“You mean before she went to work for Superintendent Falconer?”
“Yeah, three, four years back. I recognized Greta on account of I’ve done work for her myself on her house-siding, sill work.”
“How often?”
“How often have I worked for her?”
“How often did she stop by to see Melanie?”
“Pretty often,” Chuckie admitted.
“What, once a week?”
“Twice a week, maybe.”
Des took off her big hat and stood there twirling it in her fingers. “You say Melanie used to work for Greta. Is that all she was to her?”
“I don’t know what you mean,” he answered sharply.
“Yes, you do.” Des stared at him intently. “You know exactly what I mean.”
He looked away, swallowing. “Okay, maybe I do. But I don’t know the answer.”
“You didn’t wonder?”
Chuckie heaved a pained sigh and said, “Sure, I did. I wonder about a lot of stuff, lady. That don’t mean I get it.”
“Now you’re living on my side of the street.” She put her hat back on, flashing a smile at him. “Don’t take it so hard, Mr. Gilliam. We’re not supposed to know all the answers. In fact, we’re lucky if we even figure out what the questions are. Please be sure to tell Sandy that I said good night, will you?”
There were lights on inside the Patterson Gallery. And when Des slowed up her cruiser out front she could see Greta seated in there at her oak partner’s desk, pecking away at a computer in the soft glow cast by her desk lamp’s old-fashioned green glass shade.
Des got out and rapped her knuckles on the glass front door. Greta squinted at her over her reading glasses, then waved and came over to let her in.
“I hope I’m not interrupting you,” Des said, as Greta unlocked the door.
“Not at all, trooper,” she said cheerfully. “I was just trying to catch up on some of my gallery work. I’m afraid that Wendell has hogged most of my time lately. First he had me handling some estate-related matters. Then I had to find a criminal attorney for Jim Bolan. Do have a seat,” she said, filing the work she had on her computer screen.
Des sat in the wooden chair next to Greta’s desk, crossing her long legs. “This estate work you were doing-it wouldn’t have any bearing on Moose’s death, would it?”
“You know I can’t talk about that,” Greta responded with a grin.
“Never hurts to ask,” Des said easily. “What can you talk to me about?”
Greta sat back in her swivel chair, studying her. “Try me.”
“How about Melanie Zide?”
She let out a harsh laugh. “What about that little cow?”
“Somebody shot her. Her body just washed up on Big Sister.”
Greta froze for a second, stunned. Then her squarish, blotchy face seemed to scrunch inward upon itself, like a beer can being crushed in a strongman’s fist.
Des had wondered if she’d get a reaction. She got one. She got pain. Definitely pain. “I’m told that Melanie used to do clerical work for you.”
“That’s true,” Greta said hoarsely. “She’s… she was a good little worker. But she needed more hours than I could give her, so I helped her get that job with the school district.”
“You two were close?”
“If by that you’re wondering whether we were mixed up in some form of unwholesome, incorrect, same-sex physical relationship, the answer is yes,” Greta said bluntly. “And in answer to your next question: Yes, I did care about her. What else do you want to know?”
“Did Colin know about you two?”
“We have no secrets from each other.” Greta’s voice suddenly sounded very tired and old. “I told you that already.”
“And I didn’t believe you. Everyone has secrets.”
Greta got up out of her chair and went over to a landscape painting by Hangtown’s grandfather that hung over the fireplace. It depicted the tidal marshes near Lord’s Cove at dawn, with the steam rising off the water and the early-morning sunlight slanting low. “I love the light in this painting. Every time I look at it I feel as if I’ve never truly seen the dawn before.” She gazed at it a moment longer, then shook herself and turned back to Des. “I was devastated when Colin moved out. It made me realize that you really can’t count on anyone else in this world. We’d had our ups and downs, naturally. But I’d still expected that he’d be there by my side when I got old and decrepit. Now…” Greta trailed off, shaking her head. “Now I’m not so sure. He’s not sure. And so I find myself living these days in a constant state of paralyzing fear, I’m ashamed to say.”
“Fear’s nothing to be ashamed of.”
“I’m one of the reasons why the school board wants Colin out, you know,” Greta pointed out bitterly. “I didn’t want to say anything to you about this last night, in front of him, but they don’t approve of me-the concerned young mothers. They don’t think I am a suitable school superintendent’s wife. It’s the Salem witch hunt all over again, you know. The intolerant and self-righteous are taking over, and they’re imposing their mean, narrow vision of correct behavior on everyone else. If you’re not one of them, then you are someone to be shunned, someone evil. The new school building is just a smoke screen. The real reason they want Colin out is that he’s a bisexual depressive with an aging bull dyke for a wife. They don’t want him or me anywhere near their dear, precious kids, twisting their dear, precious minds. These are scary times, trooper. These are not the enlightened sixties and seventies of my youth. I was fooled. I thought we had become more open-minded, more accepting of other people’s differences. We didn’t. The pendulum has swung back the other way, and now we are hurtling back to the dark ages all over again, fighting the same old battles. Only now we’re losing.” She came back to her desk and sat down again, her eyes beginning to puddle with tears. “Poor Melanie… Poor cow.”
“Where did you go last evening after the lieutenant and I spoke with you at your house?”
“I was home with Colin all evening,” she answered, cocking her head at Des curiously.
“You didn’t leave?”
“No, I didn’t leave. I was concerned about him. So we threw another log on the fire and we worked on a jigsaw puzzle together-Fountain Head. We do that one every year. We went to Hawaii on our honeymoon, you know. Doesn’t that just quaint you to death?” Greta broke off, her chest rising and falling. “Now if you’ll please excuse me, trooper, II have a lot of work to do.”
Des thanked her for her time and started for the door. By the time she had closed it behind her she could hear Greta Patterson sobbing.
“Can I buy you a round, trooper?”
Dirk Doughty was drinking hot cider all alone at a tavern table in front of the fire in the Frederick House’s wood-paneled pub. On the table before him was a copy of The Sporting News, opened to the waiver-wire page with its long columns of agate type detailing which teams have signed or cut which players. In the world of journeymen ballplayers, old habits apparently died hard.
“I think I’d like that,” said Des, taking a seat across from him. An older couple was sipping brandy at one of the other tables. Otherwise, they were alone in the pub. “But let’s put it on my tab, because I never did get my dinner tonight.” She ordered a roast turkey sandwich to go along with the cider, then said, “I’m real sorry to bother you again, but there are some other things I need to ask you.”
“That’s okay by me,” he said, squaring his broad shoulders. “I’m always better off when I’m talking to other people. I don’t do well if I sit by myself for too long. I think too much.”
“I guess we can all do that.”
Dirk sat back in his chair, folding his arms in front of his chest. He wore a navy-blue fleece top emblazoned with the logo of a sneaker maker. “How can I help you?”
“By telling me what you know about Melanie Zide.”
Dirk reddened slightly. “Melanie? Well, sure. We went to high school together. In fact, I ran into her just the other day over at Doug’s Texaco. We stopped and got caught up. She was real glad to hear I’ve remarried and I’m staying sober and all.”