age. She had stooped shoulders and pale skin, and smoked a cigarette that seemed surgically attached to her lower lip. Toward the rear of the place was a real old-timer. He was bald on top and gray on the sides, and looked like he hadn’t eaten since a week ago last August. Maybe he was too busy sucking on his pipe to be bothered with food. Neither the cigarette nor the pipe seemed anxious to help us. I cleared my throat loudly enough to get their attention.
“Can I do something for you gentlemen?” the old guy spoke up.
We walked back to his desk, the mousy woman paying us no mind at all. When we got closer to the ancient mariner, he slipped on a pair of wire-frame glasses.
“I’m Y. W. Fenn,” Wit announced with the proper blend of conceit and humility. “This is my driver, Moe.”
“Micah Farr,” the old man stuck out his right hand, “editor in chief, reporter, copyboy, and dishwasher. To what do we owe the pleasure of a visit from the great Yancy Whittle Fenn?”
Wit and I exchanged knowing glances. We recognized Farr’s name from the Stipe murder coverage. Farr had done all the local reporting, some of his stuff getting picked up by bigger papers.
“Call me Wit.”
“Everybody calls him Wit,” I chimed in.
“Okay, Wit, what brings you to our fair hamlet?”
“Steven Brightman. I did a piece on him-”
“-in
“Indeed. Thank you. My concept is to do a follow-up about what shaped and influenced Brightman, a sort of prequel to my
“Nice idea,” Farr agreed. “No doubt now that he’s been cleared of suspicion in that poor woman’s murder, the ambitious little bastard’s set his sights on the next Senate race. When he announces, you’ll have your piece all set to go.”
Wit winked at the reporter. “Why, how cynical of you, Mr. Farr.”
“Yeah, I guess so. By the way, call me Mike.”
“Everybody call you Mike?” I wondered.
“Nah, everybody who knows me calls me an old prick, but since we’re just getting acquainted, Mike’ll do for now.”
We all had a good laugh at that. Mike explained that the girl at the front desk was his niece and how she’d had the misfortune of catching the journalism bug early in life.
“Learned at her uncle’s knee, I’m afraid. Too bad. She’ll end up like me,” Farr bemoaned, “old, lonely, and forgotten.”
Wit changed subjects. “We were curious if you could take a few hours to show us around. You know, point out the old Brightman house, where he went to school. If you have any old anecdotes about him or could introduce us to some people who knew him. I’ll credit you in the piece.”
“Love to. We haven’t had a juicy story of our own since … well, not in a long long time. Not much happens around here. Which is a good thing, I suppose. Annie can hold down the fort. Can’t you, dear?” he shouted to her.
She just waved.
We put Farr in the front seat next to me. Wit sat in the back. The old reporter guided us through a series of lefts and rights, pointing out houses that he thought were particularly pretty or that had been designed by famous architects.
“These are the greenest lawns I’ve ever seen,” I said without really meaning to.
“Yeah,” Farr agreed, “the town is patrolled by lawn police. If they find any brown spots, a truck comes by that night and sprays it to match your grass.”
He took us by a country club that was rimmed by beautifully trimmed hedges. Besides their meticulous upkeep, the hedges were remarkable in that they were of varying heights, widths, and lengths. Yet from our vantage point it was impossible to discern a coherent pattern.
“They’re pretty amazing, aren’t they?” Micah Farr was almost boastful. “Word is, they’re even nicer in an aerial view. The rumor is that from above they spell out ‘No Jews.’”
“How pleasant,” Wit remarked.
“We got other country clubs let everybody in, but the hedges ain’t as pretty. Brightman’s old man used to be a member here. That’s why I showed it to you.”
“A lot of anti-Semitism in Hallworth?” I asked.
“Not really, no. Even here, it’s not true anymore. The town’s changed over the years, but not very much. That’s the glory of this place, people don’t really change it. It changes them, almost always for the better.” Farr was wistful. “It’s why I’ve stayed all my life.”
Finally, the old reporter took us to the woods by the reservoir where Carl Stipe had been murdered.
“That’s the reservoir over there.” He pointed. “There’s the pool club. That house over there, you see it? Just through the woods. That’s where Brightman lived as a kid.”
Wit spoke on cue. “You know, Mike, in the course of my background research on Brightman, I came across some rather disturbing stories about a child being-”
“Carl Stipe was his name. He was the mayor’s kid,” Farr interrupted, a mixture of dread and excitement in his voice. “He was found not five feet from where we’re standing. In fact, his house was right over there.” He pointed in the opposite direction from the old Brightman house.
“He was tortured or something as I recall, wasn’t he?” Wit played it cool.
“Sticks shoved down his throat. It was horrible.”
“You saw the body, then?” I asked.
‘I did. By the time they found him, all his blood had settled. He was white as a sheet, his eyes frozen open, staring up at the canopy.” Farr looked up at the trees. “I’m not likely to forget that.”
“If I remember correctly, a drifter did it,” Wit said.
“Nah,” Farr pooh-poohed. “That guy Martz had nothing to do with it.”
“But-”
“But nothing, Wit,” Farr insisted. “People believe stuff sometimes because it’s what they want to believe. You know that. And the people around here wanted to believe Martz did it more than anything. They wanted to get on with their lives, and that would have been impossible if they thought the killer was still roaming around out there somewhere. Or worse still, if the killer was living among them. No sirree, everybody around here was pretty well interested in hanging it on that poor sick bastard Martz.”
“Everyone except you,” I said, remembering the follow-up articles which had appeared in the
“I didn’t buy it then and I don’t buy it now.”
“Did the police ever have any other suspects beside this Martz fellow?” Wit was curious to know.
“If they did, they weren’t saying.”
“And you?” I asked.
“Me? I’m a reporter. I don’t have theories.”
“Did they ever recover the bicycle?” Wit wanted to know.
Micah Farr squinted at us suspiciously. “You two fellows seem awfully more interested in the Stipe murder than Brightman. What’s going on, boys?”
“You’re a sharp newspaperman,” Wit complimented. “I am interested in the murder, because I think it’s why the Brightmans moved to New York. I think the murder had a profound effect in shaping Steven Brightman. I think it’s an angle that will work for me in the piece.”
Farr bought it. “You’re right. A few families moved away soon after the murder. If you want more info on the murder, I’d talk to Phil Malloy over at the municipal building. He’s mayor now, but back then he was a local cop. When we get back to the
Wit clapped Farr on the shoulder. “That would be great. Thank you. May I just ask you one or two more questions, Mike?”
“Shoot, Wit.”
“The stories said Carl Stipe was coming from a friend’s house and using these woods as a shortcut. From
