The Man Who Wasn't All There Page 2

  By early morning the storm had passed. Quasimodo, Merilee’s rooster, was crowing his head off and the sky was a shade of blue you seldom see in New York City. Actually, make that never see. I lay there gazing out the French doors at the autumn leaves on the maple trees and at the open pasturage that tumbled down to Whalebone Cove, where six acres of freshwater tidal marsh were home to one of the state’s last remaining stands of wild rice, not to mention several rare marsh plants. Also great blue herons, long-billed marsh wrens, ospreys and the occasional bald eagle.

  I threw on a T-shirt, torn jeans, a toasty black and white Tattersall Viyella shirt and my Chippewas. Put on the coffee, fed Lulu, toasted an English muffin and slathered it with Merilee’s blackberry jam. While I ate at the big kitchen table, which originally had been a washhouse table at a Shaker colony in Mount Lebanon, New York, I made a fall chores list. Attending to seasonal chores is a great way to clear your head. It’s a trick that’s worked for me many times before. Actually, it’s a trick that’s never worked for me before but why let a small technicality get in the way?

  After I’d drained my second cup of coffee I dug a pair of pliers and Phillips screwdriver from the tool drawer, went outside by way of the mudroom, discovered from the thermometer mounted outside of the door that it was forty-six degrees, went back inside for my flight jacket and headed out again, taking deep breaths of the clean air as Lulu waddled along with me in her vest at my insistence, grumbling. She would have been much happier staying in bed, but if she doesn’t get a proper amount of exercise she puts on weight and she doesn’t really have anywhere to put it – except even nearer to the floor. So she joined me as I fed Quasimodo and the girls, making sure she kept a safe distance from their wire coop.

  The guest cottage wasn’t winterized and needed to be closed-up for the season. I unscrewed the screen door from its hinges, carried it inside and propped it against the wall. Latched all of the windows shut. Used the pliers to shut off the water under the bathroom sink and turned on the faucet and shower to bleed the pipes. I also flushed the toilet twice to empty it so that no water would be left in it to freeze and crack the porcelain. Then I stood there gazing at the plain pine writing table and narrow white iron bed, smiling. I had many fond memories of working on my first three chapters in this cottage on summer mornings when the breeze that came through the screen door was cool and fragrant from all of the flowers that were blooming.

  I closed the door and moved on.

  Chopping kindling was next on my chores list, but you don’t want to chop kindling the morning after a rainstorm. You want a dry, frosty morning when it hasn’t rained for several days. So I fetched a spade and pruners from the barn and led Lulu around the duck pond to my vegetable garden. Specifically to my shriveled, yellowing tomato plants, which needed to be cut back, pulled out by the roots and buried somewhere far, far away since they harbor blights.

  I’d just started in on the job when a Connecticut State Police Ford Crown Vic cruiser eased its way up the gravel driveway and parked behind the Jag. It wasn’t the standard silver State Police Crown Vic. It was a dilapidated rust bucket of no particular color tricked out with a humongous black demolition derby front bumper, as well as an array of spotlights and antennae. Lulu let out a low growl of warning, which surprised me. She’s usually happy to greet sworn personnel. And absolutely nothing makes her happier than riding around in a police car.

  The trooper who climbed out was in his mid-forties and didn’t have the bearing of a typical state trooper. He was exceedingly short and roly-poly, not to mention unshaven and unwashed. His body odor was so strong I could smell him from ten feet away. He wore no Smokey hat over his unusually large, balding head, and was dressed in what appeared to be a state trooper’s uniform except it wasn’t. His slate-gray long-sleeved shirt was adorned with no nameplate, badge or official insignias. His navy-blue trousers had no royal blue and gold stripe, and he wore Adidas sneakers, not polished black brogans. He did have on a black garrison-style belt equipped with a hickory nightstick and holstered weapon, but he carried no two-way radio. And his weapon wasn’t the Sig Sauer semi-automatic that state troopers were carrying now. It was an old-school revolver.

  The round little man stood there gazing admiringly at the historic farmhouse and barn and orchards. His eyes were set unusually close together, as if they were both on the same side of his nose. Then he hitched up his trousers, swaggered over toward me, raising his chin in the air authoritatively. ‘This is Merilee Nash’s place, isn’t it?’ His voice sounded oddly boyish and petulant. His breath was foul enough to make my eyes water.

  Again, Lulu growled at him.

  I shushed her before I said, ‘Yes, it is. But she isn’t here right now. May I help you?’

  ‘And who might you be?’ His manner wasn’t what I’d call courteous.

  ‘How about you go first? May I see some ID, please?’

  He opened his wallet and produced a dog-eared card that identified him as Austin Talmadge, a member in good standing since 1988 of the Connecticut State Police Booster Club.

  ‘Correct me if I’m wrong, but you’re not an actual state trooper, are you?’

  ‘I’m auxiliary state police,’ Austin said defensively. ‘I provide vital assistance in rural areas like this one.’

  ‘I’m Merilee’s ex-husband, Stewart Hoag. I was out here all summer yet I don’t recall seeing you around providing vital assistance.’

  ‘I was … away,’ he said, reddening, before he abruptly switched gears. ‘I sure did love her in that Gulf War movie where she counseled vets with PTSD. She has so much genuine heart. Really, really relates to people who are hurting. I have lots of movie ideas myself. I’ve written more than forty scripts. Romantic comedies, heist pictures, westerns.’ His speaking manner was rapid fire and disjointed. ‘I’d love to show them to her.’

  I tugged at my ear, wondering if he was a celebrity stalker, a country oddball or what. ‘She’s not here, like I said.’

  ‘But she’d read them, wouldn’t she? She isn’t the sort of snob who’d just throw them in the garbage.’

  ‘It’s her agent’s job to read any submissions that are made to her. She doesn’t have the time to read them herself.’

  He tilted her head at me curiously. ‘Are you in movies, too?’

  ‘I’m a novelist.’

  ‘I’ve written those, too. Dozens of them. I’ve got them in a trunk somewhere. Want to read one?’

  ‘I’m in the middle of a book of my own right now. If I read someone else’s work it can affect my voice. Thank you for the offer, though. Tell me, what else do you do?’

  Austin furrowed his brow at me. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘When you’re not writing screenplays, novels and helping provide the state police with vital assistance in rural areas – do you have a regular job?’

  ‘This is my job.’

  Country oddball it was. Lyme had quite its share of them. It was a remote, rural area that had been settled by a very small number of families more than 300 years ago. Many of the descendants still lived there. I also wondered if Austin was a stoner. But if he were high on weed, would he be driving around playing Officer Krupke?

  ‘If you’re her ex-husband, how come you still live with her?’ he demanded, peering at me.

  ‘That would fall under the category of none of your business.’ As I circled around his tricked-out cruiser I noticed that the entire back seat was a toxic waste dump of greasy fast food wrappers, pizza boxes and plastic jugs of Coca-Cola. I stopped when I got to the front of the car, studying it.

  ‘What are you doing?’ he demanded.

  ‘Memorizing your license plate number.’

  ‘What for?’ A whiny quaver had crept into his voice.

  ‘It’s a mental exercise. My short-term memory’s a work in progress. I dropped a lot of acid when I was in college.’

  ‘Oh, I get it. You’re a wise guy, huh?’

  ‘And I get paid a lot of money for it, too.’

  He reddened again. ‘A word of warning. You don’t want to get on my bad side.’

  ‘That’s funny, I didn’t realize that totally round objects had sides.’

  He shook a stubby finger at me. ‘You’re going to be sorry you said that. And you still haven’t shown me your ID. Hand it over right goddamned now!’

  ‘That’s not going to happen, Austin. You have no authority to make me show it to you. I think we’re done here now, so why don’t you get in your toy car and go back the way you came?’

  He stuck his chin out at me, his hands parked on what would have been his hips if he’d had hips. ‘You don’t seem to understand. I’m conducting a criminal investigation.’

  ‘A criminal investigation of what?’

  ‘Trespassing, possible breaking and entering …’

  ‘OK, that does it. I’ve tried to be patient with you but you’ve exhausted my reserves of goodwill. I’m going inside the house now to phone the resident trooper and lodge a complaint that you’re trespassing and harassing me.’

  ‘You don’t want to do that,’ Austin warned me.

  Lulu let out another growl, this one considerably more menacing. I told her to let me handle it. ‘I don’t want to do what, Austin?’

  ‘Make me angry. I can cause you more problems than you already have.’

  ‘Actually, there are no problems here – except for you. So why don’t you make the problem go away by leaving?’

  He glared at me some more with those close-set eyes of his, shoving his pouty lower lip in and out. ‘Fine, I’ll go. But I want it understood that I don’t care for your attitude. Next time you see me you’d better show more respect.’

  ‘And here I was hoping I wouldn’t have to see or smell you again.’ r />
  ‘That was a really nasty thing to say.’

  ‘I’m so sorry. I deeply regret it if I hurt your feelings. You have until the count of ten to get back in your car and off of this property. If you don’t I’ll sic Lulu on you.’

  His eyes widened in fear. ‘She’s an attack dog?’

  To be honest Lulu had been in exactly one fight in her entire life – with a Pomeranian named Mr Puff Ball in Riverside Park. She came out on the losing end. But there was no need for him to know that. ‘Let’s just say she’s highly protective of me. I’m going to start counting now. Ten … nine …’

  His eyes blazed at me as he hurried toward his Crown Vic. ‘You’ll regret this,’ he vowed.

  ‘This is me quaking in my boots. Eight … seven …’

  He jumped back in his car, started it up and went tearing off down the gravel driveway. Lulu chased after his car for about fifty feet, barking, until she ran out of pep and pulled up, gasping.

  ‘Atta girl. You sure showed him who’s the boss around here. He won’t dare mess with us anymore.’

  It took less than five minutes for old Mr MacGowan to come speeding up the driveway in his battered Dodge Ram pickup. Lulu ambled over to greet him when he got out. He bent over to pet her, or at least did his best to. He was well into his seventies and barrel-chested with an arthritic back. The MacGowan family had farmed the neighboring land since the early 1800s, and Mr MacGowan knew everything there was to know about farming, although he’d also taught math at the high school for forty years in order to pay his property taxes. Like so many of the old-timers in Lyme he came across as chilly and abrupt – a Cranky Yankee – until he decided you were OK. He’d decided in no time that Merilee was plenty OK. I’d eventually managed to win him over, too.

  ‘Awful nice to see you again, Hoagy,’ he said, patting Lulu’s head.

  ‘Likewise, Mr MacGowan. Thanks for stocking the fridge. Those provisions came in mighty handy last night.’

  ‘No trouble at all. I was at the A&P anyway.’

  ‘How are my girls doing?’

  By ‘my girls’ I meant Joanie and Sandy, who’d started working there as cashiers in high school, had never left and were now in their late forties. They’d taken a shine to me that summer, possibly because I enjoyed flirting with them.

  ‘Still full of piss and vinegar.’ He furrowed his brow at me with concern. ‘Hoagy, I would swear I just saw a rusty old Crown Vic go tearing down Joshua Town past my place. Did you by any chance have a visitor?’

  ‘I sure did. A smelly, unpleasant little fat man who claimed he was an auxiliary state trooper. Celebrity stalker is more like it. He was very upset that Merilee wasn’t here and demanded to know who I was and what I was doing here. Said his name was Austin Talmadge.’

  Mr MacGowan paled, swallowing. ‘So he’s out again …’

  ‘Out again?’

  ‘Hoagy, if I were you I’d get your things together and drive straight back to New York.’

  ‘But I just got here.’

  ‘Trust me, Austin’s not someone you want to trifle with,’ he said, his voice rising with urgency. ‘Especially if he’s got Merilee in his sights. He’s a major nut case who’s been in and out of psychiatric hospitals his whole life. You should call the state police right away. Don’t bother with Jim Conley. He’s a fine resident trooper but you need somebody who has a lot more pull.’

  I studied Mr MacGowan curiously. ‘Are you saying this guy’s dangerous?’

  ‘I’m saying I wouldn’t feel safe here if I were you.’

  ‘You sound awfully serious about this.’

  ‘Only because I am.’

  ‘I do know someone who I can call.’

  ‘Will you promise me you’ll call him right away?’

  ‘I promise.’

  ‘Then I’ll leave you to it.’ Mr MacGowan climbed back in his truck and drove off, leaving me there feeling totally bewildered.

  I went inside and leafed through the phone book in my briefcase for the number of Pete Tedone, whom my lawyer had put me in touch with last summer when things got super messy with a former Yale Drama School classmate of Merilee’s. Pete took care of it and kept it out of the papers. He’d been deputy superintendent of the Connecticut State Police until his wife got caught shoplifting several valuable items from the Gucci store on Fifth Avenue while Pete was right there by her side, clueless, or so he’d claimed when store security landed on her. He took early retirement and became a private detective – a private detective who was related to half the hierarchy in the state police.

  I called him and left Merilee’s unlisted business number with his answering service.

  He called me back in five minutes. ‘Hoagy, what a nice surprise. I thought you’d gone back to Gotham City to work on the great American novel.’

  ‘I did. I am. Just came out for a few days to take in the fall color. Merilee’s shooting a movie in Budapest. I’m out here by myself.’ Lulu coughed. ‘Which is to say it’s just Lulu and me.’

  ‘Something I can help you with?’

  ‘I don’t know, to be honest. Her neighbor out here, an old-timer, seems to think I’m in the middle of a situation.’

  ‘What kind of a situation?’

  ‘A strange sort of guy just showed up here in a tricked-out old Crown Vic wearing a fake state trooper’s uniform and carrying a nightstick and gun. He was in his forties, short, fat and smelled like a homeless person. Called himself an auxiliary state trooper. Also a huge admirer of Merilee’s work, as in my idea of potential stalker material. Me, he didn’t like at all. Told me I’d better show him more respect the next time we see each other.’

  ‘Got a name for me?’ Pete was unable to hide the dread that had crept into his voice.

  ‘Austin Talmadge.’

  ‘Are you going to be around this morning?’

  ‘That’s the plan.’

  ‘Good. I’ll be there in less than an hour.’

  ‘Super. Thanks, Pete.’

  ‘A word of warning, Hoagy …’ Pete Tedone cleared his throat. ‘I won’t be alone.’

  TWO

  It was actually a small convoy that arrived forty-five minutes later. Heading up the convoy was Pete Tedone, who still drove a standard-issue silver Crown Vic just as he had when he’d been deputy superintendent. Pete was a chesty fireplug in his early fifties with a shaved head and a twenty-inch neck who was partial to cheap, shiny black suits that were just a bit too snug in the shoulders.

  He’d barely had time to greet me with a grim nod and a firm handshake before the gravel driveway was overflowing with men exiting their vehicles. Each of them greeted me with that same grim nod and firm handshake when Pete introduced us, one by one. The first was Jim Conley, resident state trooper of Lyme and Old Lyme. Resident troopers are common in rural Connecticut towns that are too small to fund a police force of their own. Conley carried himself with a great deal of calm authority. He was maybe fifty, tall, lean and broad-shouldered. Wore a wide-brimmed Smokey hat and a trimly tailored uniform. A genuine one, unlike Austin Talmadge’s. His superior was Captain Donovan Rundle of the Troop F Barracks in Westbrook – or ‘F Troop’ as the locals called it in mocking homage to the ’60s TV sitcom about an inept cavalry troop that starred Ken Berry, Forrest Tucker and the one, the only Larry Storch. Rundle was in his mid-fifties, a jowly, paunchy, deflated accordion of a man who looked incredibly unhappy to be pulled away from his primary job, which was sitting at his desk counting the days until he could retire and play golf in Boca Raton. Moving on up the food chain, Pete introduced me to Buck Mitry, the man who’d succeeded him as deputy superintendent. Mitry was a stern-faced black man who was a good two inches taller than I am – which would make him six feet five. He was dressed in a sober gray suit and muted tie and possessed the largest hand I’d ever shaken in my life. Lastly, I met Colin Fielding, a slightly built man in his late forties with thinning sandy hair and piercing eyes. Pete Tedone described him as a ‘personal envoy’ from the governor’s office.