“Christ,” said Black Goggles. “I hope you’re an interested buyer.”
“No, no, just an interested party.” Homer glanced at the huge blocky houses up and down the street. “He’s selling his place? Does he live around here?”
“Oh, God, no, he’s on the Pig Road.” Black Goggles wagged his head to the left. “Oughta be condemned. Here we are in these executive estates, gated properties, paying a lousy fortune in taxes, while he’s got this phony agricultural assessment and pays zilch. Farmland, bullshit! And that fucking sand-and-gravel company, that’s his too.” Black Goggles jerked his head in the direction of the rusty towers. “Jesus, he swore it’d be gone by New Year’s Day. You tell him we’re gonna sue.”
Magically the window beside Black Goggles moved upward. The sleek hips of the car silked past Homer. Gathering speed, it zoomed out of sight.
Chapter 19
There was once a man who had beautiful houses in the city and in the country … But, unfortunately, he had a blue beard.
Charles Perrault, “Bluebeard”
Homer was still looking for Fred Small. As he drove out of the gated community called Meadowlark, he reflected on Small’s name. It had the sound of one of those modest little men who are actually homicidal psychopaths. Hadn’t there been a notorious Dr. Small who had poisoned his wife with potassium cyanide, prescribing it for gastric distress? And wasn’t there another Small in Maine who had strangled his wife, set fire to the house, and gone off for a jolly weekend in the city? Only, unfortunately, his wife’s body had fallen through the floor into the basement, where the local sheriff observed the cord around its neck? Maybe Fred was yet another homicidal wife-killing Small.
The next driveway was heralded by another impressive sign, “Songsparrow Estates.” That was it. Kennebunk had not said Skylark or Meadowlark, he had said Songsparrow.
This driveway was unpaved. There were no gateposts and no daffodils, and the only house in sight was a dark little bungalow.
Homer pulled to the side and stared at the sign. Black Goggles had said nothing about Songsparrow Estates. He had called it the Pig Road. Then Homer discovered another sign on a tall metal pole, an official green highway sign. He squinted at it. The name had been smeared with mud, but the shapes of the letters were clear in the slanting light of afternoon: “Pig Road.”
What did it mean, two signs with different names for the same road? Pride, that was what it meant. “Pig Road” sounded agricultural and foul-smelling. One’s nose wrinkled with distaste. Whereas there was a sweetly spiritual ring to “Songsparrow,” shamelessly imitating the musical overtones of “Meadowlark” next door.
Homer parked beside the bungalow, got out of his car, and approached the front porch. The air had a high thin sound, as of birds chirping far away. Round leaves on a bush dangled and trembled. Directly in his path a crow flapped up from some dead creature, a field mouse or a shrew.
Climbing the porch steps, Homer told himself that of course he should have written an introductory letter, asking for an appointment. But it was not in Homer’s nature to make appointments. He never called ahead or wrote a letter, he just blundered in. It was partly laziness, partly his habit of making impulsive decisions, and partly his belief in surprise, giving his quarry no time to clean up, to shove the body under the bed and wash the bloody knife and put the kettle on for tea.
He pushed the bell. It failed to ring. No one came to the door. He knocked loudly. Again there was no response, but as he turned away, the door opened softly behind him.
“Oh, good afternoon,” said Homer, feeling like a Fuller brush salesman, “my name’s Kelly. I’m looking for Mr. Small.”
“I am Frederick Small.” The man at the door was not built like his name. He was tall and broad-shouldered. The hands that hung from the sleeves of his sweater were like cabbages. Only his head was small, as though borrowed from the body of some undersized person. He sported a toothbrush mustache and a neat little beard. Behind his glasses his eyes were large and lustrous, like a rabbit’s. “Are you here about real estate?” asked Frederick Small.
Of course Homer was here about real estate. “I understand you have land for sale. I’m—uh—looking for a lot. My wife and I—”
“Sorry,” said Frederick Small. “The entire estate is—uh—subject to a purchase-and-sale agreement, to be signed in the very near future.” But he backed up and held the door open.
The entrance hall was narrow and dark. The pictures on the wall were nearly invisible. Small’s glittering glasses floated in the dark.