Bryan Gruley - The Hanging Tree

“What new pizzeria?” I said.

“Roselli’s, up the hill across the river.”

“Roselli’s? You mean Riccardo’s?”

“Well. Yes.”

“That’s not new. They’re just changing their name again.”

“Exactly.”

“Jeez.”

“It pays the bills.”

I slowed my truck as I neared the intersection with U.S. 131 in Kalkaska. Waiting at the light, I considered detouring north to the Twin Lakes Party Store for one of their tasty egg sandwiches. What was I bothering with Philo for anyway?

“Listen, Philo. How do I know you’re not just spying for your uncle?”

He waited before he answered. “Look. I think I might know something that you probably don’t. You want to know what it is or not?”

“Fair enough.” I pushed the pickup straight through the light. “Tell you what. I’ll meet you there-Riccardo’s, Roselli’s, whatever-around noon. Don’t worry, it’ll be empty. Bring the documents.”

“Done.”

“And, Philo? Could you look up a phone number for me?”

Felicia Haskell jingled a wine charm on the stem of her half-full glass and gave me an innocent smile. “I am not a drinker, Mr. Carpenter.”

“Gus. Didn’t think you were.”

We stood on either side of the butcher-block island in her kitchen with the wall of windows overlooking the frozen crescent of the lake. Beyond Felicia Haskell was a room bigger than a two-car garage. Half of one wall was consumed by a fireplace at the bottom of a tower of cut granite. Muddy boot prints marred the carpet in front of the hearth. There was a hint of smoke in the air.

Across the room, a grand piano stood before the wall of glass. Outside, the sleet had given way to snowflakes the size of silver dollars. Mom’s house was invisible in the gauze of white.

“I just-” Felicia Haskell shrugged. “I have to have something that reminds me of civilization.”

“Understood.”

“Once in a while. I’m sorry. I know you love it here.”

“Some of it, yes.” I drank from my glass of orange juice.

I had waited until I was driving along the lake’s north bluff, seconds from the Haskell house, and called her from my truck, figuring her son, Taylor, would be at school and hoping her husband would be with his attorney, drawing up their strategy for dealing with the feds, plotting whatever form of extortion they planned to present to the town council. I’d told Felicia Haskell that I had been moved by the bouquet she’d sent my mother. Could I drop by for just a minute?

Of course, she’d said. Maybe she felt sorry for me.

“Please forgive the smell,” she said. “We had a little chimney fire last night. I’ve been telling Laird to get a sweep out here but he’s been so busy with the rink and everything.”

I remembered the flashers moving behind the tree line the night before. “Everybody OK?” I said.

“Yes, everyone’s fine. It just-you know, scares the heck out of you.”

“Police come?”

“They did. Didn’t get much sleep. They were here till almost three.”

“The cops, too?”

“Whoever. I was with Taylor in his room. We’ll be fine. Just can’t use the fireplace for a while.” She gave the wine in her glass a swirl. “Now, haven’t I seen you at the rink? Aren’t you a hockey player?”

“Yeah. Not much of one. But it keeps me sane.”

“Nice for you. I have to say it makes me insane. Driving here, driving there, practice, workouts, chalk talks, games. It never seems to end.”

“I remember.”

“I’ll bet.” She couldn’t have weighed 110 pounds, her fake boobs accounting for everything over 100. She wore a red sweater with the tails dangling over black tights that ended in a pair of fur-lined boots. Her silver hair was pulled back in a black leather catch, bringing the angles of her cheekbones and slender nose into sharp relief. Again, I thought she looked older than she was. She still had the bandage on her left wrist.

“Thanks for letting me drop by, Mrs. Haskell-”

“Felicia.”

“Felicia. I was just thinking that no one has asked your-”

“Excuse me, I’m sorry.” She produced a cell phone from under the island. “Hi, Tay,” she said, without turning away. She listened. “No. No. Yes, I understand, honey, but you have balance training after… No, maybe this weekend… Taylor… No… No, you need to get your rest.”

I heard the boy’s voice grow louder, though not loud enough for me to make out what he was saying. “Yes, I understand, honey,” she said. “You can talk to your father, but that’s the way it is until the season’s over.”

She set the phone down and blew out a long sigh. “Gus,” she said, “did you ever think you would play in the NHL?”

The question caught me off guard. I chuckled. “No.”

“Why do you laugh?”

“Well, I just… my mom. I mean, she was fine with me playing and all, came to most of the games, though she said she thought the game was dumb and she couldn’t bear to watch me. I play-I played goalie. Like your son.”

“I see.”

“After games, my mom would make cocoa for me-she makes great cocoa from scratch, with the unsweetened stuff-and we’d sit in the kitchen and replay the game a little. And she’d always say, ‘How come all the other parents have Gordie Howes and I don’t?’ ”

Felicia furrowed her brows.

“Sorry,” I said. “He was a big star for the Red Wings back then.”

“Oh. That seems a little mean.”

“She didn’t mean it that way. It was our little joke about the parents and how they all thought their kid was going to the pros, but me and Mom, we had our heads on straight.”

“That’s funny. You did.”

She set her glass down and walked over to the wall next to the fireplace. I sneaked a look at her cell phone. The area code was 248: suburban Detroit, where she and Haskell had come from. She fiddled with some knobs on a console built into the wall. Piano music filled the room.

“Do you know this?” Felicia said.

“Can’t say I do. It’s pretty.”

“Horowitz. Playing Chopin. Vladimir Horowitz.”

“Ah.”

She turned the music down and came back to the island. “I wish I could interest my son in that Russian.”

It took me a few seconds, but I got it. “Ah, he must like those Russkies on the Wings, eh? Larionov. Fedorov. Kozlov. Fetisov.”

“His father certainly likes them.”

“What about Osgood?”

“Who?”

“The Wings’ goalie.” Osgood let in a softie every now and then. “Does Taylor like him?”

“Gosh. I have no idea.”

“Does he like playing goalie, Felicia?”

She looked momentarily baffled. “Who?”

“Taylor.”

“Oh. Of course.” She looked into her glass, carried it to the sink, poured the wine out. “It keeps him busy.”

“Yes, but does he like playing goalie?”

“I don’t know what else he would do here except get in trouble.”

She didn’t sound too convincing. I decided to change the subject.

“You’ve certainly had your hands full, with the new rink and the fire and… did you by chance see the Free Press today?”

“Unfortunately, yes.” She was awfully cool for a woman with fire trucks and cops and the IRS on her doorstep. “That’s why I’m glad you called.”

“Really?”

“The man I read about in the papers, Gus, is not the man I know.”

“No?”

I probably shouldn’t have challenged her. I couldn’t help but think of what Jason had told me about the happy Haskell household. She backed away from the island now, sizing me up.

“No,” she said. “I realize Laird’s not an easy man to get to know. I realize a successful attorney is going to make some enemies. But he’s not just a collection of jury verdicts and bank accounts.”