The Grave - An Oxrun Station Novel (Oxrun Station Novels) Read online

Bastard.

  "Fel . . ."

  There was nothing he could say that would take the hurt away, and he certainly couldn't tell her whom he had seen in the restaurant. Suddenly he felt gangly, awkward, clumsy, like a fool. He opened his mouth—a noise, any noise to cover the weeping— and she pointed behind him. He was groping for a wisecrack as he turned, the impulse dying, squashed like an ant beneath a sharp heel.

  The study was a shambles. Most of his books had been dumped from their shelves, most of the cabinets opened and the files thrown about the room. Magazines had been leafed through and dropped along the floor randomly, his desk swept clear and pulled away from the window.

  "It was locked," he said weakly. "Goddamnit, the door was locked!"

  Chapter 14

  "You've had enough, don't you think?" He looked up from the couch with a frown that matched Felicity's, studiously ignored her then as he poured another glassful of bourbon.

  "Miller, that isn't going to solve anything. And it sure as hell isn't going to get that room cleaned up."

  "I"--he belched—"know that."

  She threw up her hands in disgust, in frustration, and left the room. Moments later he could hear papers rustling angrily, books slamming back onto shelves. She doesn't know the system, he thought suddenly; she'll screw everything up. It'll be just as bad as it is now. But he didn't call her, didn't lift his head from the fringed throw pillow. It was too much of an effort, and as it was he could barely keep his eyes open. There was a buzzing behind them, and a throbbing at his temples, and when he emptied the glass in four great swallows he didn't taste a thing.

  A scraping as the desk was shoved back into place.

  Tanner, who had left not an hour ago, had stood by the window openmouthed and confused. The only thing he had said that Josh could remember was: "Boy, somebody doesn't like you very much, do they?" Big help. As if it were a revelation that contained the clue they each needed to locate the culprit. The neighbors sure as hell weren't any help. They hadn't heard a thing, hadn't seen a car, hadn't noticed anyone prowling around the house. They didn't talk to him much anyway, not since his parents had left for Colorado. They were their friends, not his. They suspected he ran debaucheries and drug dens on Saturday nights. No, they were no help at all. And neither was Tanner.

  "When you go through all this," he'd said, setting his cap square on his head, "let me know if there's anything missing. From the looks of it, though, I doubt it. I think it's the same as the shop. Whoever it was has been watching you, obviously waiting for you to be gone." He'd waved a hand over the desolation. "This didn't take long. Fifteen minutes tops, unless they were looking for something. Like I said, I doubt it. Nope. Just messing around, I think." His heavy Maine accent grated on Josh's nerves. "You let me know, hear? One way or the other. Maybe you ought to change your locks, too." At the door he'd stopped and looked back over his shoulder. "Small favors, Mr. Miller. At least they didn't use paint this time."

  He snorted, reached for the bottle on the floor beside him, and scowled when he held it close to his eyes and discovered it empty. He'd have to get into the kitchen. He was thirsty. And his ears were picking up sounds that he was sure didn't exist. He tried to lift himself up and look back into the study to see what Felicity was doing now, but a cramp lashed across the back of his neck and he groaned, fell back, and closed his eyes.

  "Nice," he whispered. "That's nice."

  Who the hell . . . ?

  Andrea sitting in the Chancellor Inn. Not supposed to be back until tomorrow. I love you, she'd said.

  "Miller?"

  He had no idea what time it was. Somewhere close either side of midnight. His eyes opened and Felicity was standing over him, slipping her arms into the sleeves of her cardigan.

  "Miller?" The voice was soft. "I'm going home now. It's still bad in there, but at least you can walk around without breaking your neck." She leaned over and kissed his forehead; fire, and he flinched. "Don't bother to come in tomorrow, okay? You're going to wish you had a new head."

  He managed a smile, and his hand fluttered over his stomach. She took it, held it, brought it to her cheek, and kissed the back.

  "It isn't fair," he said hoarsely.

  "I know."

  "I ain't . . . what did I do?"

  She shook her head and he couldn't watch it. Closed his eyes again and listened to the thunder of her leaving, the cruel snap of the lock, the silence of the house. He swallowed heavily and rolled onto his side. There was another bottle in the kitchen; he was sure of it. A few minutes' rest and he would search for it. He was thirsty. A drink would clear his throat and clear his head and he would be able to figure out quick as a bunny just why someone was out to make a shambles of his business. Shambles. He grinned sleepily. A curious word, that was. And a curious business. Miller's Mysteries. How was tossing papers on a floor, paint on papers, going to keep him from working? It didn't make sense. It simply did not make any sense.

  He belched.

  And what the hell was Andy trying to prove? That didn't make sense, either. Being seen out in public like that, only a week after Lloyd's wife had just about accused them of having an affair—it wasn't reasonable. But they were there, no question about it. It wasn't his eyes. He could see perfectly well. He opened them to prove it, groaned, and closed them a third time. They were there, sitting back by the wall with a drink in front of them. No plates, something told him, so they had probably just arrived. What in hell was she trying to prove?

  It wasn't fair. He had rushed back from New York and had discovered that nothing was what it was when he'd left. Andy sure wasn't. She was lying to him and they weren't even planning on getting married.

  Not yet, anyway. And definitely not now.

  She must have a reason. She had to have a reason. She would call him and tell him and there would be a perfectly good reason. Of course there would be. There had to be. She couldn't have expected that no one would have seen them and not reported it to him one way or another. If nothing else, Pete Lee would have said something.

  It wasn't fair, damnit. It just—he hiccoughed— wasn't fair.

  Felicity had been right. When the sun glared around the edges of the shades he felt as though every straight pin he had ever lost had been rediscovered around the rims of his eyes. He lay quietly, breathing open-mouthed as slowly as he could, his right hand dangling over the side of the couch and gripping the fringe below. He tried, when he was able, to move as gently as he could, finally rousing himself upstairs and into the shower. There was no sense in admonition; he had done it, was paying, and claimed a small victory when he made his way through breakfast without gagging. Then he called the police station, but Tanner was not yet in, no news handy the desk sergeant could give him. A call to Felicity got him a mild scolding during which he gave his permission for her to hire a temporary to help put the files back in order. But he stopped dialing Andrea's number halfway through. That, he decided grimly, would be a personal confrontation.

  She was waiting for him on the front porch.

  White shirt and jeans, fringed high boots, her hair pulled back loosely and bunned at the nape. He parked behind her car in the drive and sat for a moment, tempted to play the outraged lover one moment, thinking it best to feign ignorance the next. Finally, he slid out and sat next to her on the steps. A produce truck he judged at least thirty years old jounced past from one of the orchards, dust lifting behind it lazy and brown. They watched until it was out of sight . . . close, but not touching.

  "Well?" she said. "Aren't you going to say anything?"

  "I saw you last night, at the inn." He did not look at her; he didn't dare.

  "I . . . I came back early,"

  "So I gathered."

  "He called me, Josh." No apology, direct or implied. "He wanted to talk to me before his wife did."

  He nodded, slowly. "I think," he said, "I'm going to feel stupid."

  A pause. In the front yard a jay marched across the newly mown grass, jabbing at t
he ground and hawking to itself. Josh shifted his feet noisily and it bolted into the nearest tree, shrieking. Sure, he thought at it; easy for you to say.

  "You were jealous."

  He sidled along the step until he could turn and lean back against a squared white post. His arms folded over his chest. "Yes, I think so."

  Furrows worked their way over her forehead, the bridge of her nose; a faint blush highlighted her cheeks. He wondered if she were angry or flattered, and decided his head was still too delicately balanced for him to give much to such a chancy contemplation.

  "I understand you know Randy," she said, pushing at wisps that feathered over her temple. "It seems she told Lloyd he and I were seeing each other on the sly." Her smile was sad. "I know she told you. Lloyd said she had. He wanted to know . . . he wanted to make sure I understood about Randy, how she is with him. I guess . . . I guess he doesn't want me upset." She glanced up at the trees, the hard blue of the sky. "You didn't say anything about it."

  "I couldn't." His voice cracked and he cleared his throat impatiently. "It was the day I got back from the city. You were gone. I didn't know that. I didn't get your letter until the other day."

  The silence this time was filled with the distant horn of a train. He waited until the valley had swallowed it before bringing up a leg and cupping his hands around it. "How did the deal work out?"

  "Fine," she said, and looked at him suddenly. "Josh, are we going to have a fight?"

  He almost told her no, realized that in fact he wasn't sure at all. Thus far they had spoken as though they were strangers, each of them sitting on a stranger's porch and waiting for someone to come along and chase them. It would have been better had it been raining; then there would have been an excuse for their company.

  On the other hand . . . on the other hand he could not believe she was lying to him. In writing, in her actual handwriting she had told him she loved him; she couldn't be so stupid, then, as to flaunt Stanworth at him. Not like that. That, he thought bitterly, was something he himself would do (and winced when he remembered what he would have done to Fel).

  She moved closer—still not touching though her touch was there—and examined his face until he had to smile.

  "I had a bad night," he said, lifting an eyebrow in a shrug. "I'm better, but I still feel like I should be close to dying."

  "You . . . you got drunk?"

  "Don't look so surprised. It happens." When her eyes doubted, he explained the intrusions on his office and home as best he could, struggling with speculations and failing as badly as he had done before.

  "Oh." She glanced back at the screened front door, to his face with a disappointed sigh. "And then you saw me and Lloyd and you decided it would be a good thing to . . . whatever."

  "I told you it was stupid." He didn't, however, tell her about Felicity. Even now he wasn't sure he could look his new partner in the eyes.

  "And you came out here . . . ?"

  He shrugged, lowered his leg. "I don't know." He tried to smile. "Looking for a dumb plow."

  He didn't think she would accept the unspoken apology, was inordinately grateful when she grinned back at him and stood, offering him her hands to help him to his feet. "Where do we begin?"

  "The only place I haven't looked yet is up there," he said, pointing toward a hill to the left of the house. "I was saving it for last because as far as I can tell from town records there hasn't been a house there since Oxrun was founded."

  "Well, there's only one way to find out, right?"

  He started after her, feeling as if a concrete slab had been hoisted from his chest. Then, suddenly, he stopped. "Wait, Andy! I'd like to say hello to Don before we go."

  She paused only a moment at the corner of the house. "Later. He's working."

  "Counting his money?"

  "He never counts anything until the contract is signed."

  They hurried across the backyard to a split-rail fence. Andrea suddenly broke into a run and vaulted it; Josh didn't think his condition was stable enough to show off just yet so he strolled as casually as he could to one corner and used the post to lift him up and over.

  Beyond was the small field that belonged to the farm, covered now with a haze of green weeds and stray grasses. He seemed to recall that the previous owners, like the others in the valley, raised small crops of vegetables that were trucked to the village, to Harley, as far east as Hartford. Nothing specific came to mind, however, and he spent the next fifteen minutes trying to decipher the remains he passed over. Lettuce, perhaps, or cabbage. Carrots, beets . . . he gave up as the sun made him shed his service jacket, and he hooked a finger at the collar and hung it over one shoulder.

  He hadn't intended at all to hunt for Mrs. Thames' plow, but the words had escaped him unbidden, unthinkingly. Not that he minded, once Andrea had made up his mind; there was nothing else he could do except keep on looking, and reporting to the old woman that he would have to go out of state. He smiled to himself. That might not be so bad if Andrea would go with him.

  The slope began, the walking more difficult. And once in the trees, the temperature dropped under the mint haze of new green. He put the jacket on again and tried to keep up with Andrea, calling out once to tell her she was too quick.

  "Nope," she said, turning around but still moving. "I walk in here all the time. I would have seen something, even if I didn't know what it was I was seeing. We'll have to go higher. Over there," and she pointed to the right.

  He shook his head and angled in the opposite direction. He had already covered most of that ground, refused to change his mind when she tried to insist. "Hey," he told her, "who's the boss around here?"

  "Fel's back in the office," she said laughing, and he snatched up a stone and winged it toward her legs.

  An hour later he slumped to the hard comfort of a wide and flat boulder. He was perspiring freely, his shirt clinging soddenly to his chest, the slippage into his shoes uncomfortable and clammy. He draped the jacket over the top of the rock, put his hands on his hips, and bent over at the waist. Andrea scrambled to his side, one hand on his shoulder.

  "You okay?"

  "Hung over and paying for every damned moment."

  "Maybe we should go back."

  He straightened and surveyed the level ground they had reached. Below, the slope was packed with woodland, though he knew that in autumn the farmhouse would be visible without any trouble. Above, the slope steepened and the trees grew closer together, the few large gaps filled with boulders such as the one that supported him. He tried to imagine, then, how these hills had been when they had been young—jagged, rugged, much like the Rockies, trembling with latent volcanic activity. Vibrant. Alive. Growing old and wearing down like the teeth of a giant who had lived past his prime.

  "Sometimes," he said quietly, because the forest demanded it, "sometimes when I'm up here I can hear the Indians still moving around. Before the Puritans and Separatists came along and gave them religion." He spat at the ground. "Not to mention guns and smallpox."

  Andrea rubbed her arms as though chilled. "It's too far away from civilization to suit me."

  Josh laughed. "What? All you have to do is roll back down the hill."

  "It's spooky."

  "It's the middle of the day, for god's sake."

  She took the space next to him and leaned her head on his shoulder. "I still think we're going in the wrong direction."

  "And I'm still the Natty Bumppo around here."

  "Christ," she said to the air, "he's literary, too."

  "Come on." He took her hand and pulled her around the boulder, moving left along the flatland. Stopping five minutes later to point at a hickory, and a smaller tree beside it. "That's a wolf tree," he said. "It takes up most of the sun, most of the water, and anything that grows next to it is stunted."

  "Interesting." She sounded bored.

  "You will also notice, O person who wanted to hunt plows with me only a few weeks ago, that the trees here are younger than th
e ones higher up and those down there. That could mean—"

  "A fire," she said. "A lousy forest fire."

  "Or a clearing that's grown over."

  "How can you tell just by looking?"

  "Practice." He grinned, then, as he started forward again. "And luck. Half the time, love, I don't know what I'm talking about." He had gone a dozen paces before he realized she wasn't following. "Hey."

  "Damnit, Josh, I'm tired. And I'm hungry. I haven't had lunch yet."

  He started back, stopped and shook his head. "You'll never make it in the big time, Andy. Wait here a moment. Give me a hundred yards or so and I'll know for sure what's going on."

  She frowned, but nodded reluctantly, sank to the ground where she stood, and cupped her hands under her chin. He waved, blew her a kiss, and skirted a patch of briar. Almost immediately he could feel the solitude, the weight of the old hills, lifting his face to a stray breeze as though he were scenting.

  The underbrush cleared slightly and walking was easier; and he wasn't aware of how long his stride had become until he glanced back over his shoulder and could no longer see Andy. He hesitated, thinking this was no time to tempt her anger, not now when he had managed to lose his own suspicion. Another ten yards; that would be it. And he was about to turn back when he came to a rough clearing spiked with dry and dead weeds that reached almost to his waist.

  He had turned to call out when he saw the charred, grey stump half buried by a struggling, spindly shrub. Lightning. A bolt had struck here, a fire had started, the storm had doused it before it had gotten very far.

  "Ah . . . damn!" More in disgust than anger, realizing how such a small thing had stirred hopes, and had crushed them. But he walked across the clearing just to be sure, had started back when he saw another odd shape woven over by weeds. He would not allow himself a thought, a reaction; he knelt beside it and tugged at the stringy stalks until he could see beneath them.

  "Andrea!"

  It was a headstone, cracked across its base and spilled back onto a rock beneath. Heedless of thorns, Josh clawed the rest of the covering away and wiped at the stone with his palm.