“What was the problem?”
Funny how that memory still made me wince. “The problem was that it was all made up. The guy had never been west of the Connecticut River in all his life. He had some mental problems, that’s all. And I should have done a more thorough job in checking it out. But I didn’t. I relied on his word and his memorabilia, and the disaster unfolded from there. Which explains my exile, and why I was working so hard to find a story to get me out of here.”
She smiled. “I thought you were going to save telling me that story until I agreed to go out with you.”
“I changed my mind.” I got out and stepped onto the sidewalk.
She called out to me as I shut the door, “Are you still going to write that story? Still looking to get out?”
I pretended not to hear her.
Inside the bureau Rita was looking at me, as was Monty. Neither said anything as I went over to my desk and pulled out two things. The first was the official town history of Boston Falls that I had bought over the Internet. I walked past Monty’s desk and let it drop there with a satisfying thump.
“There, Monty,” I said. “Call it a little donation to the town library. I’m sure your friends there will be thrilled to get another edition of this hard-to-find book.”
I think he was going to say something, but instead his phone started ringing and he picked it up, and his voice was sharp and low as he looked over at me. I went over to Rita, whose giggly face was now solemn, her reading glasses hanging from a thin chain around her neck.
“Saw your dad today,” I said. “But he was too busy to send his regards.”
“I see,” she said, her voice faint.
I flipped through the second item I had brought from my desk. My phone log, which had carefully noted every phone call I had received from the Phantom Caller since day one.
“But then again, I should have realized right from the start that you knew him. You see, when he called, the first day I was working here, you just said, ‘Oh, hold on,’ and patched him through. And he knew me by name. Asked for Jack Spooner. But you and Monty were the only ones who knew I was coming to this bureau. It hadn’t even been announced yet in the paper. But this mystery caller goes to you and asks for me by name, when he shouldn’t have known a damn thing. So there you go.”
“I... I...” she started, and I said, “And when I saw him this morning, I saw your photo up on his window sill. Very sweet. I’m sure you and Monty got a big chuckle out of him calling me every Tuesday, getting the new kid spun up. Probably never thought I’d get this far, right?”
“I couldn’t stop him from calling,” Rita said, her voice faint. “And I couldn’t tell you, either.”
Monty glared at me from his desk.
“Well, here’s a helpful suggestion,” I said, leaning over the counter. “Us out-of-towners, we’re not all as dumb as you think.”
Then I left.
That night I was alone on the back deck of my apartment, looking out over Tony’s Towing and Auto Salvage. It had been a quiet night at the junkyard, and instead of gazing at the crumpled cars and trucks, I looked up to the hills and mountains surrounding Boston Falls. Funny thing about that. In all the time I had been here, not once had I gone up those trails, explored those woods. Not once. Just commuted between here and the bureau and the town halls and police stations of the surrounding towns.
I suppose I should have felt triumphant at what I had just done, in uncovering a story that would get me out of this town. But all I could think about was the old man alone in the last room of his life, still agonizing over something he did more than a half-century ago. What a way to live, with such burdens on your mind. And my job was to make that burden even worse, with an hour or two at the keyboard.
“Hey!” came a voice from the dirt parking lot beneath me. “Hey, Jack Spooner! You up there?”
“Nope,” I called down, and there was a chuckle, and the sound of feet on the stairs. I looked over and nearly dropped my beer bottle. Police Chief Connie Simpson, in tight jean shorts, flat black shoes, and a white pullover top that looked mighty fine. It was the first time I had ever seen her out of uniform. In her hand she carried a plastic bag with handles, and I could smell cooked food.
“What’s this?” I asked.
“Dinner,” she said. “If you’re hungry, and if you’re interested.”
Luckily for me there was a spare lawn chair on my deck, and the chief — okay, at this point, especially the way she was dressed, I was having a hard time thinking of her as the chief — sat down in it, dropping her plastic bag between us.
She eyed my open bottle of beer and said, “Interrupting anything special?”
“Nope, I was just sitting and thinking. And drinking. Just a little.” I raised my bottle in the direction of the hills and mountains. “Thinking that in all the time I’ve been here, not once have I really explored this town. Just my place and the newspaper office and various police stations and town halls in the neighborhood.”
Connie said carefully, “There are some wonderful trails up there with great views of the valley. I’ll tell you more but we should eat before everything gets cold.”
Dinner was barbequed ribs and French fries and lots of grease and fistfuls of napkins, and a few laughs along the way. Eventually we washed up in my tiny kitchen and reemerged onto the deck with small mugs of chocolate ice cream, and as we ate, Connie extended her long, tanned legs to the railing of my deck.
I tried not to stare and said, “Ask you a question?”
“Go right ahead.”
“Didn’t we just have dinner here? And haven’t you always said no when it came to dinner? What’s changed?”
She laughed, scooping up a dripping mess of ice cream to her mouth. “Yes, this was dinner, and what’s changed is that you moved first. You told me that story about how you got in trouble with your editors. It seemed fair. And to hell with any gossipers out there.”
“If I had known that, I would have confessed all the first time I met you.”
She eyed me with amusement. “Then it probably wouldn’t have worked. Now, time for a couple of questions from me.”
“Fair is fair,” I said, knowing pretty well what was coming up.
“The story about the PW camp and Paul Gagnon. Are you going to send it south to your editors?”
I suppose I should have felt insulted that a town official was trying to interfere with my work, but I was tired and said, “I haven’t started writing it.”
“You’re not answering the question.”
“Sorry, that’s the best answer you’re going to get. And here’s a question for you.”
“Go on.”
“The whole town knew about him and what he did back then?”
She paused for a moment, and said, “There’ve always been rumors here and there. But only that. Tales that no one really wanted to look into... It was so long ago, Jack, and at such a different time.”
“I see.”
“If you did do a big story that got you transferred back to Manchester, would you get paid any more?”
The cold mug of ice cream felt good in my warm hands. “Nope. Though working out of such a large office would give me more opportunities to pad my expense account.”