“Oh, yeah,” Frank said. “Couple-three times they blew out some windows. First time, I thought Al-Qaeda was attacking us. And the dogs—I went over there once to ask them, nicely you know, to cover up that chemical pit behind the house. You can smell it over here when the wind’s blowing. We have a kid; we don’t want him breathing that stuff.” He hammered the bolt again for emphasis.
“Anyway, they had that gate all locked up. When I rang the bell, they didn’t even bother to answer, just saw me on their video camera and sent out the dog from hell, pardon my French. They released the gate by remote and the dog tore through. Got back to my truck right before it took my throat out. After that, I never went out without my shotgun in the truck, tell you that much for nothing.”
I thought of the dog I was supporting in Chicago. Maybe not such a sweet disposition after all.
“You told Sheriff Kossel?” I asked.
“What, big-talking, do-nothing Kossel?” Roberta said.
I didn’t speak, just cocked my head hopefully.
“Come on, Bobbie,” Frank protested. “I told Doug, but it’s not like Ricky’s is the only meth house in the county. There are three over by Hansville.”
“And when does he ever shut down any of them?” She glared at him.
“Is Kossel getting a piece of the action?” I asked.
“Of course not,” Frank said. “He’s not that kind of man.”
“No, he’s not corrupt, he’s just lazy. He was a lazy tackle back when you played football at Palfry High, which is why you never got the scoring numbers that might have won you a scholarship. He hasn’t gotten any more energetic just because he’s a glad-hander who gets people out to vote for him. Look how he got this woman here—what did you say your name was? Warshawski, look how he got her to track down one of Ricky’s drug dealers in Chicago.”
I let the argument run another few minutes, but didn’t hear anything that made me believe Kossel might be on the take. Before Roberta got so angry she stormed off to her Halloween displays, I held out Martin’s picture again.
“His mom was one of the people living in Schlafly’s place, so it was his grandmother who raised him. I was holding her when she died two nights ago. I need to find Martin, to tell him about his granny, and to make sure he’s okay. Any of those times you were disking or harrowing or whatever it is you do with this lethal thing”—I nudged the broken tooth with my toe—“near Schlafly’s place did you see him?”
Frank looked at his wife, who turned redder under her sunburn. He seemed to be waiting for her to speak, but all she said was that she never worked the big fields. “I do the greenhouses and the truck farm out on the other side of the house; it’s where we grow the organics for the Prairie Market. I’ve got to get back to work; you wouldn’t believe it in this heat, but Halloween’s just around the corner.”
She turned back to the building that housed the market. In a city woman, I would have said she scuttled, but in her case, I suppose she was only hurrying back to her displays.
I asked Frank, but he said when he was on the tractor there was too much noise and dust to notice much of anything. “All I can tell you is people come and go there all the time, although since they shot each other the place has been empty.”
He busied himself with the bolt I’d helped loosen. When he spoke, he kept his head down as if he was talking to the harrow tooth. “Go check out the market. Roberta does amazing things in there.”
22
THE PITS
LIKE THE OTHER outbuildings, the market was made out of unfinished wood that was showing rot at some of the joins. This made the interior all the more startling. It was a clean, bright space, with wide windows that overlooked the fields to the north and the Wenger house and barns to the south. One side was filled with refrigerated shelves for the produce. The rest of the space was taken up with “notionals,” everything from “locally sourced organic goat’s milk soap,” to birdhouses, baby blankets, lavishly decorated flowerpots, even quilts, all guaranteed handmade in Palfry County.
Roberta was busy at a long worktable. She glanced up when I came in, but she was intent on her work, inserting a series of tiny figurines into a dried gooseneck gourd. A large wicker basket filled with gourds was on the floor next to her; two completed ones sat in front of her.
She had cut squares in the side of the gourds and filled them with witches dancing around a cauldron. They had tiny cats and pumpkins at their feet, while a harvest moon festooned with bats hung overhead.
“These are amazing,” I said. “How on earth do you make the witches?”
“Pipe cleaners wrapped in gauze. The faces are the hardest because I paint them on fabric. They go on sale this weekend. Eighty-five dollars if you want one now.”