Widowmaker (Mike Bowditch #7)(67)

Pulsifer reached into his pocket and pulled out a crumpled dollar. “This is for the last car.”

Gary could be a true dick when he wanted.

“Go jump in the lake,” Mink said. But he still took the dollar.

I followed Pulsifer into the station, where a graying, bespectacled man stood behind the register.

“Morning, Erskine.”

“It was until five seconds ago,” the owner said.

“Erskine, I want to introduce you to Mike Bowditch. He’s a warden down in north Massachusetts.”

“He means southern Maine,” I said. “Pleased to meet you.”

The old man scowled. “I know who you are.”

He must have been another person my father had made an enemy out of. I could imagine my dad on a bender, driving off from one of those old gas pumps without paying, daring the old man to give chase or call the cops on him.

Pulsifer and I filled Styrofoam cups with coffee and returned to the counter.

“This used to be A. J. Langstrom’s station,” Pulsifer said, “before A.J. got sick of his wife’s escapades and moved out of state. You ever hear from A.J., Erskine?”

“Why the hell would I?”

“I thought you two might be Facebook friends.”

“Isn’t it a little early in the morning to be a pain in the ass, Gary?” Erskine said.

“I was trying to explain to Mike here why you let Mink hang out at your pumps,” said Pulsifer. “Don’t you get complaints?”

“Sure I do. But so what? It’s my store. I can do what I want.”

“You’re a better man than me,” said Pulsifer.

“That goes without saying.” The old guy kept a deadpan expression, but I was beginning to sense that maybe they really didn’t dislike each other, but that this was a skit they performed regularly. “I heard Jim Clegg was up at Don Foss’s place this morning.”

“Where did you hear that?” Pulsifer asked.

“One of John Cabot’s drivers saw his cruiser turn up that road.”

I hadn’t considered the idea that Cabot and Foss might have been business rivals, but it made perfect sense; they were both loggers.

Pulsifer took a sip of coffee. “Erskine, you’re better than Google when it comes to information around here.”

“I suppose it has something to do with Amber’s son?”

“Don’t you mean A.J.’s son?”

“I mean exactly what I mean.”

Another belated revelation: Adam’s questionable parentage was a topic of conversation. I wondered if anyone had ever fixated on the strong resemblance he bore to Jack Bowditch.

The old man scratched one of his hairy ears. “I don’t know who they thought they were fooling, passing that boy off as A.J.’s son all those years. He looks no more like A. J. Langstrom than I look like George Clooney.”

“When was the last time you saw Adam Langstrom around, Erskine?” I asked.

“Last time I saw him was before he went to prison. That prick knows he’s not welcome here. I caught him stealing gas once. Can you believe that? Stealing gas from the same store his own ‘father’ used to own?”

A woman, dressed from head to toe in expensive Moncler ski apparel and carrying a five-dollar bottle of water, cleared her throat behind us. We paid for our coffee and stepped aside so Erskine could ring up the sale.

“Have a good day, Erskine,” said Pulsifer.

“Yeah, yeah,” said the old man.

We found Mink enjoying a cigarette outside the door. The filter was red with lipstick. He made no secret of having been waiting for us.

“And another thing,” he said.

Pulsifer said, “Mink, have I ever told you how hard it is for us to have a conversation when you’re dressed like that?”

“That’s your issue,” he said. “So what’s this I hear about Langstrom’s truck?”

“What did you hear, exactly?” asked Pulsifer.

“I heard someone found it over near the SERE school. The window was busted and there was blood inside.”

“I can neither confirm nor deny that report.”

Mink sniffed up a line of clear snot that had begun to run from his nose. “So did he kill someone or did someone kill him?”

“Maybe he just hit a deer,” said Pulsifer, winking at me.

“And it landed in the seat beside him? You dopes don’t really believe that.”

“Stranger things have happened. Besides, didn’t I hear once you had psychic powers? Maybe you can help Detective Clegg with his investigation.”

“Laugh if you want, but I got a sixth sense about things. My mom is half Roma. That’s what Gypsies call other Gypsies.”

“Maybe you should dress as a fortune-teller sometime,” said Pulsifer. “You know, with the red kerchief and the bangles.”

“Go jump in a lake.”

Mink dropped the butt on the wet ground. He smacked his bright lips and readjusted his wig. When the woman in the Moncler ski suit stepped out the door, he wasn’t shy about checking out her rear end.

*

Lauren Pulsifer’s Ford Explorer was gone when we arrived back at their farm. She must have let the goats out of the barn, since several of them were making trails through the snowy pasture. They had heavy, hairy coats.