“You needn’t worry I’ll do anything socially indiscreet,” she assured me. “One can imagine what the neighbors would say if I were to take in a male lodger so soon after Monty’s demise. I think one should observe a decent period of mourning, don’t you agree?”
We promised to write to each other, but, life being what it is, we never did. I suppose Olivia felt there was no need to write — it would only confuse the issue. After all, she had only to look across the room and there I’d be, constantly attentive.
Yet even now, years later, I can still see her, that ageless, perennial child-woman, lifting her guileless blue eyes and saying: “Do you think, my dear, that airplanes are quite safe?”
Grave on a Hill
by Brendan DuBois
A lifelong resident of New Hampshire, Brendan DuBois has been contributing mystery short stories to magazines and anthologies since 1986. In 1987, “Driven,” one of his stories for EQMM, was nominated for the Edgar Allan Poe award for best short story. Recently Mr. DuBois decided to try his hand at longer fiction; the result is Dead Sand, a mystery novel to be published by Pocket Books early next year.
In this new story, the author takes us to the New Hampshire hills he knows so well, where a visit by a cop “only means trouble”...
“Did she seem surprised when you called and said we were coming?” Gordon Moore asked from the passenger’s side of the cruiser.
Victor Dumont steered onto the gravel driveway, passing a rusted mailbox that said HANSON in black, stick-on letters. “No, not really,” he said, easing the car up the driveway. It was a late afternoon in September. It had been misting and threatening rain all day, and the windshield of his cruiser, the only car the police department of Norwich, New Hampshire, owned, had been streaked with oil with each sweep of the wipers.
“She seemed resigned, in a way,” he added.
“Doesn’t sound good.”
“Well, she didn’t panic.”
Gordon said, “She should’ve panicked. People up here, cops come visiting, only means trouble.”
“You mean the hill people? I don’t believe that garbage.”
“Maybe you should, Victor,” Gordon said. “You and me and everybody else in a uniform is a valley person. Only time cops come up to the hills is when there’s trouble or heads to be busted. The hill people’d rather starve to death than ask us for help. Or advice. Or directions. They’re proud and religious and do their own things.”
“Maybe she’s got nothing to worry about.”
“Hmmph.” Gordon Moore wore an Anderson-Little topcoat over a grey two-piece suit. His black shoes were covered with black rubber protectors. He looked too well-dressed for this part of New Hampshire, especially with his carefully cut light brown hair and the horn-rimmed glasses that made him look like an investment banker. But Victor had once seen Gordon pick up a two-hundred-pound-plus biker in full leather gear and toss him into the back of a police wagon. And all of that happened in less than a second, it seemed. Gordon hadn’t even lost his glasses.
The gravel driveway curved around a small hill and ended in front of a two-story ranch house, with peeling white paint. There was no porch, just a set of concrete steps. A barn was off to the left, unpainted and sagging. A pickup truck was on blocks and a blue Ford Escort with a cracked windshield was parked at the side of the house. A mongrel dog, its brown fur matted and mud-stained, lifted itself up and started to howl, tugging at its chain.
Victor brought the cruiser up to the steps and then halted and reversed direction until a dozen feet separated the vehicle from the house.
“Good planning,” Gordon observed.
“Thanks.”
The dog continued its half-hearted howling as Victor walked to the steps, Gordon behind him. Just yesterday he’d been looking forward to a quiet weekend with a fishing pole and nothing to disturb him except the possibility of the pager going off. The chance now of a free weekend coming up anytime soon was probably ruined.
He walked up the steps, his orange raincoat flapping in the breeze. His campaign-style police hat with the Chief-Norwich PD pin set in front kept his head dry, and he glanced over at Gordon.
“Going to need your umbrella soon.”
“Don’t worry about me.”
“I’m not. Just worried about your hair.”
He took a deep breath and knocked on the door, and it opened instantly. No doubt she had been waiting, ever since seeing the cruiser roll up.
Victor touched his hand to his cap. “Mrs. Hanson?”
“Yes?” She was in her mid-forties, wearing black polyester slacks and a brown sweater, which had been mended at the elbows. With the open door came the scent of grease and cigarette smoke. Two young girls, one six, the other about eleven, sat on a couch, which was covered by a quilt. The television was on. Mrs. Hanson’s black hair, streaked with grey, was pulled back in a simple ponytail with the help of an elastic band. She looked directly at them, her firm face even, showing no expression.
“This here’s Detective Moore, of the state police,” Victor said, not taking his eyes off her for a second. There was a look about her, especially around the eyes. Was it a look of relief? Or knowledge?
“What’s the problem?”
Victor said, “It’s about your husband, Henry.”
“Henry? He’s been gone for five years.”
“So he has, Mrs. Hanson. But we’ve received information that he was the victim of a homicide.” From the driveway came the sound of an approaching truck, laboring under low gear.
“Oh.” Her hand tugged at the neck of her sweater. “Can’t say I’m surprised, really. He was a violent sort. Where’s his body? And do you know who done it?”
Victor cleared his throat and reached into his raincoat, pulling out a folded piece of paper. “Mrs. Hanson, this is a search warrant, executed from the Norwich District Court, authorizing Detective Moore and myself to search your property, and the buildings.”
The engine sound grew louder, and a bright yellow dump truck came up over the rise, its amber lights flashing into the mist. It was towing a heavy trailer, and set upon the trailer was an equally bright yellow backhoe with large, black tires.
Victor added, almost apologetically, “It seems someone believes you murdered your husband, Mrs. Hanson, and buried him in your front yard.”
The dump truck grounded to a halt, its air brakes screeching. Mrs. Hanson said not one word.
Two days before Victor had been in his office, working up the budget for next year’s town meeting, when Corinne Grew tapped on his door and walked in. She was the widow of the town’s postmaster, and besides being Victor’s secretary and file clerk and assistant clerk to the district court, she was also his own private intelligence system for the town of Norwich.
“Someone here to see you,” she said.
“Who’d that be?” he said, putting his pen down. His department was in a small brick building, set next to the Town Hall, and contained four tiny rooms which included his office, a waiting room, storage area, and a holding pen for the few prisoners who had to spend a night before he could bring them to the county jail. The building had belonged to the town’s historical society, before one of its members died and left the society $30,000.
“He be one Freddy Hanson. Age about seventeen or so. Said it’s real important.”
Victor asked, “I know him from anywhere?”
Corinne Grew smiled, adjusted her glasses. “You’ve pulled him over twice for speeding, once for reckless operation, and you arrested him last year for disorderly conduct, in August when we had all those fights down at the bandstand.”