The Ink-Stained Trail - Chapter 7

I sat in my dark room, the blinds down, the window open. I was still sweating, but the breeze helped. I was certain Maggie and her boys had something going on out in the housing. I was less certain if Hector or any of the other families were involved. Hector's fear could mean he was an innocent guy getting pushed around, but he could just be some low-level mook, worried about riling his boss. He wouldn't be the first crook with a family, if that's what they were. I remembered the Shrew brothers, Pac and Bly. They'd hire themselves out as kids for people who needed to pose as family men, or wanted muscle people would underestimate. I'd been socked in the jaw - and the garbanzos - more than enough to know they were up for it. Then they riled Victor de la Cruz and wound up sharing a steamer trunk at the bottom of the bay.

One other thing I felt sure of was the Charlanes' involvement. It couldn't be a coincidence they sold the land so cheap, after going to all the trouble to build expensive-looking homes on it. They gained something from all this, the question was what.

I tried looking them up in the archives for the local paper. Didn't find much. The family moved here over a century ago. Started with one small farm, but lucked out that it had a deep well that kept them going through the drought years. They grew, and eventually bought most of the surrounding land over a span of 20 years. Not bad. During the last war, they got some notice for shipping large quantities of food overseas on their own dime. Since they used their own ships, I had a hunch they got Uncle Sam to foot at least some of that bill, but none of the articles mentioned it. Now they were building homes. The paper didn't have any answers as to why, but one advantage to being the wealthiest folks in town is you can convince people not to ask questions.

Even so, the papers noted the Charlanes were notoriously reclusive. Didn't throw big parties or get active in local activities. No lions' Club or anything like that. Just kept to themselves. The family was currently Cyril and Josephine (Cyril was the one who knocked over the display in the general store that day), and their daughter Rosalind (pretty good student by on the awards she was pulling in). They had a son off at college, no specifics as to where. Just "overseas".

None of that told me much, so I decided on the direct approach. Their estate was to the west of their housing plan. Up on a hill. Big gate, high stone fence, gravel drive winding it's way up the hill to an even bigger house. Made me wonder if they bought it in England and had it shipped over. Didn't really fit here. I stopped in front of the gate, which was locked. There was no buzzer to ring to announce myself. The lock was heavy duty, a grey slab of pig iron serving as a padlock. It looked intimidating, but easy enough to pick if you know how. Few minutes work and I was pocketing the lock as I shoved the gate open, and followed the path to the house. My hat was off to the grounds crew. It was a big lawn, but they kept it cut short and neat. There were some trees near the house, but most of the lawn was wide open. The house was a three-story job, made out of granite. It looked well-kept, too, but it had a secretive air to it. Like when you step into a room and everyone gets quiet because they were talking about you. At least the door had a brass knocker to use. I lifted it and let it drop a few times.

After an couple eternities, the door opened. A pair of sea-green eyes peered out from behind the door, set in a young face. "What are you doing here?"

I took a guess. "Rosalind Charlane?"

The door opened a fraction wider. The face was flushed, too much sun, not a hard thing to accomplish around here. The face watched my suspiciously. "No, I'm Laurie Breston, the head maid, and I repeat, what are you doing here?"

I tried for cordial. "I'm sorry, you have such a young voice, I thought you were a teenager. I have an appointment with Mr. Charlane."

The eyes narrowed, that green sea getting pretty stormy. "I highly doubt that," she sniffed. "Mr. C never sees guests."

"I'm really more a prospective employee."

"Then he'd meet with you at his office." I noticed she didn't say that's where he was at the moment, so I kept pressing.

"It's about a private matter."

She'd had enough. "I'll not listen to any more of your stories! Be gone, or I'll set the grounds crew on you." The door slammed in my face.

I've had friendlier conversations hanging upside down in my bookie's basement. I turned and scanned the lawn as I started back to the road. I glanced back and saw Laurie was keeping an eye on me through a window next to the front door. I also noticed a curtain shift on the third floor, but didn't get a glimpse of who'd been there. Nice to see my curiosity had sparked someone else's.

Evidently I'd walked far enough Laurie didn't need to watch me. I turned and ambled around the side of the house, looking for another entrance, trying to be casual about it. Just a guy enjoying the view. I didn't make it far before a man stepped out of the shadows. He wore a straw hat big enough to use as a beach umbrella, with skin so burnt and weathered it looked tougher than his boots. He had a pair of gardening shears in his hands, pointed right at me.

"Mrs. Breston told ye to shove off," he rasped out. His voice was like sandpaper against the wood of his throat.

"Er, sorry. Which way is out again?" I really can't help myself.

"It's that way, ye daft snoop," he jeered, and jerked his head in the direction behind me. "And if ye still can't find it, I'm sure an ambulance can carry you out. Or a hearse." He jabbed the shears at me. I tried not to laugh. Maybe it was all the sun, but he looked old enough to be my grandfather's father. I was pretty sure I could take him, but assaulting the elderly isn't my style. Not when it won't accomplish anything.

I figured I'd pissed enough people off for the day. I turned and walked quickly back down the hill to my car, and drove back to town. I wanted to get a quick nap before I tonight. I had things to do.