The Summer House(70)

One knock on the door is all it takes, and a slim woman with cotton-white hair opens the door. “Right on time,” Peggy Reese says, smiling. “I like you already, Agent York. If that’s who you are.”

Connie digs out her wallet and badge, shows the identification. “This is who I am.”

“Then come right in.”

The inside of the home is clean and orderly, with two couches forming an angle, a kitchen off to the left, bookcases filled with hardcovers and paperbacks, and a coffee table with newspapers on top—Wall Street Journal, New York Times, Atlanta Journal-Constitution. Peggy is wearing black slacks and a yellow-and-blue Walmart smock, which she tugs off and tosses to the floor. Underneath she has on an old Allman Brothers concert T-shirt, and two large black-and-white cats come tumbling into the living room, hitting each other with their paws.

“Roscoe, Oreo, knock it off!” she says, scooping them up in her arms, giving each a quick nuzzle, and then tossing each onto a separate couch, where they land safely and expertly.

She turns and says, “You know what you call two cats?”

“I don’t know,” Connie says, liking the woman. “A herd? A pride? A duo?”

Peggy smiles. “A crazy cat lady starter kit. Get you a drink before we begin?”

Connie shakes her head. “No…it’s too late, and officially, I’m on duty.”

“Hon, wasn’t going to offer you liquor,” she says. “I like a cold lemonade after a shift. Cleans out the dust and bullshit in my mouth.”

“I’d love one,” she says.

“Be right back,” Peggy says. “Sit on a couch. Hope you like cats. Roscoe and Oreo don’t think I get enough visitors, and they’re right. As long as you’re here, they’ll be either sniffing your hair or biting your feet.”

A few minutes later, she’s sipping on a glass of cold, fresh lemonade, the best Connie’s ever had, and Peggy has a reporter’s notebook and pen in hand. She says, “Mind if we get to work? Won’t make Wednesday’s paper, but if all goes well, it should appear in the Thursday one.”

Connie stifles a yawn. “I’ll do the best I can. But some things I can’t comment on.”

Peggy flips a page in the slim notebook. “Fair enough. Mind telling me your official rank and name, and where you’re from?”

“Special Agent Connie York, US Army Criminal Investigation Division. Stationed in Quantico, Virginia.”

“And you got a major running the show down here,” she says. “Older fella who’s limping. Where is he?”

Connie says, “He’s been…called away.”

“I see,” she says. “Where?”

“I can’t tell you.”

The reporter smiles. “Oh, this is gonna be fun.”

Connie says, “You might not think it’s fun when your part is done.”

“Oh?”

“I need some information about this county,” she says. “Right now, you’re it.”

The reporter’s smile fades. “Let’s just wait and see, all right?”



Fifteen minutes later, Connie is exhausted. Despite the woman’s age, and the rural county she lives in, and the small paper she works for, Peggy is good. Sharp, inquisitive, and when Connie dodges a comment, the older woman doesn’t complain, she just nods and circles back, and a while later tries again. Connie has dealt with reporters over the years, during her time in the Virginia State Police and through her Army service, but this woman—who has one of the black-and-white cats sitting on her shoulders throughout—is one of the best reporters Connie has ever encountered.

Peggy scribbles some more, looks up, and says, “Well, seems like that’s about as much as I’m gonna squeeze out of you this morning ’bout what happened at The Summer House, the poor place.” The notebook slaps shut.

Connie says, “My turn now.”

“Not sure if I can help you.”

“But you know this county, you know the people.”

Peggy carefully says, “Not as much as you’d think.”

“But you’re a reporter here.”

“Not always,” Peggy says. “I’ve only been here five or so years.”

“Aren’t you from Sullivan?”

Peggy bursts out laughing. “Crap, no. Gad, is my accent that thick? No, I’m from North Carolina originally. This double-wide belonged to a distant uncle who passed on, and I was the nearest relative it was awarded to. Nope, went up to the University of Richmond for my degree in journalism, got my master’s at Columbia, went to work for the Times-Dispatch in Richmond, did some bureau work for the Associated Press, and then went to the Washington Post.”

The other cat jumps into her lap, and she scratches its head. Even from across the room, Connie can hear the loud purrs.

Peggy says, “You’re too polite to ask, so I’ll answer it for you. Special Agent York, I’m a drunk. Or alcoholic, if you prefer. Time came at the Post when early retirement was offered, and it was gently suggested that I depart, so I did. And when I woke up and dried out a couple of years later, here I was.”

“I see,” Connie says.

The woman keeps on rubbing the cat’s head. The purring stays constant.