New England Crime Chowder (1992) by Cynthia Manson; Charles Ardai

Author:Cynthia Manson; Charles Ardai [Ardai, Cynthia Manson; Charles]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

NICE, WELL-MEANING FOLK

N. Scott Warner

N. Scott Warner, like Stanley Ellin, is an Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine “Department of First Stories” discovery. He lives on the Maine Coast, having moved there from an Air Force post in Washington, D. C. In the following story he considers the difference between a good neighbor and a bad neighbor.

Lower down gives way to what has drifted up. The new Chevy police cruiser was driven by Sheriff Gagne because he was older, supposedly experienced, and, anyway, it was his county, right? Ezra Katz, the tall Maine deputy with sandy hair cropped close, was next in line and so drove a yellow rustbucket of a Bronco. The vehicle parked in the dusty driveway and its weary engine spluttered to a halt. Katz got out and walked to where the body lay in the grass.

The dead man was Roy Finney, a carpenter who took odd jobs. His tarpapered home wasn’t far away. The chalky face pointed upward, the mouth slightly open and shriveled like a dead rose. Finney seemed to float in the bright grass, half swallowed by waves of hawkweed and mountain fern. His right temple was a dark mess, as if it had been sampled with a scoop. Beside him a cherry-red, new-looking Honda three-wheeler, a vehicle somewhere between a motorcycle and an oversized toy, was leaning crazily on its side. Oil, spilled from the crankcase, smeared the grass and rocks. The ignition key pointed to “on,” but the engine was silent.

To the west, the field rose and melted into a gritty yard surrounding a farmhouse of unpainted granite fieldstone. Its metal roof, a protection against the harsh Maine winter, glittered in the sunlight like a battered medieval helmet. A peeling barn flanked and dwarfed the building, a mountain of grassy manure looming up behind it. This was Hatch property, next to the Finney land. It didn’t go far, for Mildred Hatch had been selling bits and pieces, holding onto a few acres that were no longer farmed. It was Mildred who had phoned in, claiming a body lay outside.

In the tan driveway dirt, there were faint marks that the deputy tentatively identified as boot prints. A recent, sudden shower had smudged them.

Katz knocked softly, then hard, but there was no movement around the green window shades. He stepped aside and put his face close to a pane. His knuckles rapped, and a startled face appeared on the other side. Katz stepped back and turned toward the door again. The lady of the house, a short, oldish woman in a purple sack of a dress, beckoned him inside.

“Come in, Ezra,” she rasped. Her tough amber face, like a dried apple, split into a grin.

A hot wind flew out from the large, undivided downstairs room. The Clarion wood stove roared, although it was at least sixty-five degrees outside. A dented tin kettle steamed on its hot black surface. Katz loosened his collar a little and shut the door behind him. Mildred slopped hot water on instant coffee in a mug without a handle.

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