Chapter 26
In her eleven years as a Purity police officer, Jo had been called to the Tarkin residence three times, twice because Reuben had gotten into scrapes with the Conovers. Jo was aware that Reuben and the Conovers had some sort of long-term feud going on, the genesis of which she did not know, but so far it had not advanced to the violence of the Hatfields and McCoys. It had just been Reuben throwing trash on their deck, or punching a hole in their canoe, a feud that sometimes extended to Arthur Fox’s property as well. Whatever the cause of the rift, the solution, as Jo once said to Reuben, was simple: Just stay the hell away from those people.
Which wasn’t so easy when their homes faced each other directly across the pond.
Her most recent visit to the Tarkin residence was a year ago, when Reuben’s mother passed away in her sleep. According to their family doctor, old Mrs. Tarkin’s death had not come as a surprise because the woman was eighty-nine, and for years she had suffered from what he called the dwindles , a slow and inexorable retreat into the grave. He’d been impressed that she had hung on as long as she did, which he’d credited to Reuben’s devoted care. On the day Jo had last visited the Tarkins, she’d seen the evidence of Reuben’s devotion in the multiple vases of wildflowers that he had set on his mother’s windowsill, and the tray of food—spaghetti and steamed carrots—that was still on her nightstand. His sister, Abigail, also lived in the house, but Abigail was confined to a wheelchair. Only Reuben could have picked those flowers. Only Reuben could have prepared his mother’s meals.
Jo parked on the dirt road fronting the Tarkin residence, and from her cruiser, she eyed the sagging roof, furry with green moss. It was little more than a shack, the clapboards silvered with lichen and age. Only the wheelchair ramp to the front door looked relatively new, a replacement since the last one rotted away. Just the two siblings lived there now, Reuben and Abigail, both in their sixties. Jo didn’t know why Abigail was in a wheelchair, only that she’d been unable to walk since childhood, and Reuben was her sole caregiver. No wonder he’d never had regular employment. No wonder he often seemed in a foul mood, and who wouldn’t be? Trapped all these years in that wreck of a house with an elderly mother and a disabled sister.
But was he angry enough to take it out on a fifteen-year-old girl?
Jo stepped out of her vehicle and climbed the steps to the porch. Outside the front door, she paused and patted the weapon at her hip. Just a reflex, to assure herself it was there. While Reuben himself had no record of violence, Jo was well aware of what his father had done. And because this was Maine, she had to proceed as if there were firearms in this house. Through the kitchen window she saw movement inside. They’d probably heard her tires on the road, the creak of her weight on the porch steps; they had to know someone was at their door.
She didn’t have a chance to knock. The door opened and Reuben stood scowling at her, blocking her entry into his house. Inside, a commercial was playing on the television, and Abigail called out: “Reuben, who is it?”
“The police,” he said.
“What’d you do now?”
“Nothing! I haven’t done a damn thing!” He glowered at Jo. “So why’re you here?”
“I just want to talk,” said Jo.
“Yeah, that’s how it always begins, doesn’t it?”
“It’s about your visit to Moonview the other day. You scared Mrs. Conover, you know.”
“Didn’t mean to. I don’t have anything against her .”
“Still, she was rattled. And with her daughter missing, she can’t help wondering—”
“If I had something to do with it?” He scoffed. “Of course they pointed their finger at me. Who else they gonna blame?”
“Can I come in?”
“Can I stop you?”
“We can talk here, or we can talk down at the station. Which would you prefer?”
“Reuben!” his sister called out. “For heaven’s sake, just let her come in!”
After a moment, he finally stepped aside, and Jo eased past him, into the house. Unlike the ramshackle exterior, the interior of the house was neatly kept. The kitchen countertops were uncluttered, not a single dirty dish was in the sink, and the linoleum floor, although yellow with age, was swept clean.
Wordlessly, Reuben led her through the kitchen and into the living room, where she saw the same tired furniture that was here during her previous visit: A faded sofa, its worn upholstery prettied up by hand-quilted throw pillows. An armchair with a seat cushion that years of use had left permanently imprinted with the contours of someone’s backside. Through the large picture window facing the pond, Jo could see stately Moonview directly across the water. The object of Reuben’s hatred was always in full view.
Jo heard the squeak of a wheelchair, and she turned to see Abigail in the bedroom doorway. Abigail had to be close to seventy, but she still wore her silver hair in a long and girlish braid that trailed over her shoulder, onto her pink polyester blouse. Abigail gave Reuben a questioning look. He merely shrugged, sank into the armchair, and stared at the window.
“Hello, Ms. Tarkin,” said Jo. “I just want to have a few words with your brother. You may not remember me, but—”
“You’re the new chief now, aren’t you? You took over from Glen Cooney.”
“Yes, ma’am. Acting chief, for now.”
“Glen was a decent man. He always tried to be fair to Reuben.”
Jo heard the unspoken message in that sentence: Will you be as fair as Glen was?
“Yes, he left me awfully big shoes to fill. I’m trying my best.” She looked at Reuben, who refused to return her gaze and sat with his arms stubbornly crossed. The house was too small to conduct the interview with any semblance of privacy, so Jo simply sat down on the sofa, among all those throw pillows, and allowed Abigail to remain in the bedroom doorway. She’d probably hear everything they said, anyway.
Jo said to Reuben, “What is this feud between you and the Conovers, anyway?”
“No one’s business but mine,” he said.
“Actually, it is my business. Now that we’ve got a missing girl.”
“Don’t know a thing about that. My beef is with the family.”
“And what is that beef about? Money?”
“No.”
“What did they do to you, Reuben?”
“It’s not what they did to me .”
“To whom, then?”
“Reuben,” Abigail cut in.
Her brother’s jaw clamped shut, and he turned his gaze back to the window. Something strange had just happened between the siblings, something Jo didn’t understand. What were they hiding?
“You asked about the girl, and I told you. I don’t know anything about her, or what happened to her,” he said. “I feel sorry for her mother, though. She seems like a nice lady. Too bad she got caught up in that family.”
“Susan Conover told me you went to see her. Why?”
“She doesn’t know what she’s gotten herself into. She doesn’t know those people.”
“So you went to warn her?”
“Someone should.”
“That’s funny, Reuben, because the Conovers think you’re the one who poses a danger. You’ve trespassed repeatedly. Vandalized their property.”
“Maybe.”
“You scared off one of their employees. Stalked the poor girl, made her so frightened she quit.”
“What? Who?”
“Their nanny. A girl from Mexico.”
“Anna didn’t resign because of me . It was them . They made her miserable. I just tried to be kind.”
“That’s not how they saw it.”
“What did they say?”
“They told Susan you followed the nanny around town. That you’d paddle over and harass her whenever she was on their dock.”
“Harass her?” He shook his head. “I just tried to be her friend.”
“Even after she left town, you wouldn’t give up. The family says you went over there and demanded to know where she went.”
“The old woman said that, didn’t she?” He snorted. “Of course she did. Nothing’s ever their fault. It’s always us , always the locals who get blamed. We fix their roofs, mow their grass, scrub their toilets. We’re the reason those pretty houses are still standing. Those people, they use us, and when we’re no longer any good to them, they toss us away.” He eyed Jo. “You’re a Maine girl. You know exactly what I mean.”
“Excuse me,” said Abigail. “What does any of this have to do with that missing girl?”
Jo turned to Reuben’s sister. “There’s a prior pattern of behavior with your brother. The Conovers said he stalked their nanny. Brought her gifts, wouldn’t leave her alone.”
“But Reuben would never hurt anyone. He certainly didn’t hurt the Conover girl.”
“But you can understand why I have to ask him these questions.” Jo looked at Reuben. “Where were you on Monday, between ten a.m. and four p.m.?”
“Is that when she disappeared?” he asked.
“Just answer the question, Reuben.”
“I would’ve been out. Doing errands.”
“Where?”
Abigail said, “He took me to the hospital for some medical tests. I had a ten o’clock appointment, and we were there until two. Afterward, we went to the grocery store, and then to Walgreens to pick up my pills.”
“He was with you the entire time?”
“Of course. I can hardly get around on my own, because of this thing.” She tapped the arm of her wheelchair. “Isn’t that right, Reuben?”
Her brother grunted.
“Okay,” Jo said, and rose to her feet. Their statement should be easy enough to verify. A phone call to the hospital, to the pharmacy, would confirm what Abigail had just said. “I guess that’s all for now. If I have any other questions, I’ll be back.”
“And we’ll be right here. Where else are we going to go?” said Abigail. “Oh, and please say hello to Owen for me.”
Jo turned back. “You know my dad?”
“From high school. I always liked your father. He was one of the good ones. The other kids wouldn’t even look at me, sitting in this wheelchair, but Owen, he used to help push me up the ramp and into the building. I never forgot that. A real decent man.”
Yes, thought Jo. Yes, he is.
Back in her patrol car, she sat staring for a moment at the Tarkins’ residence. She was still imagining what it was like for Abigail, living in that tiny house, confined to a wheelchair and relying on her brother to keep her alive and fed. As far as she knew, Reuben was not gainfully employed. What a sad household, she thought. A disabled sister, a bitter and angry brother, both of them recluses. A lifetime of self-imposed exile, set off by the atrocities their father committed half a century ago.
The four people who perished in the massacre on Main Street were not Sam Tarkin’s only victims, thought Jo. In that house are two more.