Death in the Pines: An Oakley Tyler Novel by Hartmann Thom

Author:Hartmann, Thom [Hartmann, Thom]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Mystery
ISBN: 9780897337519
Amazon: 0897337514
Goodreads: 61388374
Publisher: Chicago Review Press
Published: 2015-01-01T08:00:00+00:00

15

Jerry told it better than he wrote it, I thought as I considered my next move. I didn’t know enough about Caleb Benson. He said old Jeremiah hadn’t feared him, but feared change. Personally I wasn’t too happy with the kind of change that turned a benign, useful bug into a killer bacterium, and wondered if Benson had wandered from lumber into cattle or something that might involve bugs that Benson’s associate Frank would make sure were killed off. I wanted to find out if Benson’s enterprises might have anything to do with gene-jumping.

It did not take the skills of a licensed PI to find Benson’s house. I asked a random person on the street and got precise directions. It wasn’t the kind of place you’d expect a man of Benson’s attainments to occupy, but it was substantial, an older house that at second glance had undergone more face-lifts than the average TV talk show host. As I walked up and rang the bell, two wall-mounted video cameras eyed me.

A blonde woman, probably the third wife that Jerry had mentioned, answered the door. She wore a gray wool sweater and tan slacks and let me into a foyer that somehow reminded me of a small display room in a museum. I introduced myself and asked if I could see Mr. Benson. She gave me a mildly shocked look. “Oh, he’s not home. He’s at his office in Newport.”

“It’s hard to catch him there without an appointment,” I said. “What time will he be back?”

The question seemed to offend her. She reopened the front door, crafted of antique walnut and cut-glass. It was probably worth more than my whole cabin. “I’m not his secretary.”

“Are you his wife?”

The sun slanted in through the open door. She replied oddly: “He’s my husband.” She had good coloring, a baby-doll sort of face, but I could see that in ten years she might run to flesh.

I said, “Then you’re Eva.” The name had appeared in the newspaper story of the confrontation Benson had been involved in, though the photo showed only him, not his wife.

“I’m Eva. And you’re Mr. Tyler, and whatever you want with my husband, he isn’t here.”

“What I want is to talk to him for a minute about Jeremiah Smith.”

She closed the door, and we stood in the foyer facing each other. Behind her a grandfather clock taller than she was clacked off the seconds. “Jeremiah Smith?” she asked, her blue eyes showing surprise. “The old man who—that accident?”

“That’s him.”

“But he’s dead.” Her lips, which she had colored with some kind of cantaloupe-colored gloss, compressed. “He was walking beside the highway and a car hit him. Sad.” She blinked twice, rapidly. “Why do you want to talk to my husband about Mr. Smith? I hardly think they knew each other, and if you’re thinking my husband was the one who hit him—”

I shook my head. “I’d prefer to ask him the questions, Eva.”

“Then it’s not a business matter.”

I shrugged and took a wild shot.

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