taking up serpents.”
“What happened with the Running Goat property?”
“City fella asked if he could rent it, run a little camp. I wanted nothing to do with the place, so I said hell, yes. Seemed like easy money.”
Again he cleared his throat and spat.
“It was a campground?”
“They came up for huntin' and fishin', but you ask me, it was mostly to hide from their womenfolk.”
“Was there a house?”
“They stayed with tents and campfires and all, till I built the lodge.” He shook his head. “Beats me what some fools consider fun.”
“When did you build the lodge?”
“Before the war.”
“Did it have a walled courtyard?”
“What the hell kinda question is that?”
“Did you build a stone wall and make a courtyard?”
“I wasn't puttin' up no friggin' Camelot.”
“You sold the land in 1949?”
“Sounds right.”
“The year you broke with Thaddeus Bowman.”
“Eyeh.”
“Luke Bowman remembered that you left his father's congregation right after Edna Farrell died.”
Again the eyes creased.
“You implyin' something, young lady?”
“No, sir.”
“Edna Farrell was a fine Christian lady. They should have done better by her.”
“Would you mind telling me who bought the camp?”
“Would you mind tellin' me why you're wantin' to know my business?”
I was quickly revising my estimate of Edward Arthur. Because he was old and taciturn I had presumed his faculties might be dulled. The man in front of me was as cagey as Kasparov. I decided to play it straight.
“I'm no longer involved in the crash investigation because I've been accused of acting improperly. The charges are false.”
“Eyeh.”
“I believe there's something wrong in that lodge, and I want to know what. The information may help clear my name, but I think my efforts are being blocked.”
“You been there?”
“Not inside.”
He started to speak, but a gust of wind grabbed his hat and sent it reeling across the garden. Purple lips drew back against toothless gums, and a scarecrow arm shot out.
Bolting, I overtook the hat and pinned it with a foot. Then I brushed it clean and carried it back to Arthur.
The old man shivered as he took the boater and pressed it to his chest.
“Would you like your shirt, sir?”
“Turnin' cold,” he said, and started for the wheelbarrow.
When he'd finished buttoning, I helped him gather his tools and store them with the wheelbarrow in a shed behind the cabin. As he closed the door, I re-posed my question.
“Who bought your land, Mr. Arthur?”
He clicked the padlock, tugged it twice, and turned to face me.
“You'd best stay clear of that place, young lady.”
“I promise you, sir, I won't go there alone.”
Arthur regarded me for so long, I thought he wasn't going to answer. Then he stepped close and raised his face to mine.
“Prentice Dashwood.”
He spat “Prentice” with such force that saliva misted my chin.
“Prentice Dashwood bought your land?”
He nodded, and the watery old eyes darkened.
