Chapter 7 – The Cabin
The next morning, I met Win out at the State Tree Nursery. We had planned a hike out to the cabin in the woods, and we had promised to wait for Tom and Rollo to show up. It would be the first time seeing the place since we had left in October, except for Win, who had walked in with Karl one day in mid-March from Lost Nation Road. The clearing was still deep in snow, and they had made no attempt to get in. We hoped it was now dry enough up there to make the hike passable, although it had been a wet spring.
While we waited, I told Win about my phone conversation with Jane the night before.
“She was exhausted, but she felt pretty good about it. She was on the stand for a little over an hour, just telling what she knew about Sally’s comings and goings on that day, which was basically identical to her written statement. The defense attorney cross-examined her, and tried to get her to say all sorts of stuff about Sally and Roger. You know, did she know about Roger’s drug dealing? Did Sally know? What did she know about Sally’s past? It was all the kind of stuff she expected; the same crap that the TV stations and the newspapers are pushing.”
“So what did she tell them?”
“Nothing. The prosecutor kept objecting, and the judge kept disallowing the questions. Jane said that the judge was doing a really great job, as far as it went, but, you know, it’s just like on ‘Perry Mason;’ the jury hears the question, and even though the judge tells them to disregard it, they’ve still heard it, and it plants a seed in their minds.”
“And he kept on asking those questions?”
“For a while, then the judge put a stop to it, which is why Jane was not too upset about it. But she thinks Roger will be on the stand tomorrow, and who knows what they’ll be asking him.”
“He’s here? I mean, in Burlington?”
“Yeah. I don’t think the reporters know that yet, but Jane knows all the lawyers and the ‘inside’ people, so she gets all the info; the ‘scuttlebutt,’ as the Sergeant would call it. She says they’ll keep him here, in isolation, until the trial is over.”
Win shook his head in disgust. “I can just see the Free Press headlines on Friday, if he testifies tomorrow. ‘California Drug Dealer back in Burlington!’”
“’West Coast Pusher Returns to Crime Scene!’” I said. We both laughed, even though it wasn’t really funny.
We heard the sound of bicycles approaching, and saw Rollo and Tom riding around the corner. Soon all four bikes were leaning up against the side of the barn and we were walking up the trail towards the cliff top.
It was pretty easy going on the slope, but once we got into the woods, it was really wet. The whole plateau was criss-crossed with small streams, and a lot of the clearings were marshy. The trail we usually used was mostly dry in the summer, but, with the spring snow-melt and lots of rain, there was water and mud everywhere. None of us really minded getting muddy, but it did slow us down a bit.
The radio made it more pleasant, of course, even though some of our most-hated songs were at the top of the chart. Still, we could enjoy “The Game of Love” and “Tired of Waiting for You” and “The Last Time,” then turn the volume down for the crap in between. The last one was by the Stones, and we were all getting excited about seeing them on Ed Sullivan on Sunday. We speculated on what songs they might play; we figured they would do “The Last Time,” since it was their latest hit, but beyond that we had no clue. Tom said that they had already had three number ones in England, but none of them had reached the top here yet.
When we got to the clearing, it was immediately apparent that the winter had caused some damage. There was a hole, or trench, along one side of the pit, where the water had eroded some of the soil we had packed around the walls. Part of the roof and the wall on that side were exposed. That wouldn’t take much work to repair, compared to what we had done the previous summer, if we chose to do so. It was also apparent that nobody had been there for a while. There were no tracks anywhere in the damp soil, and no signs of digging.
We slithered behind the spruce hedge one by one, Win in the lead with a flashlight. The outer door swung open easily and we followed Win through the short tunnel into the cabin.
It was wet. Everything was wet, and the smell of wet wood was pretty powerful. Actually, it was kind of a relief, in that we expected to smell nothing but human body odor and old farts. But those smells had faded and been overpowered by the damp.
Win spotted a kerosene lantern, and Tom pulled out some dry matches. The wick lit on the second match, and we all breathed a sigh of relief as the little room became fully visible.
There wasn’t much there; Karl and Larry had stripped the place of anything valuable, or any stolen item that might be traced. So all that was left were the cots and blankets, a stack of canned food, and two kerosene lanterns. They had even taken out the four folding chairs, which was kind of inconvenient. I wasn’t sure why, but part of our deal with Karl was that we didn’t inquire too closely about anything he did.
The floor was very wet. No standing water, which was nice, but the plywood was pretty well soaked. The walls were streaked with water stains. But when we looked up, we all felt a surge of immense pride, which we vocalized exuberantly.
“It’s dry!”
“I don’t believe it!”
“Yeahhhhh!!”
Incredibly, our shingled roof had worked perfectly to keep the water out. All the water had come in through the walls and down the tunnel.
We found the other lantern and lit it, and had a good look around. Everything had held together – the walls, the floor and the ceiling were still attached to each other – but it was obvious that the structure wouldn’t last very long. It was all wood, it was all wet, and it was already starting to rot. But it was never intended to last very long, and we were immensely proud of what we had accomplished.
We didn’t stay in very long though. It was musty and gloomy, and outside the sun was shining. So we climbed back out, not forgetting to check our ventilation pipes and put out the lanterns. We sat on the big rock ridge above the clearing and had our lunch while we talked it over.
I thought we should make a plan to fix it up.
“It won’t take much work to fill in where the dirt has washed out and cover it up again,” I said.
“Couple of hours,” Win said, “if we’re all here.”
“What about tools?” Rollo asked.
“We can bring shovels and rakes from our houses,” I said, “We don’t have to do it secretly anymore.”
“But what’s the point of doing it at all?” Tom asked. Nobody said anything in response. “We had a lot of fun building it last summer, but we had a purpose. A lot of work with a purpose in mind. But what’s the purpose now?”
Well, we talked that over for a while, and eventually decided that Tom was right. The cabin might never dry out enough to be comfortable, not before it collapsed from rot.
“And besides,” he added, “if we’re going to come out here to camp out or have a party, wouldn’t you guys rather sit around a fire out here than in a cramped, musty underground cabin? We don’t have to hide anymore.”
“You’re right, Tom,” Rollo said, “and we have tents that would be more comfortable. You know, we should do that. Let’s get the other kids to come out, too, and have a big party on Saturday and camp out.”
That was a good idea. We talked it over for quite a while, not knowing for sure if we could all get permission, but it was worth trying. In some ways, it would be so much easier than what we had gone through the year before. We all had pup tents at home, and ground cloths or tarps we could borrow, and we could bring our packs and our Boy Scout gear.
“I do think, though,” I said, “that we should spend a couple of hours filling in and covering up. Just to make it look natural again.”
“I agree,” Win said, “Let’s cover it up and keep it secret as long as we can. We can do that Saturday.”
The other guys agreed. It wouldn’t take much time and it was always good to have a secret.
Speaking of secrets, one thing we did not talk about was my business enterprise. Tom and Win were aware that I was doing something, and, actually, they had figured the whole thing out, but I didn’t know that until later. For Amy’s sake, since she was the one doing the dangerous work of selling, I had asked the guys to not ask me anything about it until school was finished for the year. Amy knew, since those two were my best friends, that it was inevitable that they would find out eventually, but she wanted me to keep it quiet for now.
We planned to re-evaluate the whole business over the summer. Hopefully, it was something we could keep doing the next school year. Amy would be a senior, and I would be in eighth grade, still in a different school, so we hoped it would work for us, maybe even on a bigger scale. But we would have to wait, keeping our ears open for any word or rumor that the teachers suspected anything.
It was a long walk back to where our bikes were, so we started soon after we had eaten lunch. It was a really nice day, with sunshine coming through where the woods weren’t too thick. Our shoes and pants were muddy, but our jackets were off, and our spirits were high. We slogged along the trail with the radio blaring and sang along, and talked about music, and the trial, and baseball, of course. The season was only about twelve games old, so the standings didn’t mean much yet, but we (except for Rollo) were very interested in how the Yanks new manager would do; Johnny Keane, the man they had hired to replace Yogi. We all resented him, to some extent, because of Yogi, but we loved the Yankees, so we had to support the team, no matter what.
Rollo brought up Summer School, and the rest of us snarled at him. We didn’t want to talk about it, especially with Rollo, who didn’t have to go. There was absolutely nothing we could do about it, and we preferred to not think or talk about it.
We said goodbye at the barn, and promised to keep in touch about Saturday, then we rode our separate ways.
I did some writing at home, after changing my clothes, because I had to stay ahead of Amy, or she would be just sitting around waiting for me. I had done some the night before, and when it was suppertime, I had one paper complete and another well along. I watched the news right after supper, then gathered my stuff and headed for Jane’s.
Amy was already there, and I could hear the two of them laughing in the kitchen as I climbed the stairs. Jane was saying “I’m sure he’s going to ask me out as soon as the trial is over” as she walked over to open the door for me.
“New boyfriend?” I asked as I walked in.
“Maybe,” she said with a smile.
“There’s a good-looking Burlington detective who has his eye on her,” Amy said.
I set my bag of notebooks down on the kitchen table while I tried to remember if I’d seen anything like that on “Perry Mason.”
“Wouldn’t that be ‘witness tampering,’ or something like that?” I asked.
“That’s why he has to wait until the trial is over.”
Tempest was already on the table, licking my hand.
Amy was stirring the cocoa with her right hand, and pointed to a bag on the table with her left. “Check out the treats I brought, kid,” she said, then told me more about Jane’s new interest. “He’s twenty-eight, divorced, with a little boy. He’s a Detective Lieutenant with Burlington PD, and he’s really cute.”
I opened the bakery bag, and made a very happy noise on seeing six chocolate cupcakes.
“Wonderful, Amy; thanks! So, how do you know so much about him?”
“Well, I just told her,” Jane explained, “I checked him out as soon as I saw him giving me the eye. I’ve got a lot of connections through my job, and I talked to the lawyer who handled his divorce. A girl has to be careful, you know.”
“Yeah, I guess so. Has he said anything to you?”
“No, but he will.”
I didn’t really know how these things worked, but I believed her. Anyway, I decided it was time to change the subject.
“So how was today at the trial? I watched the news, but…”
“Yeah, yeah, I know. They only give you their own angle. Well, Roger was on the stand for a couple hours, at least, and the defense tried to bring up his drug dealing over and over, but the judge kept shutting them down. I don’t know for sure, but it seemed like his approach, the lead defense attorney, that is, was maybe back-firing. Some of the people on the jury were smiling, and even chuckling, every time the judge disallowed a question. They know what’s going on. Frankly, he’s not doing a great job.”
“Well, that’s good for us. Do you think we’ll get a conviction?”
“Yeah, but here’s the thing. The guys in my firm think both sides will go for a plea deal. It makes sense for the prosecution, because proving pre-meditation is going to be difficult – it’s the weakest part of their case. If Mrs. Rock will plead guilty to second degree murder, my guys think they would jump at it. As far as the defense goes, it’s looking more and more like they have little chance at an acquittal, so it makes sense for them, too.”
“How does that work?” Amy asked.
“Well, the State agrees to down-grade the charge to second degree, and the defense agrees to plead guilty. Then they do a pre-sentence investigation, and the judge decides on the sentence. Now, that gives the defense another chance to bring in all this information the judge is not allowing in the trial, to try and convince him to let her off easy.”
“So, how long do you think she would get?” I asked.
“Probably a ten year minimum, but there are no strict guidelines in Vermont, so it could be more or less.”
That didn’t sound like very much time to serve for murdering Miss Delisle, but it was way better than getting no punishment at all.
Amy said she could only stay for an hour, or a little more, so we set up and got started. I handed her the one paper that was finished, and sat down at the coffee table to finish the next one, with Tempest’s help.
As they usually did, Amy and Jane did quite a bit of talking, and Amy somehow managed to do her typing flawlessly at the same time. It was an interesting set of relationships; I adored Amy, of course, and I liked Jane, but she was a full-grown adult woman, far beyond my aspirations. She liked me, because of the way I, and my friends, had helped to find Sally’s killer. Our shared experience, and our caring for Sally had forged an unusual friendship.
Meanwhile, Jane had become something of a role model for Amy. Jane was well on her way in an exciting career that brought her into contact with lots of interesting and influential people, and she had that sort of free-wheeling California style that really appealed to kids like Amy.
I blocked out most of their chatter, and concentrated on the bullshit I was writing. Finishing the next essay was the first priority, because Amy wouldn’t be able to stay late. I got it done just before she finished typing the first one, and she said she would type the second, then she had to go. I dived back into writing the next, figuring we could review the finished ones together the next day.
Before she left, Amy opened up her purse and pulled out a big wad of bills. “I’ve collected for all the papers we’ve finished except for one of the short essays,” she said, “One kid’s saying he hasn’t got the money, but don’t worry, I’ll get it. He’s a junior, like me, and he’s going to need us next year.” She smiled as she counted out my share.
“Wow! That’s great, Amy!” I folded up the bills and stuffed them into a pocket.
“What are you going to do with all of that money, Denny?” Jane asked me.
“I haven’t quite figured that out yet. I want to save most of it. I have a savings account, but it’s a joint account with my Mom, and I don’t want her to know how much I’ve got. I’ve hidden some away at home, but I don’t really feel safe about it, with ten other people in the house.”
Jane said I could stay for a while if I wanted to do some more writing, so we said goodbye to Amy and I kept at it. If I could get one more paper finished, I would stay ahead of Amy for tomorrow. Jane was cooking something for tomorrow, and there were some nice smells coming from the kitchen. Something was baking that smelled familiar, but whatever she was cooking on the stove was a complete mystery. Eventually, I had to stop and ask what it was.
She laughed. “I guess you wouldn’t know, living in this place. Have you ever had Chili?”
Of course I hadn’t. I had seen cans on the supermarket shelves, but I had no idea what it was. In my New England Yankee household, such things were totally unknown.
“Even if you had,” she said, “it wouldn’t be like this.” She spooned a little onto a saucer to let it cool. “Sally’s father is in town for the trial, and he brought me a big load of spices from L.A. You can’t even get the right spices here in Vermont.” Then she pulled a pan of cornbread out of the oven. I knew what that was, alright. “Back home, I’d have some nice fresh tortillas with my chili, but you can’t get those here, either. Cornbread’s nice with it, though.”
Before I tried it, I walked over to the stove and leaned over the pot to smell it. The aromas of cumin and chili peppers were totally new to me, and I was fascinated. Jane watched me, almost bursting out laughing at the expression on my face. I had to try this, so I backed away from the stove and picked up the saucer and spoon from the table. That first spoonful was a shock, but a delightful one. It was fiery hot, at least to my taste buds, although Jane said it was pretty mild by her standards. She had a glass of cold water ready for me, and I gladly took a sip, but then I went right back to the Chili. I loved it!
“Wow!” I said, or squeaked, rather, and Jane laughed at me. “This is great! I’ve never tasted anything like it!”
“I thought it might surprise you. But I’m surprised, too; I thought it might be too hot for you.”
“Well, it takes some getting used to, but it’s worth it.”
I had a little more, with a small piece of cornbread, but I had already had three cupcakes, on top of my dinner at home.
“There will be some in the icebox tomorrow; I made a lot. You can heat it up for lunch, and throw a couple pieces of cornbread in the oven to warm up.”
Well, that gave me something else to look forward to. I finished the paper I was working on, and packed up my stuff to go. As I was putting on my jacket, Jane held out an empty coffee can in front of me, and asked, “Do you want to leave your money here?”
That was a good idea, and Jane said she might be able to set up an account for me, and she would let me know, so I left all but a couple bucks with her, in the coffee can.
Outside, I had only walked a few yards when I heard a voice calling my name.
“Denny?”
I looked around and saw a police car parked in one of the driveways between houses. It must have been parked there to watch for speeders, because it was parked where it was easy for the cop to watch the road, but difficult for drivers to see him. The officer flicked on his inside light, and I saw that it was Junior. He beckoned me over to the car.
“You’re out a little late, aren’t you?” Technically, there was a nine o’clock curfew in the village, but most of us kids ignored it regularly.
“I’m just headed home; lost track of time.”
He jerked his thumb toward the empty seat beside him and said, “Get in, and I’ll drive you home.”
Junior was one of the two Sergeants on the Essex Junction Police Force, and the friendliest cop in the village. There were a couple of patrolmen that were okay, but the rest of them seemed to hate me and my friends. Junior was the only one we trusted.
“That’s a load of stuff you’re carrying,” he said as he turned up Hillcrest.
“School work,” I said, “Stuff that’s due right after break.”
“Huh. That’s not very nice of a teacher, to give you homework over spring vacation.”
“Well, we’re still catching up, you know.”
“Uh-huh. Have you been out to look at the cabin?”
“Yeah; we went out today.” I described the condition of the cabin, which he had seen back in November. “We might fix it up a bit, but it’s probably never going to be dry again.”
We drove past Holy Family Church on Prospect, then turned onto Lincoln Street. At the corner of Lincoln and Central, Junior turned onto my street, and slowed down as we passed the parking lot of Todd’s Restaurant. There were two men standing beside a big Lincoln Continental sedan. I recognized one of them as J.C. Bouchard, but I didn’t know the man he was talking to.
J.C. waved and called out to Junior as we passed, a smile on his face.
“I’ve never seen him smile before,” I said, “He always looks mean when I see him.”
Junior laughed. “I don’t think he likes kids much, but he’s always friendly to the Police.”
“Who’s the other guy?”
“That is Gaetan Frenette,” Junior said as we crossed the railroad tracks. He glanced over at me to see my reaction, which I’m sure didn’t disappoint him. I had never seen the man before, but I knew the name – everybody knew the name. I didn’t know what he did, and I didn’t know anybody who knew what he did, but we all knew he was rich and powerful. I had heard adults speak, sometimes in awe, sometimes with disdain, of “Frenette’s mob,” or “Frenette’s people,” so my assumption was that he was some sort of criminal.
I wanted to ask Junior about him, but we were at my house, and I doubt he would have told me anything anyway.