barely scrape by.”
“Sure,” said Paul. “It’s like Germany in the thirties. Everybody’s scared and frustrated. They’re looking for somebody to blame. They’ll listen to anyone who’ll give them easy answers to complicated questions. These neo-Nazi groups are springing up everywhere.”
“I wouldn’t go that far,” said Susannah.
“Well,” I said, “someone around here is making swastikas, and Charlotte’s dog was probably poisoned, and she might be missing, and I don’t like it.”
“Kids,” said Noah. “Kids’ve always done things like that. Hell, when I was a kid…”
They left promptly at nine. Noah shook my hand heartily and invited me to visit his orchard. Susannah and I exchanged chaste kisses. Paul shook my hand with both of his. Susannah led Noah out to Paul’s Lexus. He leaned heavily on her, and it was obvious we’d given him too much gin. Alex and I stood at the doorway, waving to them as they got into the car and pulled away.
After the headlights disappeared, Alex pulled my face down to hers and gave me a long deep kiss. When she pulled back, she exhaled loudly. “Whew!” she said. “That was nice.”
“The visit?”
“The kiss, dummy.”
“Yes,” I said. “The kiss was very nice. Might I infer that I am forgiven for buying myself a new car?”
“You don’t get off that easy, buster.”
“That’s what I was afraid of.” She hugged me. “So are you ready?”
“Ready for what?”
“To clear the table and load the dishwasher, what else?”
“What else, indeed,” I said.
CHAPTER 7
T HE NEXT MORNING WHEN I went for my paper, Leon’s wife, Pauline, was behind the counter. She was a big-hipped pear-shaped woman with short iron-gray hair, steely blue eyes, and a perpetually sour disposition. She took my money for the fat Sunday Globe with an impatient nod.
“Where’s Leon this morning?” I said.
“Sleepin’ it off, like usual on a Sunday mornin’.”
“Well, say hello for me.” I turned to leave.
“Mr. Coyne,” said Pauline.
I stopped. “Yes?”
“I see you got a decoration on your four-wheel out there.” The trace of a smirk showed at the corners of her mouth.
“Yes,” I said. “I’ve got to get it repainted. Who can do that around here?”
She shrugged. “If it was Leon, he’d slap a coat of house paint on it, call it better’n new. That’s how he does most things. Half-assed. I hear that colored lady got one of them decorations, too.”
“That’s right. I’d like to know who’s doing it.”
“Could be anyone,” she said. “Too bad about your car, but she oughta know better.”
“Oh, really?” I said. “Better than what?”
She shrugged. “I guess you know what I’m talkin’ about, Mr. Coyne.”
I felt the anger rise in my throat, but I bit my tongue and got the hell out of there before I said something that might make life unpleasant for Alex. There’s satisfaction sometimes in finding clever ways to tell people that they’re ignorant and bigoted and hateful. But saying clever things to ignorant, bigoted, hateful people, I have found, is generally a waste of time.
I was reading the sports page out on Alex’s deck when I heard a car pull into the driveway. I got up and walked around to the front just as a man in khaki pants and a matching shirt was climbing out of a dark green Ford Explorer with a county sheriff logo on the side panel and a light bar on the roof.
He saw me and nodded. “You Mr. Coyne?”
“Yes. You’re a sheriff’s deputy?”
He came over to me, removed his sunglasses, and held out his hand. “Name’s Dickman,” he said. “Actually, I’m the sheriff himself.” He was, I guessed, somewhere in his fifties—short and bald with an open, sunbaked face, burly shoulders, and barrel chest.
I shook his hand. “I guess I didn’t expect to see you.”
“You’re the man with the swastika?”
I nodded.
“Swastikas interest me,” he said. He looked around, spotted my Wrangler
“Sure,” said Paul. “It’s like Germany in the thirties. Everybody’s scared and frustrated. They’re looking for somebody to blame. They’ll listen to anyone who’ll give them easy answers to complicated questions. These neo-Nazi groups are springing up everywhere.”
“I wouldn’t go that far,” said Susannah.
“Well,” I said, “someone around here is making swastikas, and Charlotte’s dog was probably poisoned, and she might be missing, and I don’t like it.”
“Kids,” said Noah. “Kids’ve always done things like that. Hell, when I was a kid…”
They left promptly at nine. Noah shook my hand heartily and invited me to visit his orchard. Susannah and I exchanged chaste kisses. Paul shook my hand with both of his. Susannah led Noah out to Paul’s Lexus. He leaned heavily on her, and it was obvious we’d given him too much gin. Alex and I stood at the doorway, waving to them as they got into the car and pulled away.
After the headlights disappeared, Alex pulled my face down to hers and gave me a long deep kiss. When she pulled back, she exhaled loudly. “Whew!” she said. “That was nice.”
“The visit?”
“The kiss, dummy.”
“Yes,” I said. “The kiss was very nice. Might I infer that I am forgiven for buying myself a new car?”
“You don’t get off that easy, buster.”
“That’s what I was afraid of.” She hugged me. “So are you ready?”
“Ready for what?”
“To clear the table and load the dishwasher, what else?”
“What else, indeed,” I said.
CHAPTER 7
T HE NEXT MORNING WHEN I went for my paper, Leon’s wife, Pauline, was behind the counter. She was a big-hipped pear-shaped woman with short iron-gray hair, steely blue eyes, and a perpetually sour disposition. She took my money for the fat Sunday Globe with an impatient nod.
“Where’s Leon this morning?” I said.
“Sleepin’ it off, like usual on a Sunday mornin’.”
“Well, say hello for me.” I turned to leave.
“Mr. Coyne,” said Pauline.
I stopped. “Yes?”
“I see you got a decoration on your four-wheel out there.” The trace of a smirk showed at the corners of her mouth.
“Yes,” I said. “I’ve got to get it repainted. Who can do that around here?”
She shrugged. “If it was Leon, he’d slap a coat of house paint on it, call it better’n new. That’s how he does most things. Half-assed. I hear that colored lady got one of them decorations, too.”
“That’s right. I’d like to know who’s doing it.”
“Could be anyone,” she said. “Too bad about your car, but she oughta know better.”
“Oh, really?” I said. “Better than what?”
She shrugged. “I guess you know what I’m talkin’ about, Mr. Coyne.”
I felt the anger rise in my throat, but I bit my tongue and got the hell out of there before I said something that might make life unpleasant for Alex. There’s satisfaction sometimes in finding clever ways to tell people that they’re ignorant and bigoted and hateful. But saying clever things to ignorant, bigoted, hateful people, I have found, is generally a waste of time.
I was reading the sports page out on Alex’s deck when I heard a car pull into the driveway. I got up and walked around to the front just as a man in khaki pants and a matching shirt was climbing out of a dark green Ford Explorer with a county sheriff logo on the side panel and a light bar on the roof.
He saw me and nodded. “You Mr. Coyne?”
“Yes. You’re a sheriff’s deputy?”
He came over to me, removed his sunglasses, and held out his hand. “Name’s Dickman,” he said. “Actually, I’m the sheriff himself.” He was, I guessed, somewhere in his fifties—short and bald with an open, sunbaked face, burly shoulders, and barrel chest.
I shook his hand. “I guess I didn’t expect to see you.”
“You’re the man with the swastika?”
I nodded.
“Swastikas interest me,” he said. He looked around, spotted my Wrangler
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