Floating Staircase(49)

He passed me the book. When he said on the phone he was reading one of my novels, I just assumed it was the copy of Silent River from the public library. But this was a copy of Water View, newly purchased and, as evidenced by the creases in the spine and a few dog-eared pages, already read.

“It was great,” Earl said, handing me a pen. “Those last thirty pages flew by. I’ve already started The Ocean Serene, too. I know I’m reading them out of order, but to be honest, I hadn’t planned on reading any beyond this one here. It sucked me in and I had to read more.”

“That’s very nice of you. I’m glad you enjoyed it.”

On the title page, I wrote:

To Earl Parsons, my wife’s new pet—



May all your farts be silent but deadly.

Travis Glasgow



I gave him back the book and expected him to read what I wrote, but he didn’t. He stuffed it into his pocket and, grinning like a child, said, “I really appreciate that. I never got a book signed by anyone before.”

The interview lasted for almost half an hour, with Earl asking the usual questions about how I got started in the business, where I got my ideas, and which one of my novels was my favorite. He segued into our reasons for coming to Westlake and our impressions of the town so far. I supplied him with the requisite answers. The old guy seemed pleased.

During a break in our conversation, Jodie convinced him to stay for lunch. Although he seemed fretful about imposing, Jodie’s pestering broke him down and he agreed. Jodie slipped into the kitchen to make coffee and sandwiches.

“She’s lovely,” Earl said after she’d gone.

“Are you married?”

“You’re looking at a bachelor of the first order right here in your living room.” He winked at me, a glitter in his eye. “Doesn’t mean I ain’t ever been in love before, though. Went through my fair share of broken hearts.”

“How long have you been working for the newspaper?”

“Lord,” Earl said, sitting back in the chair. He looked too big for it, his legs like oversized pistons jutting at awkward angles. “Must be about a decade or so. Just after I retired from the mill.”

“Do you know about what happened to the little boy who lived in this house? The one who drowned in the lake?”

He pressed two fingers to his forehead and, almost as if reciting poetry from memory, said, “Elijah Dentman, ten years old. Mother’s name was Veronica. Didn’t have no father.”

“That’s a good memory. Do you know who covered the story for the paper when he drowned?”

“Sure do,” he said. “Was me.”

I blinked. “No kidding?”

“Like I said, I’m the resident Woodward and Bernstein around here.” He drummed his fingers against the camera that hung across his chest. “Resident Annie Leibovitz, too, I suppose.”

“I read your articles about what happened,” I confessed and leaned forward in my seat.

“You know, I joke about nothing ever happening here worth writing about, but the truth is, I’d prefer writing about pie eating contests and cocker spaniels than to ever have to report on something like that again.”

“Were you on the scene while they were searching for the body?”

“All evening and well into the night. I left when the divers gave up the next morning.”

“Without the body,” I said. This wasn’t a question. I was testing the air between us.

“Without the body,” he repeated, and we looked at each other for a beat longer than necessary.

“Don’t you find that odd? That this is a self-enclosed lake and the body was never recovered?”

Earl didn’t answer me right away, and I thought maybe I’d insulted him somehow. Then he cleared his throat and glanced over my shoulder, possibly to make sure Jodie was out of earshot. “There’s plenty strange about what happened to that boy, the least of which is the fact they never found his body. I assume, based on your timing asking these questions, that your wife doesn’t know about what happened?”

“She knows a boy drowned in the lake. That’s about it. She hasn’t pursued the details.”

“You mind me asking why you’re interested in the matter? If it’s none of my business, please say so and I’ll shut my yap.”

“I think things were overlooked,” I said. “I think the cops didn’t know how to handle an investigation of that magnitude and didn’t turn over every stone. I think a boy doesn’t just drown in a lake and completely disappear, even if the police didn’t start searching for him until a couple hours later after he went missing.”

“What are you saying?”

“I think Elijah Dentman was murdered.” It had been on my mind for some time now, not only in the writing I’d been doing but in real life, too. The pieces didn’t add up to make a complete whole. What cinched it for me was the visit to West Cumberland where I stood face-to-face with David Dentman.

To my surprise, Earl did not scoff at the notion. Just the opposite: he seemed to embrace it. “You got a suspect in mind?”

“Could be anyone, I guess. Could be some vagrant that ran into the kid down by the water. Could be someone the kid knew from town.”

The old man shook his head. “No, that ain’t what you think. Tell me what you think.”