Читать книгу Ice Lake - John A Lenahan - Страница 8

Not a lot is known about St Elizabeth other than she was the mother of John the Baptist and her husband was struck dumb when he doubted her pregnancy. (That’ll teach ’im). The bible makes no mention of her having a penchant for purple robes but that is how the artist who painted the statue saw her. Outside of St Elizabeth’s Catholic Church on Route 307 stands a double life-sized cement statue of the saint wearing a purple robe, with both hands out to her sides, palms facing out. It’s a common position for saintly statues that somehow depicts piety, but if a real human were to adopt the same pose he or she would probably look like they were saying, “I guess,” with a shrug.

Years ago a young teenager started his drinking career by stealing a bottle of altar wine from St Elizabeth’s sacristy. His drinking career never slowed, and a decade later, neither did his car as it careened off Route 307 and ploughed into one of Pennsylvania’s hardy scrub oaks. The statue’s left arm seemed to have tried to stop the poor lad from merging with the local flora but only managed to get itself pulverized.

The driver fared worse. The ambulance service could have spared the county the expense of a trip to the hospital and morgue because he was back at St Elizabeth’s just a week later for his funeral.

Harry had texted back to Trooper Cirba, asking him to explain what he meant by “purple hitchhiker”.

Cirba replied: “You’ll know it when you see it.”

Harry laughed out loud when he crested the hill on Route 307 and saw the statue of the purple-robed saint with one hand at her side, palm out, looking all the world like a hippie seeking a lift to Woodstock.

Ice Lake isn’t very big. Carved out of the Pocono Mountain’s ubiquitous forest of conifers and scrub oaks, it’s short of two miles around and is circled with a line of lakeside properties, a road, and another ring of roadside properties. It is spectacularly peaceful. The Ice Lake Association allows no motorized boats on the lake – only rowboats, canoes, and sailboats. They won’t even allow those tiny five horsepower electric trolling motors that the old fishermen use on other lakes. As Leo Carter said years ago at a meeting of the Ice Lake Rod & Gun Club, “If you’re too old to row 300 yards you shouldn’t be out on the lake by yourself.”

Ice Lake began its life as the name suggests – as an ice lake. Ebenezer Dinklocker dug out the lake in 1863 to harvest ice blocks in the winter. The frozen water was then stored in special barns with double walls filled with sawdust. These Ice Houses would keep the ice frozen all summer when Dinklocker made a good living delivering blocks to the iceboxes of most of the people in the tri-county area. That was until refrigeration was invented and the ice industry melted.

Harry pulled into the only commercial enterprise on the lake. Its official name was the Ice Lake Café but the locals just called it the Store. To call it a grocery store would have been an injustice to grocery stores everywhere – including ones in blockaded war-torn communist countries. To the left of a cooler containing milk, Coke, and eggs was an almost-empty shelf peppered with bread, Spam, and Pepperidge Farm Milano Cookies. Across the room a lunch counter sported a coffee maker and a pile of donuts under a clear plastic dome. A sign said: “HELP YOURSELF AND LEAVE A DONATION (OR AN IOU) IN THE CHAMBER POT.”

“Hello?” Harry called out.

A groan and then heavy footsteps preceded the arrival of a 70-ish-year-old man wearing a wife-beater T-shirt and two-day old white stubble.

“What’s your problem?” he asked.

“Hi,” Harry offered, as lightly as he could. “You still serving breakfast?”

“Uh huh,” the old guy said pointing to the glass case. “Coffee and donuts – breakfast of champions.” He started walking back to the upstairs door. “Leave the money in the chamber pot.”

“Ah, how much?”

The old guy turned and for the first time properly looked at Harry. “What do you pay at Starbucks for your none-y fatty amaretto latte cappuccino?”

“I pay about four bucks for my regular latte.”

“How much do they charge for donuts?”

“I don’t usually eat donuts.”

“Well today will be a treat for ya. Leave five bucks in the pot.”

“You’re a trusting soul.”

“Look around you, mister. If somebody came in here and cleaned the place out – including the Mr Coffee machine – they’d get maybe a hundred and twenty bucks worth of stuff. I have better things to do than guard three dozen eggs and two gallons of milk.”

“And Spam. Don’t forget that.”

The old guy leaned one elbow on his counter. “And what is wrong with Spam?”

“Other than it’s Spam?”

“Listen you, Spam is good food. Have you ever had a fried Spam and cheese sandwich on white?”

“Sounds great,” Harry said. “Do you serve that here?”

“I have decided I don’t like you,” he said as he turned to leave.

“I have a feeling you don’t like many people.”

Just before the old guy began his clump up the stairs, Harry heard him say: “That’s no lie.”

* * *

Sitting alone at the counter Harry felt as if he had broken into a stranger’s empty house. He placed a fiver into the chamber pot and helped himself to a coffee and a donut. The donut was fresh and delicious. The old guy had been right about one thing – it was a treat.

The door opened behind him. Harry noticed that there was no bell like in most establishments but of course a bell would just disturb this proprietor. A tall man, in his mid-50s with thin but still flaming-red hair, walked up to the counter, dropped a dollar in the pot and helped himself to a coffee.

Harry looked into the pot and said: “I guess I paid tourist rates.”

“What’d he get you for?” the redhead asked.

“Five bucks for a coffee and a donut.”

The man walked to the steps and shouted, “Todd, get down here.”

They both waited for any sound to come from upstairs. Eventually the slow clump heralded the arrival of the old man. “What da you want?”

“Did you charge this man five bucks for a coffee and a donut?” the redhead asked.

“No, I asked this nice New Yorker—”

“I’m from Philadelphia,” Harry interrupted.

“Like there’s a difference. I merely asked this Philly boy what he usually pays for coffee and recommended that he donate accordingly. You see, I don’t sell things here, Mayor. If I did, you would charge me commercial taxes.”

“Did Todd inform you that the fiver was a voluntary contribution?”

Harry had no intention of getting in the middle of a local inter-governmental squabble. “Ah, he may have. I don’t rightly recall.”

The mayor took the fiver out of the pot and handed it back to Harry then opened his wallet and replaced it with a couple of bills. “Two bucks is fair; consider it a welcome gift to a newcomer.”

“Is there anything else you want?” old Todd asked the mayor.

“No.”

The old guy turned to Harry. “Do you get offended by foul language?”

“No, not usually.”

“Good,” Todd said as he shuffled back to the stairway. “Fuck you, Mayor.”

“And good morning to you, Todd,” the mayor replied.

“Are you the mayor that dabbles in real estate?” Harry asked.

“I’m the real estate agent that dabbles in being a mayor. You must be Mr Cull; Trooper Cirba told me to keep an eye out for you.”

“Harry,” Harry said extending a hand.

“Charlie Boyce,” the mayor said, shaking it. “So, you a cop?”

“No.”

“So, how do you know Cirba?”

“We’re drinking buddies.”

“Oh, right. I got it all wrong then. I thought you were up here helping with the murder investigation.”

“I heard something about a murder. Who was it?”

Charlie sighed and shook his head. “Local kid; actually, he wasn’t a kid. I just knew him for a long time. He used to work for me in winter. He was a good guy but always seemed to wind up with a bad crowd. You know?”

“What happened to him?”

“They found him in the woods. Paper says he was shot.” Charlie thought for a moment then shook off the mood. “But I wouldn’t worry about it. People ’round here are real nice, and that’s no lie.”

“Except for Todd, of course,” Harry said.

The mayor laughed. “See, you’re getting to know the place already. I’ve got a sweet little lakeside cottage for you. If you’re finished with your coffee I’ll take you over.”

On the way out the door the mayor picked up a loaf of bread, a half a dozen eggs and a pint of milk, stuffed them in a bag and handed them to Harry. “Now that’s worth a fiver.”

Harry added a tin of Spam and a bag of cookies to his shopping and dropped twenty into the pot. He didn’t want to give old Todd anymore reason to dislike him.

* * *

Harry followed the mayor on the potholed lake road that was only wide enough to let two medium-sized cars squeeze past each other. The mayor strictly obeyed the fifteen miles per hour speed limit – when you’re the mayor you have to.

The slow pace gave Harry the chance to take in his surroundings. The houses around the lake were an eclectic mix. At one end of the spectrum were the old A-frames. An A-frame house was available mail order, just four long pieces of wood stuck in the ground like a big triangle, with pitch roofing tiles nailed to the sides. It gave you one large room with sloping walls downstairs and a cosy little bedroom upstairs. Back in the fifties some families of eight would spend the entire summer in one of them and they would get to know each other – very well. These days most of them had a more modern extension tacked on.

In between there was a variety of different sized homes all the way up to proper multi-storey luxury hunting/skiing lodges built by New Yorkers who spent their Wall Street money on a mountain dream.

Harry parked his car next to Charlie’s in the driveway of one of the in-between-sized houses and went inside. It was a quaint bungalow with comfortable furnishings and an oldfashioned kitchen that could be described as clean but not gleaming.

“Now before you decide whether you like it or not,” Charlie said as he searched for the rope that operated the curtain that covered the length of the living room wall, “check this out.”

The curtain opened to reveal that the entire side of the room was glass with a doublesliding door in the middle. Beyond it was a sloping lawn ending with a small wooden dock that jutted out onto the glorious Ice Lake. It was the kind of vista that forced one to say “wow” and that’s just what Harry said.

“Ah the view always gets ’em,” Charlie said with a real estate agent’s grin. He walked back to the kitchen. “There’s a coffee maker and a little coffee, tea, and sugar in the cupboard. My number is in here,” he said lifting a folder from the counter. “Questions about the house, like the water heater and such are in here too. Please, read it before you call me. When the phone rings in the night it drives my wife loopy. Well loopier. Especially when the answer’s in here.”

“I’ll study it thoroughly.”

“Oh, if all my renters were as good as you, my life would be harmonious – and that’s no lie. I’ll leave you to your view.”

Harry walked him to the door.

As he was getting into the car he called back, “Feel free to call me if you need anything.”

“As long as it’s not in the folder,” Harry said.

Charlie touched his nose and then pointed with a smile.

* * *

Harry had a good snoop around his new abode. The bedroom was down a hallway from the living area. It was a pleasant size and featured a brass bed that was a bit softer and definitely squeakier than he liked. No matter, Harry thought with a sigh, it’s not like I’m going to be disturbing the neighbours with any extra-curricular bedspring squeaking.

In the kitchen Harry found an old teapot high on a shelf. The owners had probably only bought it as an ornament but as Harry’s old Irish mother always said: “A home’s not a home unless it has a hot teapot in it.”

He set water to boil and cleaned off the years of dust from the pot. Then just as his mother had taught him, he warmed it with boiling water and added three tea bags and just-boiled water. Then he wrapped the pot with a tea towel to keep it warm and set up a tray with a cup, a little milk pitcher, and some of old Todd’s cookies.

He carried it all outside, left it on the picnic table to brew up strong like he liked it and approached the water’s edge. It really was, as Trooper Cirba had said, “a little corner of paradise”. At less than two miles around you could almost see the whole lake from where he stood. To his right a light breeze danced on the water making the sunlight sparkle on the surface. To the left the lake thinned and dog-legged around a corner. There it was darker and less inviting, hemmed in by knurled trees and water filled with dark green lily pads. Harry could make out ducks in the distance and then a little splash at his feet brought his attention to several small fish swimming in the crystal-clear water. He couldn’t resist kicking off his shoes, rolling up his trouser legs and dipping his toes in. The water from the underground springs that fed the lake was initially freezing but it didn’t take long to get used to it. The little fish who moments before had been scared away came back to see what the white monoliths were. One even kissed at his toes like in one of those fancy fish pedicure places.

Harry returned to his tea. As he poured he asked himself the question that almost everyone who rents a house at Ice Lake asks – “Why do I live in the city?”

“Gosh, I don’t think I have ever had a neighbour who serves himself high tea,” said a voice from behind him.

Harry was initially annoyed at the intrusion on his solitude, but that was before he turned and saw the gorgeous, thirtyish, brunette standing behind him wearing a pink scrub top and white nurse’s trousers.

“Hi,” Harry said trying to free himself from the picnic table. “Can I get you a cup?”

“No, thank you.”

“How about a Milano cookie?”

She laughed and her little turned-up nose crinkled in a way that Harry thought was the cutest thing he had ever seen.

“Ah, I see you’ve been shopping at our local superstore.”

“Yes indeed. Would you like a Spam sandwich, Miss?”

She predictably shook her head, extended her hand and said: “I’m Meredith Keller but everyone calls me MK.”

“I’m Harry. Harry Cull. It is a pleasure to meet you Nurse or Doctor Keller?”

“Actually I’m a stripagram. I have an unusual midweek lunchtime bachelor party today.”

“Well, he’s a lucky groom.”

She smiled and it was very nice.

Harry’s sliding doors opened and out popped the six-and-a-half-foot form of Ed Cirba. He wore the full Pennsylvania State Police uniform: the black boots, the light grey shirt with a black tie and black epaulettes, the dark grey trousers with a black stripe running along the outside edge were held up by a black belt clipped to a four-inch-thick utility belt sporting a black holster containing a .45-calibre pistol. Also hanging from the belt were handcuffs, expandable baton, a walkie-talkie, and two leather cases, one holding a flashlight, the other pepper spray. On top of all this was his twelve-inch diameter wide-brimmed hat, just like the one Ranger Smith wore in the Yogi Bear cartoons. Cirba was an impressive human being in civvies but, in uniform, he was downright intimidating.

“There you are,” he shouted.

Cirba bounded down to the high tea in less than four strides and said: “Mr Cull, it’s good to see you again.” He shook Harry’s hand and then drew him into an all-engulfing bear hug. “And hello, MK.”

“Hiya, Ed,” she said standing on tiptoe to give him a kiss on the cheek.

“I take it you know each other?”

“MK’s an emergency room nurse at Wilkes Barrie County Hospital. We see each other often but not usually under such pleasant circumstances.”

Harry stepped back and admired the trooper and the nurse. “You know if I could find an Indian chief outfit, I’m sure we could win a Halloween competition somewhere.”

“As tempting as that sounds I have to go to work,” MK said. “But it’s just a half shift. Me and the girls are floating tonight about 5.30. We don’t usually allow boys, but I think we could make an exception for you two.”

“I can guarantee that Mrs Cirba won’t give me time off to float but I will try to get Harry back for it.”

“Good,” MK said as she walked back into the house next to Harry’s, “I’ll see you then. See ya later, Ed.”

“What’s floating?” Harry asked the trooper.

“Trust me, you’ll love it.” Ed took a cookie from the tray. “You settled in?”

“No.”

“Good, I’ll take you to the Horseshoe.”

“Is that a place for lunch?”

“No, that’s the murder scene.”