”This is Wilfred’s place,“ Phillips said. ”He done it himself.“
”Handy,“ I said.
We walked across the snow-trampled, mud-mixed front lawn with the dogs roiling in a friendly fashion around our ankles. They were all about 35 pounds, tan blending to black. They were of parentage so mixed that they had regressed to basic Dog, nearly identical with mongrel dogs in China and Bolivia. Phillips banged on the door.
”Hey, Wilfred,“ he yelled, ”it’s Chief Phillips.“ The door opened slowly and stopped halfway.
”What do you want?“ someone said.
Phillips shoved the door fully open.
”Come on, come on, Wüfred. This is official business.“
Phillips walked through the fully open door, and I followed him.
Pomeroy was a sturdily built, middle-sized guy with a big guardsman mustache, and brown curly hair that fell in a kind of love curl over his forehead. He was wearing jeans and a maroon sweatshirt with a hood. UMASS was printed across the front of the sweatshirt, in big letters. The first thing that I noticed about the shack was that it was neat. The second thing I noticed was the huge poster of Jill Joyce that nearly filled the wall above the bed. It was a publicity poster for a previous show, and it showed Jill in a frilly apron looking delectably confused over a steamy pot.
”Wilfred,“ Phillips said, ”this here is a guy named Spenser. He’s a detective, from Boston, and he wants to talk to you about some murder.“
”I love your technique, Chief,“ I said. ”First put him at ease.“
”I don’t know about no murder,“ Pomeroy said. I put my hand out.
Pomeroy took it without enthusiasm. He had one of those handshakes that die on contact. It was like shaking hands with a noodle. The three dogs had come in with us and repaired to various places of repose; one, presumably the alpha dog, was curled on the bed. The other two lay on the floor near the kerosene stove. Everything in the place was folded neatly, secured just right, dusted and aligned. The bed was covered with an Army blanket with hospital corners. Everywhere on the walls were pictures, mostly clipped from magazines, tacked to the exposed two-by-fours that framed the shack. The walls themselves were simply the uncovered kraft paper backing of fiberglass insulation. There were pictures of movie stars, of singers and television performers, famous politicians, athletes, writers, scientists, and business tycoons. There was a picture of Lee Iacocca clipped from a magazine cover, and one of Norman Mailer. I saw no famous detectives.
Pomeroy’s table was an upended cable spool with oilcloth tacked to the top. The oilcloth was a redcheckered pattern and shone as if it had just been washed. Pomeroy moved behind the table.
”What do you want?“ he said again. His eyes were big and soft and eager for approval.
”Just some questions,“ I said. The kerosene stove was pouring out heat. ”Mind if I take off my jacket?“
He shook his head. I took off my leather jacket and hung it on a hook on the back of the door where his red plaid mackinaw hung. He looked at the gun under my arm without saying anything. Phillips went and pushed the dog out of the way and sat on the bed. He left his coat on. The dog gave a short sigh and moved to the foot of the bed and turned around twice and lay down again.
”Nice poster of Jill Joyce,“ I said. ”She your favorite?“
He nodded.
”You know she’s in Boston now shooting her series.“
He nodded again.
”She didn’t get killed,“ he said. ”I’d a seen it on TV if she got killed.“
”No,“ I said, ”she’s fine.“
”You know her?“ Pomeroy said.
”Yes,“ I said.
We were quiet. One of the dogs sleeping by the stove got up and went over and sniffed at Phillips’ shoe. Phillips pushed it away with his foot. I saw Pomeroy’s eyes shift nervously.
”Don’t be rude to the dog,“ I said to Phillips. ”Dog lives here and you don’t.“
Phillips got two bright spots on his pale cheeks. ”Who the hell you talking to?“ he said. His hand brushed instinctively against his gun butt. I turned my head slowly and looked at him without saying anything.
”I don’t like dogs,“ he said.
I looked at him for another moment, then turned back to Pomeroy.
”Do you know her?“ I said.
”Jill?“
”Yeah.“
He shook his head slowly. ”No. I’m a big fan of hers, but I don’t know her.“
”I heard you did know her,“ I said. Pomeroy looked past me nervously.
”No, honest.“
”I heard you knew her pretty well,“ I said. ”Guy named Randall says you knew her.“
The big soft eyes got wider and less focused. His gaze moved around the room, looking for someplace to settle.
”I haven’t been near her since he said.“
”How’d you get to know her in the first place?“ I said.
Pomeroy shook his head.
”Why not?“ I said. ”What’s not to talk about?“
Pomeroy looked at Phillips. I nodded, lifted my jacket off the back of the door and shrugged it on, lifted his off and handed it to him.
”You cover it here,“ I said to Phillips. ”Wilfred and I will take a walk.“
”You need me to back you up?“ Phillips said.
”No, I’ll be okay,“ I said.
When the dogs saw Pomeroy put his jacket on, all three of them were at the door, mouths open, tongues lolling, tails wagging. I opened the door and they surged out ahead of us and stopped in the yard looking back.
”Come on,“ I said.
Pomeroy went past me and I followed him and shut the door. The dogs moved out ahead of us in a businesslike way, sniffing along sinuous spoors, wagging their tails. The woods were empty at this time of year except for squirrels. The midday sun was warm in the southern sky and water dripped from the tree branches and made half-dollar-sized holes around the trees in the crust of the old snow. We followed the dogs along a path among the trees that had been pressed out by footfalls.
”Phillips is a mean bastard,“ Pomeroy said. He never looked at me as he spoke, and his speech was soft.
I nodded. Pomeroy seemed to sense my agreement even though he didn’t appear to be looking at me. ”These dogs are like my family,“ he said.
”Yeah,“ I said.
”I don’t have anything else,“ he said.
”Yeah.
There seemed no purpose to the path we were on. It meandered through the second-growth forest. llndcr the evergreens, where the snow was thin, dark pine needles and matted leaves were slick with ice and snow melt. The dogs ranged ahead of us, sniffing intently at the ground, and swinging back in singly or together to look at us before they ranged away again. We came up a low rise and looked down into a shallow swale where ground-water stood, frozen and snow covered. The flat surface was crisscrossed with dog tracks, and among them, bird tracks, partridge maybe, or pheasant.
We stopped and looked down at the swale. The trees and brush grew thickly right to its banks.
“I was married to her once,” Pomeroy said.