“Yeah,” I said, “both those things. You got a lousy arm, though. You got scotch on my sandwich.”
She drank half her drink. Not only her face but her whole body seemed to get progressively slacker as she drank. Her voice got harsher, while her language got more affected. I wondered if the progress continued until she sank to the floor screaming nonsense. I didn’t think I’d find out. I was pretty sure I’d crack first.
“Can you think of any connection between this death threat and Kevin’s disappearance?” Slick how smoothly I changed the subject.
“I think someone is out to get us,” she said. Oddly, I agreed with her. It made me nervous.
“Who the hell would be out to get us?” Bartlett said. “We haven’t got any enemies.”
“How about in business? Got anyone mad at you there? Fire anyone? Out-shrewd someone?”
He shook his head. His wife said, “Not good old Rog. Everybody likes good old Rog. Everyone thinks he’s so terrific. Everyone feels sorry for him married to a bitch. But I know him. The bastard.”
“How about you?” I said to her “Anyone you can think of that has reason to hate you? Or hates you without reason?” She looked at me blankly. The booze was weaving its magic spell. “Any old boyfriends, disappointed lovers?”
“No,” she shook her head angrily, “of course not.”
“Can either of you think of anyone at all who hates you enough to give you this kind of trouble?” Blank stares. “There must be someone. Maybe hate is too strong a word. Who dislikes you the most of anyone you know?”
In a voice thick and furry with booze she said, “Kevin.”
Bartlett said, “Marge, for God’s sake.”
“It’s true,” she said. “The little sonova bitch hates us.”
“Marge, goddamn you. You leave my kid alone. He didn’t kidnap himself.”
“The little sonova bitch.” She was mumbling now.
“She’s drunk as a goddamned skunk, Spenser. I’m putting her to bed. Drunk as a skunk.” He took her arm, and she sagged protestingly away from him. “Sonova bitch.” She began to giggle. “He’s the little sonova bitch, and you’re the big sonova bitch.” She sat down on the floor still giggling. I got up.
“You need any help?” I said.
He shook his head. “I’ve done this before.”
“Okay, then I’ll go to bed. Thanks for supper.” As I went out of the kitchen I saw Dolly Bartlett scuttle up the stairs ahead of me and into her room. Pleasant dreams, kid.
13
The next morning, Saturday, Kevin’s guinea pig turned up. I was sitting at the kitchen table reading the Globe when I heard Marge Bartlett scream in the front hall. A short startled scream and then a long steady one. When I got there the front door was ajar, and she was holding an open package about the size of a shoe box. I took it from her. Inside was a dead guinea pig on its back, its short legs sticking stiffly up. I looked out the door. A young Smithfield cop I didn’t know came busting around the corner of the house with a shotgun at high port.
“It’s okay,” I said. Marge Bartlett continued to scream steadily. Now that I was holding the package her hands were free, and she put both of them over her face. The cop came in holding the shotgun down along the side of his leg, the muzzle pointing at the floor. He looked in the box and made a face. “Jesus Christ,” he said.
“It came in the mail,” I said. “I suppose it’s the same one the kid took with him when he disappeared.”
Marge Bartlett stopped screaming. She nodded without taking her hands from her face. The cop said, “I’ll call Trask,” and headed back for the cruiser in the driveway. I took the box and wrapping paper and dead guinea pig into the kitchen and sat down at the table and looked at them. There was nothing to suggest what killed the guinea pig. The box said Thom McAn on the cover, and the brown paper in which it had been wrapped looked like all the other brown paper wrapping in the world. The box had been mailed in Boston, addressed to Mrs. Margery Bartlett. There was no return address. They’re too smart for me, I thought.
“What does it mean, Spenser?” Marge Bartlett asked.
“I don’t know. Just more of the same. I’d guess the guinea pig died, and someone thought it would be a good idea to send it to you. It doesn’t look as if it’s been killed. That might suggest that Kevin is well.”
“Why?”
“Well, a kidnapper or a murderer is not likely to bother keeping a guinea pig, right?”
She nodded. I heard a car spin gravel into the driveway and slam to a stop. I bet myself it was Trask. I won. He came in without knocking.
“Oh, George,” Marge Bartlett said, “I can’t stand much more.”
He crossed to where she was standing and put an arm around her shoulder. “Marge, we’re doing what we can. We’re working on it around the clock.” He looked at me. “Where’s the evidence?”
I nodded at the box on the table.
“You been messing with it?” Trask said. Tough as nails.
“Not me, Chief. I’ve been keeping it under close surveillance. I think the guinea pig is faking.”
“Move aside,” he said and picked up the box. He looked at the guinea pig and shook his head. “Sick,” he said. “Sickest goddamned thing I ever been involved in. Hey, Silveria.” The young cop appeared at the back door. He had a round moon face and bushy black hair. His uniform cap seemed too small for his head.
“Take this stuff down to the station and hold it for me. I’ll be down in a while to examine it. Send Marsh back here to relieve you.”
Silveria departed. Trask took a ball-point pen and a notebook out of his shirt pocket. “Okay, Marge,” he said, “let’s have it all. When did the package arrive?” I didn’t need to dance that circle with them. “Excuse me,” I said and went out the back door. The day was new and sunny. All it needed to be September Morn was a nude bathing in the pool. I looked, just to be sure, but there wasn’t any. A scarlet tanager flashed across the lawn from the crab apple tree to the barn and disappeared into an open loft where the fake post for a hay hoist that never existed jutted out over the door.
I walked over to the barn. Inside was a collection of power mowers, hedge trimmers, electric clippers, rollers, lawn sweepers, barrels, paint cans, posthole diggers, shovels, rakes, bicycle parts, several kegs of eight-penny nails, some folding lawn chairs, a hose, snow tires, and a beach umbrella. To the right a set of stairs ascended to the loft. On the first step Dolly Bartlett was sitting listening to a portable radio through an earplug. She was eating Fritos from a plastic bag. The dog sat on the floor beside her with his mouth open and his tongue hanging out, panting.
“Good morning,” I said.
“Hi.” She offered the bag of Fritos to me. I took one and ate it. It wasn’t as bad as some things I’d eaten. The Nutter Butter cookies, for instance.
“Had breakfast?” I really know how to talk to kids. After that I could ask her how she was doing in school, or maybe her age. Really get her on my side.
She shook her head and nodded at the Fritos.
“You’d be better off eating the bag,” I said.
She giggled. “I bet I wouldn’t,” she said.
“Maybe not,” I said. “Bags aren’t nourishing anymore Now when I was a boy...”
She made a face and stuck out her tongue. “Oh,” I said, “you heard that line before?”
She nodded. I was competing with the top forty sounds in Boston playing loud in her earphone, and she was only half-listening to me. That was okay because I was only half-saying anything.
“You want to see Kevin’s hideout?” she said, one ear still fastened to the radio.
“Yes,” I said.