yard and across the busy street. A car was pulling into their long driveway.
“What do you want to do with it?” said Franck. “A walk? How about a drive?”
“Hey, yeah, let’s find some good railroad tracks for a little ride and hey, maybe we can take a look at some more open houses while we’re at it.” Bob finished his coffee with a triumphant snort, and put the cup in the sink. “Franck, I still can’t believe you, man.”
Franck was sitting on the window ledge and peering out through the colorful trees, which still had enough leaves that for a little while he couldn’t quite tell who it was out there in the driveway, staring at his car.
“Did you ever play that word game when you were a kid, where you see if you can substitute what something’s made of for the thing itself?”
“Huh?”
“Yeah, like, instead of talking about the grill you cooked fish on, you say ‘fishy steel’. Or, what if you have a dollar coin that someone fires into a baseball glove?”
“Um, fast buck?”
“Pretty good! No, I was thinking ‘quick silver’” said Franck.
The doorbell rang. Bob got up. “Who could that be?” he said, opening the apartment door and starting downstairs.
“Hey, what would you call a penny that wasn’t clean?” Franck shouted down the stairwell.
“Uh, dirty copper!” Bob shouted up as he reached the front door, and opened it.
A policeman stood there with a grim and quizzical expression. There was an awkward silence, broken only by the sound of Franck snickering upstairs.
“Mr. Wainwright?”
“No, he’s my roommate.”
“Is that his car there?”
“Uh, yeah, why?”
“Is he home?”
“Yes.”
“Detective Nelson.” He showed Bob his badge. “Do you mind if I come in? I need to have a few words with him.” The policeman walked in and Bob gave way, following him up the stairs.
Franck was gone. The policeman stood inside the apartment door, looking the apartment over.
“Did you say he was here?” asked the policeman.
“Uh, yeah, let me find him. Franck!” Bob walked over to Franck’s door.
“What?” came a distant voice but not from the bedroom.
“Franck, where are you? There’s a policeman here to talk to you.”
Franck walked in the back door from the fire escape. “Just getting some air. Hello, officer, nice to see you. Always nice to meet one of Port Haven’s finest.”
“Seems you had a joyride in your SUV, Mr Wainwright.”
“What do you mean?”
“We have a complaint from a Nancy Caswell that someone using your vehicle terrorized her horses. She got your license plate number while you were parked at her next door neighbor’s place. The old parsonage house on Church Street.”
“Terrorizing horses? That’s crazy.”
“Did you drive on Ms Caswell’s lawn?”
“I don’t know Nancy Caswell but I’m sure she’s a fine upstanding lady.”
“Did you drive on her lawn?”
“I didn’t ‘terrorize’ any horses. That’s crazy. Do I look crazy?”
“That’s not part of my job description, to decide whether you’re crazy. A lot of regular people do a lot of crazy things. How did you get onto her lawn, Mr Wainwright?”
Bob observed this discussion from the kitchen table, like watching a ping pong game. “Why don’t you fellows have a seat. Would you like a glass of water, cup of coffee, a beer, officer?”
“Thanks, no. Are you Mr McIver?”
Bob said, “Yes, Bob McIver, sir.”
“Any relation to the owner of the parsonage house, Bob?”
“Not that I know of, sir.”
The policeman sat down at the table. Franck sat on the arm of the easy chair.
“I didn’t terrorize any horses, that’s completely ridiculous. There were horses in the field and maybe they didn’t like me driving down toward the house but I didn’t terrorize them, that’s crazy.”
“There was damage done by a vehicle to a mound in Ms Caswell’s yard. There was, let’s see what it says here, ‘inwardly directed collapse damage.’ Here is a copy of the statute on trespassing. Now that I’ve found you, I’ll report back and we’ll see where Ms Caswell wants to go from here.” He rose from his chair and turned to go.
“Also, Mr Wainwright,” added the officer, “We had two calls reporting an SUV with a description something like yours traveling at high speed along the railroad tracks, near the Caswell and parsonage properties. You don’t look like a crazy guy but if that was you driving on those tracks I could probably certify you myself.” He eyed Franck to gauge his reaction.
Franck stared at his own foot as it bounced up and down. His legs were crossed; he made no move get up or speak.
“Mr Wainwright, what were you doing at the parsonage house? No one has lived there since the beginning of the summer.”
“Just visiting, I guess. I check in now and then. Used to live there. It’s a little spooky though, across from the graveyard.” Franck had meant to keep quiet about this but was digging himself deeper. Into what, he had no idea.
“Just check in now and then, do you? To an empty property? We’ll look into these things later. If you have any information to tell me about, Mr Wainwright, here’s my card. I’m a detective and I’d appreciate your cooperation.” He tossed a card onto the table and headed for the door.
Bob slowly got up and showed the officer out.
When he got back to the living room, it was as though an inflatable ball suddenly sprang a leak. Franck deflated, hissed, fell back into the easy chair. He skimmed through the statute the officer had left for him.
“Bob, what’s a Class D crime? What about Class E? How much time am I in for?”
“Franck, old buddy. That was the most juvenile trick.”
“Trespassing? Terrorizing horses?”
“No, making me say ‘dirty copper’ just as I open the door to a cop.”
Franck laughed. “Oh, that! Hilarious! I know, very juvenile. Very funny.”
"And why'd you disappear when I brought the cop back up?"
"I actually thought about taking off out the back door. I was on the back deck but thought that was probably a stupid thing to do. It would have looked bad."
"No kidding. That would have been really a dumb move." Bob sat down, and then stood up. He walked over to his desk and leaned on it. Franck stepped over to the easy chair and sank into its soft cushions. He pulled up the lever to make it recline. Then he pushed the lever to sit it up. He got up. He went into the kitchen to find something but forgot what it was.
“You know,” said Bob, “He didn’t hit you with anything but driving on that lady’s lawn. Nothing about the tracks except some call with a general description of a car like yours. Nothing about the house except wondering what you were doing there. Sounds like that lady checked on your license plate while you were there, but no complaint from the banker guy. Not yet, anyway.”
Franck sat back into Bob’s easy chair and pulled on the lever so it leaned back with the footrest up. He put his hands behind his head and stared at the light fixture on the white ceiling. “Bob, did he say no one’s been in that house since early summer?”
“Yeah that’s what he said.”
“That’s strange. That obituary was dated late in the summer,” said Franck.
“Why’s that so strange?”
“Because then she couldn’t have died here in town, while living at the house.”
“Could have been at a hospital. Or a hospice. Maybe he moved out to be closer to the hospice or something. Maybe he took her to a Boston hospital.”
“Bob, where is that obituary?” Franck pulled the easy chair upright again.
Bob walked over to his desk in the corner, opened the file drawer, pulled out the folder, and tossed it in Franck’s lap.
Franck opened the folder and read the obituary again.
“Bob, she died in Linton, North Carolina. Take a look at the dateline. The first word.”
At the word “Linton,” Bob looked up sharply. He had read the obituary several times; it was just one paragraph, with little said. He even remembered the few details: Catherine McIver, 62, died of cancer, survived by Robert, 64, burial to take place on 23 August, handled by Long Funeral Service.
He read it again. The first words, before the paragraph began, were “Linton, N.C.”
“What the… You’re right. I didn’t see that before. What the hell were they doing in Linton, North Carolina? I know that town.”