CHAPTER 30

Belle paid the cab driver and stepped onto the paved side-walk across the street from Cleo’s house. At four-thirty in the afternoon, the suburban neighborhood was surprisingly quiet: no children playing in the yards, no bicycles, no strollers, no one mowing a lawn or working in a garden, no mailman, and no UPS trucks delivering packages. Only one car passed, and that was the extent of the traffic. Belle looked at Cleo’s drive. The sole vehicle was Geoffrey Wright’s dented blue pickup truck. She watched the taxi disappear around the bend, and she crossed the street just as Geoff hurried out of the garage and jumped into the truck.

“Geoff … Where’s Cleo?” Belle walked toward him as she spoke. She tried to paste on a casual smile but felt it lacked authenticity. “And the kids?”

“They’re all at the vet’s.” He turned the key and started the engine. “One of the damn dogs got sick again.”

Belle’s smile continued to stick to her lips. “Did they say when they were coming back?”

Geoff’s reply was a testy. “Look, Tinker Bell, I’m not a baby-sitter, and I’m not a damn message center, either.” He put the truck in gear. “I gotta go.”

“But—”

“Late … they’ll be back late.… Cleo said something about the emergency animal hospital down south on the interstate. The dog was really sick.”

A sudden sense of dread kept Belle immobilized in front of Geoff Wright’s vehicle. “When will you be back?” she asked.

“What is this? Beat-up-your-contractor day? I’ve got another job to bid, and I’m running late. I have a couple of things to take care of, okay? You won’t see me till tomorrow.” He released the brake and let the truck roll forward. Belle had no choice but to step aside and watch him barrel out of the drive. For the first time, she noticed his New Hampshire license plate.

A cold sweat covered her. I’ll go inside and lock all the doors, she decided. Then I’ll call Lever. She hurried toward the house, but as she opened the front door, a sudden thud arrested her. Belle stopped, nearly congealed with fear. A grunt issued through the kitchen opening, followed by the sound of a woman swearing.

“Sharon?” Belle called out in both hope and fear, and Sharon’s wide and pleasant brow appeared.

“Hiya, Belle. I didn’t hear you come in.”

Relief suffused Belle’s face. “Am I glad to see you! Geoff told me Cleo was at the vet’s.… He didn’t tell me you were here—”

“That’s because he’s in a really foul mood today. Nothing but carping and complaints.…” Sharon disappeared. Belle heard something metallic bang against stone. “Sorry, Belle, but I’m in the middle of caulking.”

With her brain whirring with questions, Belle turned back to the door, closed and locked it, then walked up the stairs to join Sharon in the kitchen. “I’m going to shut the back door. Is that okay with you?”

“Whatever you want …”

Belle bolted it, then tested the patio windows to make certain they were also locked. Finally, she walked into the kitchen. Again, the simple fact of Sharon’s presence seemed to fill the house with solidity and strength; her large frame was bent double over the newly installed marble countertop as she ran a bead of caulk along the splashboard. The work was exacting, Sharon’s concentration complete.

Belle watched her for a moment. Maybe her suspicions about Geoffrey Wright were unfounded, but then again, maybe Sharon could supply a few missing details.

“Geoff told me he was bidding another job,” she said.

“Oh yeah?” Sharon seemed wholly disinterested in the news, then suddenly let out an angry “Ahhhgh!” as her heavy body jerked upward. “Dampen one of those paper towels, and hand it to me, will ya, Belle?”

Belle did as she was asked, and Sharon took the towel and wiped a smudge from the marble. “It’s a good thing this stuff is water soluble until it dries.”

Belle waited until Sharon returned to her caulk gun. “So, Cleo went to the emergency animal hospital …?”

“If that’s what Geoff said … I’ve been playing catch-up since I got back, and trying to keep out of Mr. Disagreeable’s way. Something’s stuck in his craw.”

“He said one of the dogs got sick again.”

Sharon’s shoulders shrugged. Her focus was on the bead of caulk. “If he says so. I didn’t see it.”

“Can I ask you something, Sharon?”

A noisy scratching at the back door interrupted them; Sharon jerked her head around. “Don’t let that damn dog in here! Please? The warm weather’s making them both shed like crazy. If fur gets into this caulk, I’ll have to dig it out and start all over again.” Her shoulders hunched in frustration. “It’s the only thing I don’t like about this job: all that yapping. It’s enough to drive you nuts.…”

Belle opened the door a crack and tried to shoo the animal away. The result was a prodigious amount of barking and whimpering. She reclosed the door, but the noise didn’t abate. “I wanted to ask you a couple of questions about Geoff.…”

“All I can say is: Stay out of his way till the job here is done. He gets real touchy toward the end of a project.”

Conversation halted as Sharon slammed a fresh tube of caulk into the gun and began vigorously squeezing the trigger to build up pressure. Then she hunkered back over the countertop.

Although strongly tempted to confide in Sharon, Belle decided to continue her circuitous inquiry into Geoff Wright. “You’ve worked with Geoffrey for some time, haven’t you?”

“Five years almost. I only do marble and granite, so if he gets a job that calls for tile, butcher block, or a synthetic material, he calls in someone else. Work’s been tight recently on account of the cost of the stone. Also, marble’s real soft, so a lot of people are staying away from it. Stains too easily.”

“Soft?” Belle chuckled companionably. “I don’t know about that. I remember hitting my head on my grandmother’s counter once when I was a kid.… I cried for hours.”

“Maybe you have to learn not to hit your head.”

Belle ignored the jibe. “So … you and Geoff know each other fairly well.… Meaning you’d be aware if he were facing financial difficulties?”

Leaning over the counter, Sharon’s response was a hesitant. “I don’t stick my nose in where it don’t belong. He has his own life. I have mine.”

“Plus the fact that he lives in New Hampshire, and you’re in Vermont.”

Sharon didn’t reply, so Belle tried a more direct approach. “Does he have any feelings about the development going on in Newcastle?”

“I wouldn’t know. But I do know that he doesn’t like cities any more than I do.”

“There’ll be plenty of contracting work in those buildings being renovated … high-end stuff: marble, granite, the works.”

Sharon seemed disinterested, but Belle kept pushing. “Has he ever mentioned the Peterman brothers?”

Sharon let out a frustrated growl. “I need to concentrate here, okay?” She turned her back and abruptly resumed her work.

Belle remained silent, pondering Sharon’s and Geoff Wright’s relationship. Geoffrey lives in New Hampshire, she told herself. The Petermans own land in New Hampshire. Sharon works for Geoffrey, but not all the time. However, she’s clearly an expert mason, and if he secures other projects in Newcastle, she’ll be involved. Or … Is he trying to cut her out of the deal? Is that the cause of her sudden truculence?

“Look, Sharon, I’m going to be straight with you. There’s a strong indication a couple of real estate developers named Peterman may be involved in a criminal—”

“I don’t know anything about this city.”

Belle quelled an irritated sigh and tried another tack. “You’re aware that I do volunteer work at the homeless women’s shelter…?”

Sharon nodded once but kept working.

“Well, the Petermans own several buildings near Margaret House … one of which they’re currently rehabilitating into luxury lofts—”

“What does this have to do with Geoff?”

Belle’s answer was evasive. “If he were involved with these developers, would you tell me?”

“I’m not my brother’s keeper,” was Sharon’s blunt response.

“I know Geoff’s your friend, Sharon. And I appreciate your loyalty, but this is important. A homeless man and woman were—” The words stopped in Belle’s throat. She stared at Sharon’s broad back, at her spiky hair, her muscled forearms, and man-sized hands. Then Belle’s glance moved to the dusty carpenter’s pants and scuffed work boots while Gus’s description of the person he’d seen driving Rosco’s Jeep ricocheted through her brain: a big man, six foot or more, brown hair … white dust all over his clothes. Dust that Gus had assumed was lime but could, in fact, have been white Barre marble dust. And a woman that could have been mistaken for a man.

Belle’s eyes squinted in sudden outrage, but she forced herself to affect an air of calm. “Never mind,” she replied easily. “You’re right.… Geoffrey’s business has nothing to do with you.” Against all reasonable inner voices that warned her to back out of the room, find an extension and call Al Lever, run to a neighbor’s house, anything but remain in Sharon’s presence, anger made Belle plant her feet and stand her ground. If this woman knew where Rosco was, Belle wanted to hear it firsthand. “I guess it can be pretty muddy in Vermont at this time of year … New Hampshire, too.”

“I don’t know about New Hampshire, but this is mud season where I live,” was the laconic reply.

“Hard to get around, I guess.”

“Not with a truck.”

“Oh, that’s right,” was Belle’s airy response, “I forgot about the truck.” Her tone turned almost wistful. “A sheep farm … green grass and rolling hills … I assume you and Geoff grow vegetables, too. Do you find it necessary to use artificial fertilizer or—?”

Sharon slammed the caulking gun on the counter. “I don’t know about Geoffrey, but I hate that junk! It poisons the groundwater, and if you’re out in the boonies, you’re totally dependent on your well. These bozos who buy vacation homes and cover every inch of growing space with chemicals: herbicides, pesticides, genetically altered gunk. They’re ruining the land for the rest of us! Not to mention our drinking water!”

The back of Sharon’s neck had turned a dark and mean red, and Belle gave her time to cool off before resuming her oblique investigation. “It’s really a shame about your truck breaking down.”

“What?”

“Your truck. It’s a shame you’re going to face the expense of repairing it.… I know it’s not easy relying on public transportation, especially traveling from central Vermont to the Massachusetts coast.… What is it? Trail-ways to Springfield? Or is it Peter Pan Bus Lines?”

“I don’t remember.”

“Of course not. You were probably so upset about your engine troubles you didn’t notice the name of the bus company. Maybe you should consider a Jeep. Like Rosco’s.”

Sharon leapt up, then suddenly lunged at Belle, grabbing for her shoulders but missing as her quarry dodged out of reach.

“Nice move, Sharon! What are you going to do next? Tie me up? Kill me? Wait for Cleo to come home so you can ‘borrow’ her car? Like you ‘borrowed’ Rosco’s?” Belle squared herself to face her opponent. Her body felt energized with righteousness and rage, as if nothing—and no one—could stand in her way. “Where’s Rosco?” she demanded.

“He’s alive. Don’t worry.”

“That’s not good enough.” Belle spat out the words; fury made her voice steely.

“He’s okay,” Sharon muttered. “He shouldn’t be, but he is.… I’m too damn soft-hearted—”

“Did the Petermans put you up to this?”

“Would you stop with the friggin’ Petermans! I don’t know who the hell they are!”

“How much are they paying you and Geoffrey for this piece of work?”

“Geoffrey? What does that fancy-dan, Ivy League carpenter have to do with this?”

The women stared at each other, momentarily stunned by mutual incomprehension. It was Belle who broke the silence. “You and Geoffrey killed Freddie Carson … and the woman behind the bus depot. And you did it under orders from the Peterman brothers.”

Sharon’s large mouth snorted in derision. “That simp wouldn’t know how to squash a friggin’ flea! Geoff Wright! Don’t make me laugh! I took care of that stew bum! Not Geoffrey! And not your damn Peterman buddies. And I did the old biddy, too. Me! Mr. Ivy League had nothing to do with this!”

Her confession seemed to take Sharon by surprise; she stared at Belle, but the focus of her eyes was inward rather than outward, as if she were revisiting each event. “The old babe pushed me. I pushed back. I didn’t mean to hurt her … but she kept getting into my face: ‘You gotta pay up!’ … ‘Gotta clean up after them sheep of yours!’ … ‘I’m holding the paper on this place!’ Yammmer, yammer, yammer. I put out my hand.… She went down like a friggin’ sack of flour … flat on the marble step!”

“Where’s Rosco?” Belle demanded, but Sharon merely looked through her.

“And what was I gonna do then? Drag her back into her own home? Leave her for the local cops? And me behind in my rent?” Sharon paused. “So I dump her in the truck and took off for the city.… I’m thinkin’, lay the old crone on a bed of newspapers and she’ll look like a dead drifter.… But this bum pops his head up.… Friggin’ creep sees the whole friggin’ thing! He messed up everything … him and his stupid dog!”

“Where’s Rosco?”

Sharon’s heavy body spun back toward Belle. “You’re in trouble, girlie.”

Belle glared back. “Is he at your farm in Vermont?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know?”

“If you’ve hurt him—” But Belle didn’t finish the sentence, because Sharon suddenly sprang toward her while Belle just as swiftly leapt out of reach.

“There was a witness to Freddie’s death, Sharon. Another street person. He supplied Homicide with a description—”

“You’re lying! Rosco said he found me on accounta my truck. No one saw nothin’! That’s what he said; he said two guys saw a truck that only ‘looked’ like mine—”

“He’s a private investigator. Do you think he’d tell you everything he knows? I’ve seen him be a lot cagier than that.”

Sharon’s thin lips opened in a silent scream. She fumbled frantically in a drawer at her back until she found a knife, while Belle’s right hand flailed on the countertop behind her, reaching the caulking gun.

As Sharon stepped toward her, the front door banged open, and Effie shouted at the top of her lungs, “I did not! Mom! Tell him I didn’t do it!”

As Sharon’s head spun toward the sound, Belle swung the caulking gun in a sudden arc, smashing it hard into the side of her skull. Sharon’s eyes rolled back, and she dropped like a slab of her precious stone.

When Cleo entered the kitchen, Belle was securing Sharon’s hands with the telephone cord.

“What’s going on, Belle?” But before she could answer, Cleo added a pleased, “Wow, she did a great job with the countertop.”

All Belle could think to say was, “I’m glad you came home early.”