Bryan Gruley - The Hanging Tree

“Where are you?” Philo said.

“Downstate, like I said.”

“The boss is not happy. Is it really family you’re down there for?”

“It is.”

“That woman who hung herself-she was family, wasn’t she?”

“She didn’t hang herself. But, yes, she’s family.”

Philo went silent for a moment. I kept one eye on the house’s big front window, watching for the blue-on-white curtains to move.

“I doubt the boss knows that,” Philo finally said. “But I’m supposed to tell you, if you’re not in his office at eight o’clock tomorrow morning, you are no longer employed by Media North or the Pine County Pilot.”

“Thank you. Is that all?”

“No.” Philo lowered his voice. “Do you really think somebody killed her?”

I hesitated. Was Philo spying for his Uncle Jim? Or was he genuinely curious? Had I somehow gotten through to him the day before?

“I don’t have to think anything, Philo. Just following the bread crumbs. Tell me about the drain commission. You got a story?”

“I don’t know. Of course, I don’t have a paper for four days. But they had a pretty lengthy discussion about sewer service at the new rink. Apparently the developer-”

“Haskell.”

“Yes, Laird Haskell. Apparently he has asked to modify his proposal for financing the system out there.”

“That wasn’t on the agenda, was it?” I always checked the drain commission agenda. A lot of a little town’s money could literally go down the toilet in fifteen tedious minutes on a Tuesday morning.

“No. They just showed up like they owned the place. Made me late for a meeting at headquarters.”

I could tell that worried him. “That’s too bad. Haskell was there?”

“Well, not at the meeting itself. I saw him later. Let me just tell you-”

“Let me see,” I said. I wanted Philo to see this as clearly as possible. “Just two months ago, Haskell was going to pay for the whole thing. Read my lips and all. I’m betting he proposed an improvement. ”

“His lawyer, Mr. Gilbert, did the talking. He called it an enhancement, actually.”

“For which the town and the county would pay.”

“That’s approximately right. I thought this one commissioner-I forget his name-might spit up his dentures. Then that Elvis guy was trying to say everything’s all right, nobody ever expected Haskell to pay for everything, the rink is the future of the town, yadda yadda.”

I let that sit there a second, savoring the thought that Philo might be coming around to the possibility that Haskell, for whatever reason, didn’t have the money to build the new rink. Which meant, of course, that he wouldn’t need all those Pilot ads he was promising to buy.

“So did the commission actually do anything?”

“Tabled it till next month. But, listen, I wanted to ask you-you got a couple of pretty thick envelopes in the mail this morning.”

The Suburban doors remained closed. I peered into the rearview mirror on the driver’s side. A pair of aviator shades on a wide face looked back. I averted my eyes, first to the house, then to the other side of the street. I turned the key to start my truck. It coughed twice, clicked, and died.

“Shit,” I said.

“What?” Philo said. “I didn’t open them.”

“No, no, it’s my damn truck, needs a starter. What about the mail?”

The driver’s side door on the Suburban swung open.

“You got two big envelopes from Lansing.”

I looked at the house. I wasn’t going in there now. Maybe later. Maybe never. I tried the ignition again. Philo was saying something but I wasn’t listening. The truck finally wheezed to life and I pulled it out onto the street. I tried to keep my eyes straight ahead but as I passed the Suburban I glanced to my right and saw a man approximately half the tonnage of the vehicle itself turned sideways in the driver’s seat. He had a face like a moon, complete with craters that looked like someone had taken a ball-peen hammer to him.

In my rearview I saw him step out of the Suburban and stand in the street, watching me leave.

“Gus,” Philo said, “what the hell’s going on?”

“Nothing. City drivers. What were you saying?”

The large man was still standing in the street, shades off and arms folded across his chest, when I turned right on Martel. I took that to Allen Road, swung another right, and hoped I’d lost him.

“I’m guessing these envelopes have to do with those freedom-of-information requests you made a while back on Mr. Haskell,” Philo said.

“Probably, yeah.”

“Would you mind if I took a look?”

My heart was pounding. What a wuss I was. Why didn’t I just get out and talk to the guy? Maybe he knew something. I couldn’t think about it now. Philo suddenly wanted to pry his way into the Haskell story.

“Why do you want to look at that stuff?”

“Fair question. I don’t blame you. I haven’t been, shall we say-well, let me put it this way. When I was leaving the drain commission meeting this morning, that Elvis fellow took me by the elbow and steered me into the men’s room, where he proceeded to, as he put it, ‘advise’ me of his confidence that the Pilot wouldn’t write a word that would jeopardize the future of the community. He also mentioned he’s having dinner with my uncle tonight.”

“Elvis is a pillar of the community, you know.”

“And while he’s talking to me, Haskell walks in and takes a leak.”

“Just like hockey. It’s all about two-on-ones.”

“Yes, well, frankly, it ticked me off a little. Plus I missed that meeting at headquarters.”

So maybe it wasn’t me that had gotten to Philo, but Elvis. And Haskell. And that meeting he missed.

I crossed Oakwood going south, watching my rearview for the Suburban while keeping an eye out for Wally’s Wonder Print. “Are you planning to cover the town council meeting tomorrow?”

“I’m considering. Somebody told me it was routine and I probably didn’t need to bother.”

“Somebody, huh?”

“Yeah. Somebody.”

I considered telling Philo about the note I’d received in the mail, decided his new interest in real stories had come up a little too abruptly for that. But I thought maybe he could help me.

“Can you do me a quick favor?”

“I’ll try.”

“Go online, do a clip search. Just the Detroit papers. Look for someone named Trixie the Tramp. See if you can figure out who she is, where she is.”

“Trixie the Tramp. Is this family too?”

“You could say that. And go ahead and look at what’s in the envelopes. You probably won’t find much. But you never know. If you see something interesting, give me a call.”

“Will do. And Gus?”

“Yeah.”

“Don’t forget. Eight a.m. tomorrow. Sorry.”

“Uh-huh. Gotta go.”

I swung my truck into Wally’s, over the paved lot, and into the back. I parked between a Dumpster and a utility pole where I thought the truck would be hidden from the road.

I stepped outside. The wind snapped my coat collar against my cheek. I pulled the zipper all the way up and stuffed my hands in my coat pockets. Knobbo, I thought as I walked around to the front door. If anyone could refresh my memory, Wally could.

The three glass walls that enclosed Ron Wallman’s office faced out on a room filled with laser printers, computer terminals, paper cutters, and tall steel racks stacked with boxes and rolls of paper. Signs hanging from the ceiling cheerfully exhorted the workers bustling between printing jobs to bustle a little harder: “Attitude is a little thing that makes a big difference” and “Don’t judge those who try and fail, judge only those who fail to try.”