“Of course they would. You don’t get it, do you? What do you think is happening to your car right now?”
Judy’s heart jumped. “You think they’ll hurt it?”
“No. I think they’re too nice to hurt it.” Frank laughed, but Judy wasn’t kidding.
“What will they do to it?”
“To your Bug? After they pull its little legs off or before?”
“If they so much as touch that car, I’ll—”
“Watch it.” Frank raised a finger in mock admonishment. “Of course, if they do anything to your car, you will be free to pursue all appropriate legal remedies.”
Judy still wasn’t laughing. “Now I’m really mad,” she said, and meant it.
Chapter 18
When Frank’s truck finally came to a stop, it was twilight, the stars just beginning to shine in the country sky, winking behind a thin veneer of dusk. They were back in Chester County, parked in thick grass in front of an abandoned springhouse, painted white. It was on the same property as the construction site, on the far side of the meadow. It had rained here, stirring up the gnats, which flew in dizzy knots outside a windshield dotted with raindrops. Birds chirped loudly, filling the damp air with sound, none of which woke up Pigeon Tony, who snoozed in the backseat.
Judy pushed the button to roll down the truck window. “You think he’ll be safe here?”
“No doubt.” Frank put on the emergency brake and wiped dark hair from his forehead. “This is a seventy- five-acre property, and the springhouse is in the middle of it, if you look on a topo. A topographic map.”
Judy looked around. Not a handgun in sight. They seemed to be in the middle of nowhere, if not paradise. “But where is the house? I mean, don’t springhouses provide water to houses?”
Frank pointed past her. “It used to be over there, about fifty yards, but the owners tore it down. They’re building a new house on the far side of the meadow. Come on, I’ll show you.” He climbed out of the truck and closed the door softly enough not to wake his grandfather. Judy followed suit, feeling finally safe again when her clogs hit the grass.
“This is better than people shooting at you,” she said, and Frank moved toward her, extending a large hand.
“Am I fun or what? Here, step into my office. It’s the best part of my job.” He took her hand with confidence, and Judy let him. Her hand nestled happily in his, and she liked the simple connection to him as they walked across the grass. It was long enough to tickle her bare ankles and drench the toe of her clogs, but she felt too good to mind. She didn’t know exactly when all the hand-holding and leg-pressing had started, but she was sure that bullets were flying at the time. Frank gestured to the oak trees on their left. “Hope you like what I’ve done with the place. I don’t mean to brag, but those trees over there, they’re two hundred years old. And green is my favorite color.”
Judy smiled. “I was guessing mauve.”
“Nuh-uh. Mauve is for bricklayers.”
“My office has law books.”
“Too bad.” Frank moved easily through the grass, eyeing a tan fieldstone as they passed. “At least they burn easy.”
“It also has bookshelves and accordion files and a credenza.”
“A credenza! Wow.” Frank nodded. “Mine only has the sun.”
Judy was enjoying being somebody’s straight man for a change. “Plus I have e-mail, voicemail, and two phone lines, right on my desk.”
“I have a backhoe, a pickup, and a grandfather. And that used to be all. Now I have something far greater.” Frank squeezed her hand, and Judy didn’t ask him what he meant, though she had a guess. She didn’t want to make a horse’s ass of herself or go too fast. She liked him too much. She was in definite like. She glanced at him, hoping for some meaningful interlocking of eyes, but he was looking down at the grass. “See?” he asked, and pointed.
“What?” All Judy saw was wet grass.
“That’s the footing wall.” Frank nosed the grass with the toe of his big boot, lifting the damp sod and exposing a tan stone. “Valley Forge fieldstone, indigenous to this area of Pennsylvania. This is where the old farmhouse was. See how the grass is lighter, in a line, all around? You can still see the footprint of the house. The stone stays put.” He pointed in a line that made a square, and Judy followed his arm, only slightly distracted by the biceps revealed by his polo shirt. It was so pleasant to be standing here, their hands linked loosely, listening to his voice. Its richness told her he loved what he was talking about.
“The farmhouse was built in 1780,” he continued. “I saw it last year, before they tore it down. White stucco over centuries-old fieldstone. The foundation was thicker than any I’ve seen. The windowsills were deep enough to hold two men. The house would have stood forever. It fought to stay up, I swear.” Regret tinged his tone, and she understood.
“Why did they tear it down?”
“It didn’t have a family room. Or a weight room. Or a place for a spa.”
Judy was appalled. “It was historic.”
“I’m a professional. I’ve learned not to judge my clients. How about you?”
Judy laughed. “Enough said.”
“History doesn’t matter to some people. They want media rooms, hollow doors, and a three-car garage.” Frank shrugged. “Anyway, I like their taste in walls. They went to Ireland, and they liked the walls there. Ireland has all dry-laid—they use them for sheep—and England, that’s the place where it started. They’re the same everywhere and they have been for hundreds of years. And the only ingredients are stone and gravity. They’re fun to build. Amazing to build, actually.”
“How so?”
Frank paused. “They clear the head, at the same time they engage it completely. Any wall has that effect. Winston Churchill, every chance he got during the war, retired to his country house to build a brick-and-mortar wall, did you know that?”
“No.”
“It’s true. But it’s not always a hobby. In Italy, which of course has the best stonework, the farmers learned to make stone walls for fencing because there weren’t enough trees around. Italian masons, when they came to America, built half the dry stone walls in New England and New York. I’ll take you out to Westchester County someday. The walls there match the ones you see in Italy.”
“Have you been?”
“To Italy? Twice. I went through the hill towns, built almost entirely of stone. Castlenuovo, Spoleto, Pontito, Calascio, Ostuni.”
It sounded like a menu, but Judy didn’t say so. She was thinking about the Lucia family, and the past. “Did you go to the town where your grandfather came from?”
“Of course I went to the village. It’s right outside Veramo, in Abruzzo. I met all my cousins, they’re still there. It was great.”
“It must have been.” But Judy was wondering about the case, and a missing piece. She hadn’t wanted to interrupt Pigeon Tony at the clubhouse. “I have to ask you something, about your grandmother, Silvana. About her murder.”
“Whatever you need,” Frank said, and his hand closed on hers.
“How did she die?”
“I told you, Coluzzi killed her because she chose my grandfather over him.”
“I know, but how did she die?”
“They still talk about it, over there.” Frank cleared his throat. “She was found at the farm, as if she had fallen from a hayloft. Her neck was broken.”
Judy startled. “Like Coluzzi’s.”
“I guess, but there’s no connection.”
“The jury will think there is, if it comes into evidence.” Judy’s thoughts hurried on. It would make Pigeon Tony’s act look more like payback, strengthening the intent argument for the Commonwealth. She’d have to keep it out, but she had more questions. “How did they know it was murder? I mean, what if she simply fell out of the
