and I can't sing a note. And I can't seem to find Jimmy Antonelli. But get land condemned in this county? That I can do, Smith. That I can do.'
He shuffled some papers on his desk. 'Well, I imagine you're a busy man, so I won't keep you any longer. I'll expect to hear from you soon.' He rose, stuck out his hand.
I stood. I looked at the outstretched hand, at the baby face, at the beautiful girl in the silver picture frame. I turned, walked to the door, left it open behind me, and went out.
The secretary with the beautiful voice began to smile as I came through the door, but the smile faltered and died when she saw my face.
Chapter 10
I pulled the car hard out of the Appleseed lot and onto the spur road. My jaw didn't start to unclench until I hit the state highway, which Sanderson didn't own.
I fished in my jacket pocket for a cigarette and found that was all I had: one. I shoved it in my mouth, crushed the pack, flung it against the passenger-side door. It bounced. I smoked the cigarette right down to the filter, ground it in the ashtray as I hit the turnoff that would take me to 10 and south through the county to Jefferson.
An Appleseed truck, painted with enormous peaches and cherries, rumbled past me going the other way.
Cherries flowered early in the spring, up here; the three on my land, halfway up the slope between the cabin and 30, were always the first color on the hillside. For years I'd made it a point to be up here when they blossomed, if I could.
I checked to make sure I wasn't being followed. I checked to make sure I didn't have any more cigarettes. I checked to make sure I hadn't missed 10, because the way I felt, I could have zipped right by it and been halfway to Buffalo before I caught on.
In Jefferson I had to stop and ask directions. The ones I got, from a toothless guy in a John Deere cap, were complete to the point of idiocy. My fingers tightened slowly on the wheel as he leaned in my window and ticked off every curve and corner between the center of town, where we were blocking the intersection, and WinterhillRoad.
It turned out the drawing on the flyer wasn't half bad; I might have recognized the little house even without the wooden Winterhill Kitchen sign that stood on the lawn. The house was freshly painted, blue with a darker blue trim and deep red accents. There were carved bits of gingerbread at the eaves and lace curtains in the windows. The porch light was lit, a warm yellow glow in the chilly afternoon.
I parked in a gravel lot by the side of the house. There were three other cars there. None of them was Jimmy's Dodge Ram van and there was no blue truck.
A sign on the front door said Open—Come In in the same calligraphy as the logo on the flyer and the hanging sign. A bell tinkled as I opened the door and stepped inside. The air was scented with spices and the warm, sweet smells of vanilla, yeast, butter, chocolate.
To my right was a staircase, small but with an elegant curve to the bottom steps. Straight ahead was a closed door, and on the left a wall of French doors, which stood open. I went through into a lace-curtained room that held four tables, an antique garden bench, and a display case.
Inside the display case were latticework pies, deep purple filling showing through woven crust; a tall, darkly glossy chocolate cake, and a smaller white one with crushed pistachios sprinkled over it and one slice missing; a tray of cupcakes glazed in pastel colors; and a basket of star-shaped cookies with tiny gold and silver balls in their white frosting. Pots of coffee and hot water steamed on burners behind the counter, a cappuccino machine gleamed, and a rush basket held foil-wrapped envelopes of fancy teas.
It occurred to me that I was hungry.
A slight young woman with fawn-colored hair and round glasses came through a door behind the counter. I caught a glimpse of bright lights, white tiles, and pies cooling on tall racks. She wore jeans and a smudged white apron. She asked shyly, 'May I help you?'
'I'm looking for Alice Brown,' I told her, handed her my card.
She read it, nodded, disappeared through the door, and was back in moments to say, 'Alice is on the phone, but she'll be right out when she's through. Would you like to sit down while you're waiting?'
I pointed to a plate of thick slices of cranberry bread. 'What I'd like,' I said, 'is to have one of those and a cup of coffee while I'm sitting down.'
Smiling, she poured coffee into a dark blue mug, slid the cranberry slice onto a blue china plate. I paid her, took a seat at a table by the window.
The shy young woman disappeared behind the door again.
The coffee was good: fresh and strong with a faint bitter taste of chicory. I put it somewhere up around Eve Colgate's. The bread was rich and crumbly, the cranberries moist, tart, and plentiful.
Outside, the view was over a treeless field curving gently up away from the house. The sky was silvery at the horizon, with heavy iron clouds above.
I'd finished the bread and was halfway through the coffee when the kitchen door opened again and a different young woman came through. She was in her early twenties, I judged, and heavy, as Ellie had said; but she moved with graceful ease, self-assured and quiet. Her white kitchen jacket contrasted with her rich, shoulder-length chestnut hair. Her eyes were large and dark, and there was a scattering of freckles on her high cheeks.
I stood. 'Alice Brown?'
'Yes, I'm Alice Brown,' she said, looking at me not with hostility but with a clear reserve. Maybe it was just her way; or maybe she had some idea why I was there.
'My name is Bill Smith,' I said. 'Please, sit down.' I held the chair for her and she sat, her back straight, her shoulders relaxed. She folded her hands loosely on the table, gave me a direct gaze.
'I'm a friend of Jimmy Antonelli's,' I said as I sat again. 'It's important that I speak to him, and I think you know where he is.'
'Jimmy,' she said. She dropped her eyes to the tabletop. 'No, I don't know where he is.'
'I'm a friend of his,' I repeated. 'He's in trouble. Maybe he deserves it, maybe not. Either way, maybe I can
