Joe nodded. "We did, thanks to you. It was a good description."
With her reminiscence, he, too, was recalling that trip, and how he'd spent those many hours, in part surveilling the crowd she served-and in part admiring her.
"That must have been fascinating," his mother interjected. "I've never actually seen Joe at work. But what are you doing way up here? Brattleboro's a long drive."
Lyn laughed. "I know. That must seem a little weird. No, I promise, I had to be up here anyhow, to get some supplies for the bar-I'm totally renovating it-and like I said, the newspaper was full of what happened. I figured I'd kill two birds with one stone."
"But how did you find the farm?" Joe asked.
Her expression brightened. "That was good, huh? I knew the accident happened near here; I figured you must live nearby, so I asked around. I felt a little like Dorothy asking directions to Oz-'Could you tell me where the Gunthers live?' Good thing your last name isn't that common. The young woman at the Mobil station knew all about you. Is your brother named Leo? The paper just said he was your brother."
Both her companions burst out laughing.
"Sorry," Joe explained. "Leo's pretty popular with the local ladies."
"Especially those who are supposedly interested in cars," his mother added.
Lyn nodded in comprehension. "She did seem to know him pretty well."
"He's also the local butcher," Joe continued, "which adds to his appeal. Not," he said quickly, catching a warning glance from across the room, "that he isn't also a very skilled and professional guy. I don't want him to sound like a stud or anything."
The source of the glance explained, "The two of them have this running gag about Leo and his women. I can attest to his being more of a braggart than a practitioner. Either Joe doesn't know or won't admit it, but his little brother is a virtual homebody."
"How is he doing, by the way?" Lyn asked. "The paper said you were both in serious condition."
"Mom was in a deep sleep for a couple of days," Joe told her. "But she woke up good as new. Leo's pretty beaten up. He's conscious and can talk, but he's in the ICU. He's getting better, though."
This part of the conversation created an awkward silence, which prompted their hostess to push away from her tables and offer, "Anyone for tea or coffee?"
Both Lyn and Joe asked for the latter, allowing the old woman to escape to the kitchen and her own thoughts.
In her absence, the two of them remained silent, not looking at each other, groping for something to say. In Joe's case, the inhibition was compounded by a wary curiosity struggling with his pleasure.
Lyn spoke first. "I'm sorry I barged in like I did. I didn't really expect anyone to be here. I just sort of yielded to impulse." She finally looked up at him. "When you opened the door, I couldn't believe my luck, but your mom being home just makes me embarrassed. This is not when I should be here."
"Not true," he said candidly. "I'm sorry I was such a dope at the door. I figured I'd never see you again."
She nodded silently, back to studying the rug.
"Not that I didn't want to," he added.
That brought her head up. "Really?"
He thought back to one of the few short conversations they'd shared in Gloucester, when, prompted by his observations of her at work behind the bar, she'd admitted to being at once forthright and shy with others, especially men.
"The reason we met may have been a little offbeat," he understated, "but it left a lasting impression. A really good one."
He was tempted to expand but resisted. She smiled slightly, more with her eyes than with her mouth. "Yeah," she said. "For me, too."
SNOWGIRL: how old r u?
THUMPER: 18. U?
SNOWGIRL: 14. feel lik 100 THUMPER: im sorry. Bad day? SNOWGIRL: bad life THUMPER: me 2 SNOWGIRL: y? THUMPER: sister died. Luvd her a lot SNOWGIRL: so sorry
SNOWGIRL: sucky mom, pissy x-bf THUMPER: He brok up with u? Y? SNOWGIRL: same ol, same ol THUMPER: Guys dont get it SNOWGIRL: u do? THUMPER: U want a hug, he wants sex. Rite? SNOWGIRL: ya THUMPER: I get it. SNOWGIRL: ur cool
Chapter 7
Steve's Garage, unsurprisingly, wasn't far from where Leo had his butcher shop in East Thetford. Suitably for a small village, the garage, unlike Mitch's car-corralled, straightforward cinder-block house of wrecks, was of evolutionary design, having begun life as a small barn. That said, it still wasn't quaint or neat. Rather, like so many of its brethren across this pragmatically minded state, it was a place where labor overruled aesthetics and where, if you needed to place an engine block temporarily in the dooryard, on top of two truck tires, you did just that.
Joe arrived as a passenger in Rob Barrows's cruiser, playing a role somewhere between investigator and representative of the injured party. They'd agreed beforehand that Barrows would do the talking, although, as a strategy, that would have been considered less than a fig leaf by any competent lawyer. But such were the agreements occasionally made by rural cops sniffing around the edges of barely definable cases.
The ambivalent tone was about right for Joe, who was beginning to feel that limbo had become a near permanent state. His mother's advancing years and frailty, his brother's precarious physical condition, Gail's proximity and yet distance-she'd called that morning to get a report-and now the reappearance of the very appealing, previously unavailable Lyn Silva, had all helped to make him feel totally easy about trespassing into an investigation based on a lost nut and involving two relatives.
Not that he minded Lyn resurfacing. She'd departed for Brattleboro shortly after finishing her coffee, but what she left behind-which Joe even heard in his mother's voice afterward-was a suggestion of positive intrigue. Not a bad thing, all other things considered.
The two men swung out of the car and eyed the garage's bland frontage, buttoned up tight against the cold.
"D'you call ahead?" Joe asked.
Barrows stayed watching the building. "I thought we'd surprise 'em."
It didn't take long. In most rural areas, it is less a door knock or a ringing bell that draws attention from inside a building-simply showing up usually does the trick. Sure enough, moments later the wooden door under a hand-lettered sign reading "Office" opened, and a small, narrow man in a soiled baseball cap and a T-shirt stepped partway out.
"Rob," he said neutrally.
Barrows didn't move. "Barrie," he answered loudly enough to carry across the distance.
"How're ya doin'?"
"Good. You?"
"Great."
Barrie looked from one of them to the other. Barrows allowed the silence to stretch out, forcing the mechanic to ask, "So, what's up?"
Only then did the deputy approach the building, Gunther in tow. Rob smiled as he drew near, sticking his hand out in greeting, abruptly offsetting his slightly threatening initial tone. Joe took note of the tactic and didn't offer to shake.
Rob jerked his thumb in his direction. "Barrie McNeil, this is Joe, from the Vermont Bureau of Investigation." He and Rob had agreed beforehand to use his last name discreetly, if at all.
For a split second, McNeil froze. Enough time had elapsed since the Bureau's inception for the initials "VBI" to carry an ominous meaning among those who might have reasons to care.
McNeil forced a small smile. "Just keeping the deputy company?"
Joe looked him straight in the eyes. "No."