Forty minutes later I pulled up at the address Gillman had found for me. Though the residence was only ten minutes from downtown, and five minutes from my condo at Sharon Hall, it had taken that long to work through my usual Queens Road confusion.
Charlotte's street names reflect its schizoid personality. On the one hand the street-naming approach was simple: They found a winner and stuck with it. The city has Queens Road, Queens Road West, and Queens Road East. Sharon Road, Sharon Lane, Sharon Amity, Sharon View, and Sharon Avenue. I've sat at the intersection of Rea Road and Rea Road, Park Road and Park Road. There was also a biblical influence: Providence Road, Carmel Road, Sardis Road.
On the other hand, no appellation seemed adequate for more than a few miles. Streets change names with whimsy. Tyvola becomes Fairview, then Sardis. At one point Providence Road reaches an intersection at which a hard right keeps one on Providence; going straight places one on Queens Road, which immediately becomes Morehead; and going left puts one on Queens Road, which immediately becomes Selwyn. The Billy Graham Parkway begets Woodlawn, then Runnymede. Wendover gives rise to Eastway.
The Queens sisters are the most evil by far. I give visitors and newcomers one driving rule of thumb: If you get onto anything named Queens, get off. The policy has always worked for me.
Marion Veckhoff lived in a large stone Tudor on Queens Road East. The stucco was cream, the woodwork dark, and each downstairs window was a latticework of lead and glass. A neatly trimmed hedge bordered the property, and brightly colored flowers crowded beds along the front and sides of the house. A pair of enormous magnolias all but filled the front yard.
A lady in pearls, pumps, and a turquoise pantsuit was watering pansies along a walk bisecting the front lawn. Her skin was pale, her hair the color of ginger ale.
With a warning to Boyd, I got out and locked the door. I shouted, but the woman seemed oblivious to my presence.
“Mrs. Veckhoff?” I repeated as I drew close.
She spun, spraying my feet with her hose. Her hand jerked, and the water was redirected onto the grass.
“Oh, dear. Oh, my. I'm so sorry.”
“It's no problem at all.” I stepped back from the water puddling the flagstone. “Are you Mrs. Veckhoff?”
“Yes, dear. You're Carla's niece?”
“No, ma'am. I'm Dr. Brennan.”
Her eyes went slightly out of focus, as if consulting a calendar somewhere over my shoulder.
“Did I forget an appointment?”
“No, Mrs. Veckhoff. I wondered if I might ask you a few questions about your husband.”
She recentered on me.
“Pat was a state senator for sixteen years. Are you a reporter?”
“No, I'm not. Four terms is quite an achievement.”
“Being in public office took him away from home too much, but he loved it.”
“Where did he travel?”
“Raleigh, mostly.”
“Did he ever visit Bryson City?”
“Where's that, dear?”
“It's in the mountains.”
“Oh, Pat loved the mountains, went there whenever he could.”
“Did you travel with your husband?”
“Oh no, no. I have the arthritis, and . . .” Her voice trailed off, as though uncertain where to go with the thought.
“Arthritis can be very painful.”
“Yes, it surely is. And those trips were really Pat's time with the boys. Do you mind if I finish my watering?”
“Please.”
I walked beside her as she moved along the pansy beds.
“Mr. Veckhoff went to the mountains with your sons?”
“Oh, no. Pat and I have a daughter. She's married now. He went with his chums.” She laughed, a sound halfway between a choke and a hiccup. “He said it was to get away from his women, to put the fire back into his belly.”
“He went to the mountains with other men?”
“Those boys were very close, been friends since their school days. They miss Pat terribly. Kendall, too. Yes, we're getting old. . . .” Again her voice tapered into silence.
“Kendall?”
“Kendall Rollins. He was the first to go. Kendall was a poet. Do you know his work?”
I shook my head, outwardly calm. Inside my heart was thumping. The name “Rollins” was on the H&F list.
“Kendall died of leukemia when he was fifty-five.”
“That's very young. When was that, ma'am?”
“Nineteen eighty-six.”
“Where did your husband and his friends stay in the mountains?”
Her face tensed, and the comma of skin under her left eye jumped.
“They had some kind of lodge. Why are you asking about all this?”
“A plane crashed recently near Bryson City, and I'm trying to learn what I can about a nearby property. Your husband might have been one of the owners.”
“That terrible affair with all those students?”
“Yes.”
“Why do young people have to die? A young man was killed flying to my husband's funeral. Forty-three years old.” Her head wagged.
“Who was that, ma'am?”
She looked away.
“He was the son of one of Pat's friends, lived in Alabama, so I'd never met him. Still, it broke my heart.”
“Do you know his name?”
“No.”
Her eyes would not meet mine.
“Do you know the names of the others who went to the lodge?”
She began fidgeting with the nozzle.
“Mrs. Veckhoff?”
“Pat never talked about those trips. I left it to him. He needed privacy, being in the public eye so much.”
“Have you ever heard of the H&F Investment Group?”
“No.” She remained focused on the hose, her back to me, but I could see tension in her shoulders.
“Mrs. Veck—”
“It's late. I have to go inside now.”
“I'd like to find out if your husband had an interest in that property.”
Twisting off the spray, she dropped the hose and hurried up the walk.
“Thanks for your time, ma'am. I'm sorry to have kept you so long.”
She turned with the door half open, one veiny hand on the knob. From inside the house came the soft bong of Westminster chimes.
“Pat always said I talk too much. I denied it, told him I was just the friendly type. Now I think he was probably right. But it gets lonely being by yourself.”
The door closed, and I heard a bolt slide into place.
It's O.K., Mrs. Veckhoff. Your answers were bullshit, but they were charming bullshit. And very informative.
I dug a card from my purse, wrote my home address and number on it, and stuck it into the doorjamb.
IT WAS PAST EIGHT WHEN MY FIRST VISITOR ARRIVED.
After leaving Mrs. Veckhoff, I'd bought a rotisserie chicken at the Roasting Company, then collected Birdie from my neighbor. The three of us had shared the fowl, Bird's tail fluffing like a feather duster each time Boyd moved in his direction. I was scraping plates at the sink when I heard the knock.
Pete stood on the back stoop, a bouquet of daisies in one hand. As I opened the door, he bowed at the waist and proffered the flowers.
“On behalf of my canine associate.”
“Not necessary, but appreciated.” I held open the door, and he went past me into the kitchen.
Boyd bounded over at the sound of Pete's voice, dropped snout onto front paws, rump in the air, then began cavorting around the kitchen. Pete clapped and called his name. Boyd went berserk, barking and racing in circles. Birdie bolted.
“Stop. He'll scratch the floor.”
Pete took a chair at the table and Boyd moved beside him.
“Sit.”
Boyd stared at Pete, eyebrows dancing. Pete tapped the dog's rump, and Boyd sat, chin upon his master's knee. Pete began a two-handed ear scratch.
“Got any beer?”
“Root beer.”
“Right. How'd you two get along?”
“Fine.”
I opened and placed a Hire's in front of him.