“Illeana,” I said.
“Hello, Jim,” she said. “Conrad felt we should come over.” As if she were apologizing, justifying their presence. “This is a tragedy for all of us.”
In the years since she’d moved here from Hollywood, Illeana had gotten the small-town-college-president’s- wife thing down pretty well. Expensive but tasteful clothes, heels that were high but not towering and no longer made of clear plastic, a blouse unbuttoned far enough to draw your eye in, but not enough to give you any real kind of a show. But under all that upstate New York respectability, there was still something of the tart about her. Like she was chewing invisible gum, making high-frequency snapping noises detectable only by the true hound dogs of my gender.
Ellen handed me an Amstel and I sat down. Ellen was drinking her new drink of choice, white wine, her glass poured almost to the top. Conrad dropped back into his seat next to Illeana and said, “We just wanted to be sure you folks were okay. You’re part of the Thackeray family, and when something like this happens-not that anything like this has happened before-we need to be sure you’re managing okay.” He looked at Ellen. “We figured that was why you called?”
“Called?” I said.
Conrad said, “I noticed your number was on my cell this morning. Illeana and I were out driving around in the new Audi. You see that? Pretty sharp, huh? Illeana’s getting used to the stick. We must have missed the call.”
Ellen, glancing at me and then to Conrad, said, “That was me. I was actually going to suggest you drop by, and then what do you know, you did.”
I gave Ellen a look. So she’d tried to give Conrad a heads-up on her own. She’d probably tried his home first, and when she couldn’t get him there, tried his cell.
“Next time,” Conrad said, grinning, “leave a message and I’ll get back to you as quickly as I can.” Sounding like a voice-mail recording.
“Well,” I said, “it looks as though it all worked out, you coming by anyway. Here we all are.”
“So, Barry Duckworth,” Conrad said, “he’s heading the investigation, is he?”
I nodded.
“Good man,” Conrad said, “although you have to wonder whether he’ll be in over his head. I can’t imagine he has the background to deal with something like this.”
“I’m sure he’ll give it his best,” I said, taking a big swig from the Amstel bottle. “I think Barry worked for a while in Albany.”
“Well, it’s still not New York or L.A., is it?” Conrad observed. “Albany,” he said dismissively. “When’s the last time anything big happened in Albany? And I’m not just talking about politics. Anything, really.”
I said nothing.
I wasn’t very good at this small-talk thing, at least not with Conrad. Several times a year, Thackeray social engagements where I was obliged to accompany Ellen brought me into contact with Conrad and Illeana. Given that he was Ellen’s boss, bumping into him and the occasional conversation over the phone were impossible to avoid. Conrad had always struck me as someone who wanted to be liked and admired by everyone, and would go to great lengths to achieve that goal, even so far as to pretend the two of us did not have a history.
But then, it was easier for him. He wasn’t the cuckold. (Jesus, there was a word you didn’t hear every day.)
“I’m inclined to give the chief a call,” Conrad said, referring to the Promise Falls chief of police, no doubt a close personal friend. Conrad was well connected. “I’ll remind him he needs to put all available resources into solving this. And if that means calling in the state police or the FBI or whoever to give Barry a helping hand, then that’s what he’ll have to do. This is no time for false pride. If Barry needs assistance from someone with a little more experience, then he should be goddamn smart enough to accept it. Wouldn’t you say, love?”
He was looking at Illeana. “Absolutely, Conrad,” she said softly, and touched him on the arm. “You should make a call. At least they’ll know you’re watching their progress with interest.”
“I wouldn’t be surprised if Randy will be doing the same,” I said.
“Randy, yes,” said Conrad. “I’m sure he will. When he’s not tossing his cookies in a home for unwed mothers!” He slapped his own knee and cackled. “I tell you, he never ceases to amaze.”
“For sure,” I said. As much as I hated chitchat, I couldn’t keep myself from asking, “Have you heard what he’s up to?”
Conrad eyed me warily. “The Congress thing.”
I nodded.
“Yeah, he’s had an exploratory committee working on this for a while. I think the bastard might actually have a shot at it. You don’t have to be an angel to get elected, you know.”
“That should be good news for Randy,” I said. “I think he intends to announce in the next few days.”
“Where did you hear about this?” Conrad asked. I guess he was surprised that I’d be up to speed on the comings and goings of the town’s socially prominent, given my current status.
“He told me,” I said.
Conrad blinked. Then, “Well, anyway, we don’t want to take up your whole afternoon here. Ellen, if anything should come up, if you need a day or two off to deal with what’s happened next door, don’t hesitate to call.”
“Sure, Conrad,” Ellen said, finishing off the last of the wine in her glass. “That’s very thoughtful.”
“So we’ll just be on our-”
“Conrad,” I said, “there’s something I’d like to talk to you about before you go.”
Ellen looked at me. I could see in her face that she didn’t want me to do this, that she wanted to handle it herself.
Fuck that.
“Sure,” Conrad said. “What’s up?”
I stood up. “Take a walk with me.”
Conrad got to his feet and came in step beside me as I wandered over toward the shed. The double-wide garage door was open.
“Ellen,” he said to me, “is she holding up okay?”
I hated it when he said her name. “We’re all a little on edge,” I said.
“Of course,” he said. “I just noticed she knocked back that wine pretty fast.”
“Like I said, we’re all a bit stressed out. Three people getting shot next door, it can have that kind of an effect on you.”
Conrad Chase walked straight into the shed, started looking around, checking out the lawn mowers, picked up a hedge trimmer, felt the heft of it in his hand. Then he spotted, in the far corner, my stack of canvases-there were about a dozen of them gathering dust-leaned up against the wall. He walked over to them, pulled the first one forward, then the second, and so on.
“This is no way to treat your paintings,” he said. “Out here, subject to all the changes in temperature, the dust.”
I didn’t say anything.
“These are not bad, you know,” he said, managing to be flattering and patronizing at the same time. He flipped back to the first one, an Adirondacks landscape. “I like this. I think, the farther back you get, the better it is. Very impressionistic. Lots of paint, heavy, you get too close and all you see are these globs, but you stand back”-he took three steps back-“and it really comes together. You had a show a few years ago, right?”
“Yes.”
He went back to the stack, found the third one, lifted it out. “This is. . let me guess. That’s Promise Falls.”
“Yes,” I said again.
“You have an interesting way with color. Very muted, almost as though every color is filtered through gray. I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone who can bring sadness to a landscape the way you can.” He shook his head in a way that almost seemed to be admiring. “You’re a complex guy, Cutter,” he said.
I couldn’t help myself. “How?” I asked.
“Well, you’re not particularly talkative, you drive around in a truck these days cutting people’s grass, you used to spend your days driving Randy around, but there’s a lot more going on inside there,” and he pointed at my head, “than anyone would give you credit for.”
