Thales's Folly Read online

  Tarragon nodded. "I took him tea and bread last night. I found him over by Magic Vale."

  "Magic Vale?" said Andrew with interest.

  "That's mine," Tarragon told him with a smile. "It's a perfect fair- ring, at least that's what I thought when I was seven years old, and it's been mine ever since."

  "Tarragon," said Andrew's mother, "I think that you should find Mr. Branowski and bring him here to read the will personally, and ask if he can recall any comments that Harriet made at the time."

  "But it's been five years," protested Leo. "And he drinks."

  "He drinks, but drunk or sober I've never underestimated his intelligence," she said, rising, and to Andrew, "Dig later."

  And she was gone: to paint shutters, Andrew realized, and found himself grinning at the thought, too diverted to be depressed.

  There was a long and thoughtful silence following her departure, and then Tarragon said, "So now we need a lawyer and Mr. Branowski. .. It's been quite a morning."

  "Begun at one A.M.," pointed out Andrew.

  "Very competent woman, your mother," said Leo. "Find her much changed since you last saw her?"

  "Changed?" echoed Andrew. "Changed? Any woman last seen wearing Chanel and diamonds who's now a housepainter living in a cottage called Bide-A-Wee has undergone one hell of a change." He smiled. "I like her."

  Amused, Tarragon said, "Like her?"

  "I don't think I ever really knew her at all," he admitted in surprise. "Anyone living with my father seems to have weird things happen to them—he overpowers people."

  "And you heard what she said, Gussie," Leo reminded her. "First thing tomorrow you better put on your town clothes and visit a lawyer."

  Gussie nodded. "I can do that, yes."

  "But first we need a lawyer's name," pointed out Tarragon. "I'll pick the cucumbers for lunch and then take the shortcut to the post office and ask Artemus, he'll know who to see."

  "/ can pick cucumbers," Andrew told her. "How many?"

  She flashed him a smile. "Thanks—pick four," and she, too, was gone.

  Andrew found the cucumbers in line three, neatly bedded in straw to keep the damp earth from rotting them, and picked four of the sleekest and ripest, and then wandered over to the low-walled herb garden. Almost at once he was assailed by a profusion of scents, but what he had come to find was the herb tarragon. Unfortunately there were no labels to identify any of them, and he recognized only the mints by the fragrance of them. Plucking a leaf he was having a good taste of it when Leo found him.

  "So you've found our herbs," Leo said. "Some days the smell of them's almost enough to make a person drunk. I tell you, though, Nature's kind. Most of them grow wild out in the woods and the meadows, ready for anybody's taking."

  He seated himself on a corner of the stone wall not preempted by a tangle of green leaves, and lifting his face to the sun he nodded. "It's a good sun today for the garden." Regarding the sprig of green in Andrew's hand, "That's spearmint. It's rosemary sunning itself here along the wall. Likes walls. And basil's over there, and comfrey—" He pointed to a growth of tall plants bearing purple flowers. "Comfrey's a healing herb for the insides of a person, and for hurts on the outside."

  "Where's the tarragon?" asked Andrew.

  'Ah," he said, "you're not talking of our Tarragon, you want to see the herb. There," he said of a tall shrub bearing smooth dark green leaves. "Pick a leaf. The sweetest of them all, Miss Thale always said." As Andrew plucked one of its long narrow leaves and held it to his nose Leo chuckled. "So?"

  Andrew said slowly, "It smells like—like summer. The sweetness of a summer day."

  "Very poetic," Leo said appreciatively. "Unless, of course, you grow up in Hell's Kitchen or the Bowery, like me. It'll be flowering next month, we'll harvest it and hang the stalks to dry in the attic. A pity you won't be here."

  Andrew, startled, said, "No, I don't suppose—" But he didn't want to think of that.

  "So where are the cucumbers?" inquired Tarragon, suddenly appearing on the other side of the wall, and smiling. "I've gone all the way to the post office and back, and still no cucumbers?"

  "He was curious about our herb garden," said Leo.

  "Then by all means we must lend him our best two-volume book on herbs," she said mischievously. 'And insist he read it."

  "Yes, but did Artemus recommend a lawyer?" asked Andrew.

  She said triumphantly, "Not only that, but Artemus called him, and Gussie has an appointment tomorrow morning at ten o'clock to see an attorney named Abner Margus in Pittsville."

  "Glory be," said Leo, and returned to the house for their lunch of cucumber sandwiches.

  That evening when Andrew walked down to the pond, towel in hand, the heat of the day had diminished, and when he shrugged off his jeans and sneakers the air felt deliciously cool on his bare shoulders. A curious silence had descended on the pond, a hush, as if it was intermission and the scenery was being changed, the earth shifting from day to night: a few birdcalls. Crickets. The muted sound of a car on the distant highway. Even the water had stilled and was clear as a mirror until he saw that, over to his right, on the western shore, a cloud of mist was forming low over the pond. As it took shape it began to flow toward him, almost to dance, as the twilight coolness of the coming night met the day's warmth of the pond. It moved with a sinister speed, always close to the water, sending out fingers of pale cloud, silent and ghostly.

  The water had already cooled when he walked into its shallows, and was cooler yet when he dove into it. Swimming up from its pebbled bottom he opened his eyes to see that one of the last rays of sunlight had laced the surface with bright silver; it was dazzling until the mist swept over it, darkening it into dull pewter.

  When he came out of the water he was shivering but exhilarated. Wrapping himself in his towel, teeth chattering, he found a patch of grass still bright with sun on which to warm himself and sat down, realizing that already—and as usual— his mind was reaching for words to describe the look of the pond as it slowly disappeared under that moving blanket of mist. Words, always words! Obnoxious, obsessive, or wonderful, he was stuck with words. .. Sometimes it pleased him to think of how storytelling must have begun thousands of years ago, when a man wearing no more than the skins of an animal returned from the hunt to sit around a campfire and boast of his triumphs—making a damn good story of it, he was sure— even if in gestures and grunts. . , troubadours had sung their stories. . , priests had written them on parchment. A strange need, this compulsion to express, and not for artists alone. People created homes, they created gardens, Harriet Thale had created a life, his father seemed intent on creating a fortune, but something deep inside of Andrew compelled him to create stories, and he knew that he would always feel incomplete—restless, too, and deprived—if he could never again lose himself utterly in the delicious excitement of entering a world carved out of imagination.

  He wondered if Miss L’Hommedieu was speaking his truth, too, when she'd told Tarragon that she wrote to escape reality. He thought of the unending summer camps and boarding schools he'd been sent to in the past, his father remote, his mother a muted shadow in the background; and could he forget the longing for a real family that at nine or ten he'd poured into his stories; until an implacable anger had chilled him into cynicism? Perhaps it was that anger, that helplessness, that had led him to choose mystery novels to write, because—unlike Miss L’Hommedieu's stories— they had a beginning, a middle and an ending, and murders in a book were more easily solved than the deficiencies in his own life. His plots were neat and clever, but his mother had been right when she found the characters in his books superficial and cynical. They were the only people he'd known.

  Why, he wondered, was he seeing this now?

  The answer to that was waiting for him, too. There was a family at Thale's Folly, certainly an ill-assorted group of strays, he thought, smiling, but a family. And among them was Tarragon, and now his mother.

  Abruptly he laug
hed, because an ant was crawling over his bare leg, no doubt irritated as hell at this long damp obstacle keeping it from its destination, and here he was, sitting on the grass in danger of being discovered by ticks at any moment. What an idiotic place to sit!

  He plucked his jeans and sneakers from the beach and set out on the path to the house, past the buttercups and yarrow, the daisies and the Queen Anne's lace. There would be a sunset to watch, and later Miss L’Hommedieu's story-of-the-day to hear; Miss Thale's will had been found, tomorrow Gussie and Leo would visit a lawyer, and in the morning he and Tarragon would look for Mr. Branowski.

  They would all of them sleep well this night.

  Thursday

  8

  [Lemon balm] is of so great virtue that though it be but tied to his sword that hath given the wound it staunches the blood. —Pliny

  When Andrew awoke the next morning it was with a sense of satisfaction that surprised him, and he decided it must be due to all the rosemary tea he'd been swilling. Outside his window the birds were carrying on their usual spirited conversation, the sun was shining, and he'd slept well. On the negative side, of course—and of late he'd become gifted in a search for negatives—there were the disappointments that lay ahead for the occupants of Thale's Folly; it would be a tragedy if Miss Thale's money was never found and they lost their home.

  He frowned over this, realizing the burden this would place on Tarragon. He had never before experienced a need to protect anyone except himself, but there it was, a new emotion to surprise him.

  Thoughtfully he considered his own situation. In his savings account he had managed to preserve—from the advances on his two published books—an amount that would sound like wealth to the occupants of Thale's Folly, but in Manhattan would support him for no more than twelve months. He had carefully saved this money for the year or more he would need to write his next novel, and he had accepted help from his father only so that he needn't touch it. Now there was not going to be a next book, and it was time he accepted this; he was going to have to find a nine-to-five job. This was not promising because he had only two years of college to record on a résumé, whereas friends of his who had accumulated B.A.'s and even more prestigious degrees were doing no more than managing shoe stores, fast-food shops, or the selling of ties in Bloomingdale's. Too many good jobs had moved overseas.

  More rosemary tea was obviously becoming a necessity to cheer him; he thought it might be interesting to talk to his mother, who appeared to have garnered wisdom that she might share more tactfully than his father. He dressed and went downstairs.

  In the kitchen Gussie was slicing bread, wearing an apron over a beige silk dress, a straw hat firmly affixed to her head. "So's I can get used to it," she explained. "Leo and I leave on the eighty-thirty bus to see Mr. Margus, and Artemus is going to drive us to the bus stop before the post office opens."

  "Can I help?"

  She nodded. "You can butter the bread and fetch the marmalade from the pantry while I finish brewing the tea."

  "You're sure you've all the documents, the deed, the map, and the will?"

  "All in my purse," she told him, and nodded to Leo as he joined them, wearing a suit that implied a once-bulkier Leo before he met with breakfasts of bread and tea. She was just pouring the tea when a sleek and shining van with four-wheel drive bumped its way up the driveway and came to a stop. This was not Artemus's mail jeep. Inscribed on its door panels were the words BEAR & CRUMBULL, REALTORS.

  Andrew, seeing it, said, "Oh no, he wouldn't—he couldn't!."

  "Wouldn't what?" asked Leo.

  "My father's already sent that developer to look over the property."

  "Isn't his," Leo pointed out. "Got a will now to prove it."

  Gussie, emerging from the pantry, gave Andrew a questioning glance. "Do we tell him?"

  "No," Andrew said indignantly. "Let the man see it and price it and want it first. What's important is your getting to the lawyer and making it official."

  With a nod toward the stranger climbing out of his van, she said, "You'll deal with it?"

  "Gladly," agreed Andrew, and strolled out to confront the man.

  With a stern look Mr. Jasper Crumbull handed him his business card. "Here to look over the property of Mr. Horace Thale," he said. In spite of the heat of the day he was wearing a plaid wool vest and a tweed jacket with leather elbow patches but he did not quite succeed in presenting the image of a country squire that he apparently aspired to, being stout, red-faced, and very hot.

  Andrew waved a careless hand toward the woods. "You have a map, of course."

  "Of course—faxed to me this morning." He eyed Andrew with curiosity. "That way?" he said, pointing.

  "That way," Andrew assured him gravely, and watched Mr. Crumbull set out across the untilled field toward the woods, where he would soon lose his way, of this Andrew could be certain. He returned to the kitchen in a cheerful mood, looking forward to the unpleasant surprise that lay in wait for Mr. Crumbull of Bear & Crumbull, Realtors.

  Artemus arrived promptly in his mail jeep, and Gussie, nervously clutching her bag and adjusting her hat, was helped into the jeep. Once she and Leo had gone it was necessary to establish Miss L’Hommedieu in her throne-like chair on the side porch before he and Tarragon could look for Mr. Branowski, and this meant equipping her with notebook and pen, several books, and a cup of hot sage tea.

  "Bring him back so he can't get away," she counseled them tartly. "It's Gussie who'll want to hear anything he has to say, and Mr. Branowski has a restless spirit."

  "Let's just hope we find him—I couldn't, yesterday," pointed out Tarragon, and to Andrew, "Let's first try where you saw him boiling eggs, that's his favorite tree."

  "I take it you share my mother's faith in Mr. Branowski's memory?" he said as they set out down the path.

  "To be honest, no—after five years? But it's clever of your mother to think of it."

  "You mean it inspires hope . . . I'm going to visit Bide-A-Wee tonight or tomorrow, but Tarragon, can you think of anywhere my great-aunt could have buried her money? Some corner or place she was partial to? Bald Hill, for instance, or near—er—Gussie's shrine?"

  Tarragon shook her head. "None of us can, I wish / could but I can't, darn it... Here we are, there's his tree."

  But Mr. Branowski was not to be found there, although his knapsack hung from a branch of the tree and his bedroll was neatly rolled up at its base. Frowning, Tarragon said, "He wanders, we'll just have to keep looking."

  "Where does one go when homeless?" asked Andrew.

  Tarragon laughed. "Did you think he has no social life? According to Artemus, the population of Tottsville in the winter is six hundred fifty but in the summer it's almost three thousand, counting children, and everyone knows Mr. Branowski by now. He's considered one of Tottsville's 'characters.' He sometimes visits Manuel," she said, "and he often poses for one of the artists, or he scavenges for bottle money, or—just disappears." She frowned. "He's—well, Mr. Branowski. Let's try the pond next."

  The pond was placid in the afternoon heat, the sun scattering sequin-like glitter across its surface. Andrew thought that a swim would be a wonderful way to spend the next hour but he acceded to the importance of finding Mr. Branowski and so they stood on the beach, scanning the shoreline and the woods that edged it until suddenly the quiet was shattered by a man's voice shouting, "Help, help! Police!"

  Mr. Crumbull of Bear & Crumbull stumbled out of the underbrush, his face an alarming red. "Thank God," he gasped at sight of them. "There's a man—they threw him out of a car, I saw it. I think he's dead."

  "Dead?" said Andrew blankly.

  "You mean really dead?" said Tarragon.

  "I don't know, he just lies there. It was terrible—they drove past and just opened the door and—I swear they kicked him out of the car." Mr. Crumbull was perspiring profusely. "Thank God they didn't see me! Call the police!"

  Tarragon turned to Andrew. "Find Artemus," she said quickly. "
I'll go back with Mr. Crumbull and flag you down on the road when we get there. You can take me back to him, Mr. Crumbull?"

  "I feel sick," he said, clutching his stomach.

  Rallying, Andrew told him curtly, "Be sick later," and with a nod to Tarragon, "What's the shortest way?"

  She pointed. "Take that path around the pond, jump over the brook, keep straight and you'll meet the highway near the garage, and if Artemus is still delivering mail bring Manuel, he's deputy sheriff."

  But Andrew had already begun running. It was a long way, and when he reached the highway he was in as bad a shape as Mr. Crumbull, dripping sweat and out of breath.

  Manuel, adjusting a carburetor, looked up in surprise.

  "Dead man," panted Andrew. "Woods. Mr. Crumbull the realtor found him. Says he was thrown out of a car."

  "Is that so," Manuel said, and lifting his voice bellowed, "Junior? Junior!"

  Manuel Junior emerged from the dark interior of the garage. "Yeah? What's up, Pop?"

  "Lock up the garage and find Artemus. Dead man in the woods." And to Andrew, "Hop in my truck."

  "Why can't I see the dead man, too?" complained Junior.

  "You see enough of them on television," his father told him, climbing into the cab beside Andrew. "Where do we go?"

  "Tarragon said she'd flag us down when she finds the place."

  Manuel nodded, placed his foot on the accelerator, and they shot off with the speed of a catapult. Tarragon, just seating herself on a rock next to the road, waved at sight of them and then vanished. Bringing the truck to a halt they jumped out to discover that she was helping Mr. Crumbull to his feet; he had taken Andrew's advice to be sick later, and had been very sick indeed among the ferns.

  As for Mr. Crumbull's dead man he was lying on the ground with his eyes open, staring blankly at the sky above him.