Bones and Roses by Eileen; Goudge Page A

Petty who used to practice family law and now runs the garden center where I buy my gardening supplies—annuals and varietals are less likely to drive her to drink than combative husbands and wives, as she’s fond of saying. “Go to a meeting,” she advises in her clipped, New Englander voice. “Then get your butt over here. Haven’t seen you in ages.” She attends the Early Bird morning meetings, so we don’t see each other as often as we had in the early days of my sobriety when I went to two meetings a day. I promise to stop by for a visit and, after we’ve chatted a few more minutes, I hang up and call McGee.
    I tell him my theory about Stan. “He’s hiding something, that much I know. What I don’t know is if he acted alone or he had help.”
    â€œLet me guess—this is where I come in,” he replies in a flat voice. I hear the muted clink of a dead soldier joining the ranks of its fallen comrades followed by the pop siss of a fresh recruit taking its place. I refrain from commenting. “You remember the part where I told you I was retired? I wasn’t kidding. I’m done with all that, and not just because I turned in my badge and service revolver. I’m fucking tired of all that shit. Peace and quiet, that’s all I want. Is that too much to ask?”
    â€œYou can’t let a murderer walk free.”
    â€œYou know for a fact he’s a murderer?”
    â€œHe wouldn’t look me in the eye, and he contradicted himself after claiming not to have known she was dead until he read about it in the paper.” I use my shoulder to hold the phone to my ear as I set the table—placemat, napkin, cutlery. When ones lives alone, it’s easy to let one’s standards slip. I hear Grandmother Ladeaux’s voice in my mind. All the more reason to observe the niceties.
    â€œThat’s some ace detective work there.” McGee’s tone is mocking. But what had I expected, a gold star and pat on the back? “Sorry to burst your bubble, but you’ll have to do better than that.”
    â€œWhat if I can prove he’s lying?”
    â€œKnock yourself out. With any luck you’ll find another body or two buried in his backyard. Or you’ll sweet-talk him into submitting to a lie detector test—which, by the way, wouldn’t be admissible in court.”
    â€œNo need to be sarcastic. I’m not an idiot. I know there’s no smoking gun. But there could be circumstantial evidence. And if this hypothetical accomplice exists—”
    â€œThis ain’t no Nancy Drew mystery.” He cuts me off.
    â€œI know that,” I reply irritably. “And if you don’t want to help me, fine. For some reason I got the impression you missed the action, but I guess I was wrong. I’ll leave you to your Reader’s Digests and your rocking chair. And your Coors,” I add pointedly. My dig is met with silence.
    â€œYou’re something else, Ballard,” he growls, at last.
    â€œI’ll take that as a compliment.” I press on while I have the advantage. “Look at it this way: Your being retired could work in our favor. When you wore a badge, you had to play by the rules. That’s no longer the case—we can bend the rules without breaking them, go places cops can’t.”
    â€œYeah, like the county jail.”
    â€œI’m not talking about doing anything illegal or even unethical. We’d just be thinking outside the box.” I argue my case. “‘By any means necessary.’ Isn’t that a term used in law enforcement?”
    â€œActually, it was Malcolm X that said it. And as you may recall, things didn’t turn out so good for him.”
    â€œThis isn’t about staging a revolution. What’s the harm in doing a little digging? Anything we find, we turn over to the cops. All we need is enough evidence to justify their launching a