“Are you Macon?” I asked.
He offered me his hand and we shook. “That’s right. I saw you pull up and thought I’d come on over and introduce myself. You met my wife, Phyllis, a little earlier.”
“I’m sorry about your brother.”
“Thank you. It’s been a rough one, I can tell you,” he said. He hooked a thumb toward the house. “Selma’s not home. I believe she went off to the market a little while ago. You need in? Door’s open most times, but you’re welcome to come to our place. It sure beats setting out in the cold.”
“I should be fine. I expect she’ll be home in a bit and if not, I can find ways to amuse myself. I would like to talk to you sometime in the next day or two.”
“Absolutely. No problem. I’ll tell you anything you want, though I admit we’re baffled as to Selma’s purpose. What in the world is she worried about? Phyllis and I can’t understand what she wants with a private detective, of all things. With all due respect, it seems ridiculous.”
“Maybe you should talk to her about that,” I said.
“I can tell you right now what you’re going to learn about Tom. He’s as decent a fellow as you’d ever hope to meet. Everybody in town looked up to him, including me.,,
“This may turn out to be a short stay, in that case.”
“Where’d Selma put you? Some place nice, I hope.”
“Nota Lake Cabins. Cecilia Boden’s your sister, as I understand it. You have other siblings?”
Macon shook his head. “Just three of us,” he said. “I’m the baby in the family. Tom’s three years older than Cecilia and close to fifteen years my senior. I’ve been trailing after them two ever since I can remember. I ended up in the sheriff’s department years after Tom hired on. Like that in school, too. Always following in somebody else’s footsteps.” His eyes strayed to the street as Selma’s car approached and slowed, pulling into the driveway. “Here she is now so I’ll leave you two be. You let me know what I can do to help. You can give us a call or come knocking on our door. It’s that green house with white trim.”
Selma had pulled into the garage by then. She got out, of the car. She and Macon greeted each other with an almost imperceptible coolness. While she opened the trunk of her sedan, Macon and I parted company, exchanging the kind of chitchat that signals the end of a conversation. Selma lifted out a brown paper sack of groceries and two cleaner’s bags, and slammed the trunk lid down. Under her fur coat, she wore smartly pressed charcoal slacks and a long-sleeved shirt of cherry-colored silk.
As Macon walked back to his house, I moved into the garage. “Let me give you a hand with that,” I said, reaching for the bag of groceries, which she relinquished to me.
“I hope you haven’t been out here long,” she said. “I decided I’d spent enough time feeling sorry for myself. Best to keep busy.”
“Whose pickup truck? Was that Tom’s?” I asked.
Selma nodded as she unlocked the door leading from the garage into the house. “I had a fellow from the garage tow it the day after he died. The officer who found him took the keys out and left it locked up where it was. I can’t bring myself to drive it. I guess eventually I’ll sell it or pass it along to Brant.” She pressed a button and the garage door descended with a rumble.
“You met Macon, I see.”
“He came over to introduce himself,” I said as I followed her into the house. “One thing I ought to mention. I’m going to be talking to a lot of people around town and I really don’t know yet what approach I’ll take. Whatever you hear, just go along with it.”
She put her keys back in her purse, moving into the utility room with me close behind. She closed the door after us. “Why not tell the truth?”
“I will where I can, but I gather Tom was a highly respected member of the community. If I start asking about his personal business, nobody’s going to say a word. I may try another tack. It won’t be far off, but I may bend the facts a bit.”
“What about Cecilia? What will you say to her?”
“I don’t know yet. I’ll think of something.”
“She’ll fill your ear. She’s never really liked me. Whatever Tom’s problems, she’ll blame me if she can. Same with his brother. Macon was always coming after Tom for something-a loan, advice, good word in the department, you name it. If I hadn’t stepped in, he’d have sucked Tom dry. You can do me a favor: Take anything they say with a grain of salt.”
The disgruntled are good. They’ll tell you anything, I thought.
Once in the kitchen, Selma hung her fur coat on the back of a chair. I watched while she unloaded the groceries and put items away. I would have helped, but she waved aside the offer, saying it was quicker if she did it herself. The kitchen walls were painted bright yellow, the floor a spatter of seamless white-and-yellow linoleum. A chrome-and-yellow-plastic upholstered dinette set filled an alcove with a bump-out window crowded with . . . I peered closer … artificial plants. She indicated a seat across the table from hers as she folded the bag neatly and put it in a rack bulging with other grocery bags.
She moved to the refrigerator and opened the door. “What do you take in your coffee? I’ve got hazelnut coffee creamer or a little half-and-half.” She took out a small carton and gave the pouring spout an experimental mental sniff. She made a face to herself and set the carton in the sink.
“Black’s fine.”
“You sure?”
“Really. It’s no problem. I’m not particular,” I said. I took off my jacket and hung it on the back of my chair while Selma rounded up two coffee mugs, the sugar bowl, and a spoon for herself.
She poured coffee and replaced the glass carafe on the heating element of the coffee machine, heels taptap-tapping on the floor as she crossed and recrossed the room. Her energy was ever so faintly tinged with nervousness. She sat down again and immediately flicked a small gold Dunhill to light a fresh cigarette. She inhaled deeply. “Where will you begin?”
“I thought I’d start in Tom’s den. Maybe the answer’s easy, sitting right up on the surface.”
THREE
I spent the rest of the afternoon working my way through Tom Newquist’s insufferably disorganized home office. I’m going to bypass the tedious list of documents I inspected, the files I sorted, the drawers I emptied, the receipts I scrutinized in search of some evidence of his angst. In reporting to Selma, I did (slightly) exaggerate the extent of my efforts so she’d appreciate what fifty bucks an hour was buying in the current market place. In the space of three hours, I managed to go through about half the mess. Up to that point, whatever Tom was fretting about, he’d left precious little in the way of clues.
He was apparently compulsive about saving every scrap of paper, but whatever organizational principle he employed, the accumulation he left behind was chaotic at best. His desk was a jumble of folders, correspondence, bills paid and unpaid, income tax forms, newspaper articles, and case files he was working on. The layers were twelve to fifteen inches deep, some stacks toppling sideways into the adjacent piles. My guess was he knew how to put his hands on just about anything he needed, but the task I faced was daunting.
Maybe he imagined that any minute he’d have the clutter sorted and subdued. Like most disorganized people, he probably thought the confusion was temporary, that he was just on the verge of having all his papers tidied up. Unfortunately, death had taken him by surprise and now the cleanup was mine. I made a mental note to myself to straighten out my underwear the minute I got home. In the bottom drawer of his desk, I found some of his equipment-handcuffs, nightstick, the flashlight he must have carried. Maybe his brother, Macon, would like them. I’d have to remember to ask Selma later.
I went through two big leaf bags of junk, taking it upon myself to throw away paid utility stubs from ten years back. I kept a random sampling in case Selma wanted to sell the house and needed to average her household expenses for prospective buyers. I kept the office door open, conducting an ongoing conversation with Selma in the kitchen while I winnowed and pitched. “I’d like to have a picture of Tom.”
“What for?”
“Not sure yet. It just seems like a good idea.”