Mad Season Read Online Free PDF Page B

bank,” he said, and she grimaced. “You haven’t changed, Colm. That’s supposed to be a pun? Anyway, Lucien sent Vic after a pipe once, and he saw. And smelled. Oh, and just this morning Tim said the police found a small stash—five hundred dollars—in the barn, up on a beam! So the assailants didn’t look there. Though they might have found something elsewhere, Lucien hinted at that. No wonder Belle complained.”
    “Or they were in a hurry, afraid to look further.”
    “Yes, well, anyway, Marie—his daughter—banked it for them, for when Lucien gets home.”
    “In her account?”
    “I don’t know. Certainly not Lucien’s! But she’ll surely give it back. Well, I don’t suppose that’s the only money in town smelling of cows, but most men bank their money, they don’t take it to the barn or stuff it in pocket linings.”
    “How long does a smell like that hang on?”
    “Pretty long. Smell these?” She brought out a pair of boots from the pantry.
    He pretended to be knocked out.
    “I haven’t worn them in two months, they need new soles.”
    “That helps. Well, good for Vic. Tell him that.”
    “You tell him. He was afraid the police would think he took the money because he knew where it was. They’re due here late morning, you know, to ask questions. I’m not looking forward. That Mert who was there yesterday, I don’t want him questioning Vic.”
    “Wasn’t Vic in bed?”
    “Sound asleep. And snoring—he has a touch of asthma, on top of his other troubles.”
    “What else?” he asked. “About the Larocques?”
    It wasn’t an unusual story: French Canadian couple, married late with one child, practicing Catholics like his own parents, which meant Sunday Mass and forget the rest of the week except for a holy oath or two. Marginal farm with maybe twenty head, no milking parlor, no pipe line, outmoded stump fence, a single tractor to do the jobs—practically nineteenth century, Colm thought. Hand to mouth. Or hand to pocket, for the milk money anyway. There were friends, but not many. Ruth supposed she was Belle’s closest friend; a neighbor, she should get over there more often, she felt guilty for not going. Belle lived for the farm and Lucien. For the granddaughter, Michelle.
    “Though Marie doesn’t visit all that often. She’s more sensitive than Belle about the Indian blood.”
    “The husband?” Colm asked. “I see him at fires.”
    “Harold? He’s a piece of cake. Plump, shy, worships Marie. But out of work and hates it, walks around like an ostrich, head in the dirt. He’s a tinkerer, has a toy train in his basement. Marie gripes. She says he’s a kid about fires. Loves to hang around them. Like you, Colm?”
    “I only go when I’m fired up,” he said (he tried too hard for that one). “And it’s not because of Bertha.”
    He saw her smile. They both knew how Pete’s sister Bertha came on to Colm in high school, though she was two years ahead. He’d felt like the dog his mother had once that was adopted by a goose. Everywhere the dog went, the goose went. Until one day, in a fury, the dog bit off its head.
    Well, he wouldn’t do that to Bertha. She was harmless enough. Just annoying, “frustrated” was the word. He’d run into her in the pharmacy once, she’d hid from him. Then he found her in the front seat of his car. Had to talk her out of there.
    “Anyhow, Harold’s a trained accountant. But who in this town’s got enough money to have him add up the wealth?”
    “No Grange for Belle and Lucien, no community functions?”
    “Grange no, there’s a pecking hierarchy there like everyplace else. I got Lucien to run for selectman, and he lost. As for travel— they went to Alberg once, to see her cousin. Belle identified with the Abenaki, it surprised even her. They were trying to get their fishing rights back, had a problem with gambling. Of course Belle has no sympathy with that. She’s a no-nonsense, get-your-work-done-and-go-to-bed woman. Well,