Ronald Malfi - Floating Staircase

He passed me the book. When he said on the phone he was reading one of my novels, I just assumed it was the copy of Silent River from the public library. But this was a copy of Water View, newly purchased and, as evidenced by the creases in the spine and a few dog-eared pages, already read.

“It was great,” Earl said, handing me a pen. “Those last thirty pages flew by. I’ve already started The Ocean Serene, too. I know I’m reading them out of order, but to be honest, I hadn’t planned on reading any beyond this one here. It sucked me in and I had to read more.”

“That’s very nice of you. I’m glad you enjoyed it.”

On the title page, I wrote:

To Earl Parsons, my wife’s new pet—

May all your farts be silent but deadly.

Travis Glasgow

I gave him back the book and expected him to read what I wrote, but he didn’t. He stuffed it into his pocket and, grinning like a child, said, “I really appreciate that. I never got a book signed by anyone before.”

The interview lasted for almost half an hour, with Earl asking the usual questions about how I got started in the business, where I got my ideas, and which one of my novels was my favorite. He segued into our reasons for coming to Westlake and our impressions of the town so far. I supplied him with the requisite answers. The old guy seemed pleased.

During a break in our conversation, Jodie convinced him to stay for lunch. Although he seemed fretful about imposing, Jodie’s pestering broke him down and he agreed. Jodie slipped into the kitchen to make coffee and sandwiches.

“She’s lovely,” Earl said after she’d gone.

“Are you married?”

“You’re looking at a bachelor of the first order right here in your living room.” He winked at me, a glitter in his eye. “Doesn’t mean I ain’t ever been in love before, though. Went through my fair share of broken hearts.”

“How long have you been working for the newspaper?”

“Lord,” Earl said, sitting back in the chair. He looked too big for it, his legs like oversized pistons jutting at awkward angles. “Must be about a decade or so. Just after I retired from the mill.”

“Do you know about what happened to the little boy who lived in this house? The one who drowned in the lake?”

He pressed two fingers to his forehead and, almost as if reciting poetry from memory, said, “Elijah Dentman, ten years old. Mother’s name was Veronica. Didn’t have no father.”

“That’s a good memory. Do you know who covered the story for the paper when he drowned?”

“Sure do,” he said. “Was me.”

I blinked. “No kidding?”

“Like I said, I’m the resident Woodward and Bernstein around here.” He drummed his fingers against the camera that hung across his chest. “Resident Annie Leibovitz, too, I suppose.”

“I read your articles about what happened,” I confessed and leaned forward in my seat.

“You know, I joke about nothing ever happening here worth writing about, but the truth is, I’d prefer writing about pie eating contests and cocker spaniels than to ever have to report on something like that again.”

“Were you on the scene while they were searching for the body?”

“All evening and well into the night. I left when the divers gave up the next morning.”

“Without the body,” I said. This wasn’t a question. I was testing the air between us.

“Without the body,” he repeated, and we looked at each other for a beat longer than necessary.

“Don’t you find that odd? That this is a self-enclosed lake and the body was never recovered?”

Earl didn’t answer me right away, and I thought maybe I’d insulted him somehow. Then he cleared his throat and glanced over my shoulder, possibly to make sure Jodie was out of earshot. “There’s plenty strange about what happened to that boy, the least of which is the fact they never found his body. I assume, based on your timing asking these questions, that your wife doesn’t know about what happened?”

“She knows a boy drowned in the lake. That’s about it. She hasn’t pursued the details.”

“You mind me asking why you’re interested in the matter? If it’s none of my business, please say so and I’ll shut my yap.”

“I think things were overlooked,” I said. “I think the cops didn’t know how to handle an investigation of that magnitude and didn’t turn over every stone. I think a boy doesn’t just drown in a lake and completely disappear, even if the police didn’t start searching for him until a couple hours later after he went missing.”

“What are you saying?”

“I think Elijah Dentman was murdered.” It had been on my mind for some time now, not only in the writing I’d been doing but in real life, too. The pieces didn’t add up to make a complete whole. What cinched it for me was the visit to West Cumberland where I stood face-to-face with David Dentman.

To my surprise, Earl did not scoff at the notion. Just the opposite: he seemed to embrace it. “You got a suspect in mind?”

“Could be anyone, I guess. Could be some vagrant that ran into the kid down by the water. Could be someone the kid knew from town.”

The old man shook his head. “No, that ain’t what you think. Tell me what you think.”

“I believe David Dentman did it,” I said, and it was almost like confessing my sins to a priest. “I believe the boy’s uncle killed him.”

Almost too casually, Earl said, “He got a motive?”

“Maybe. I don’t know what it might be, if that’s what you’re asking.” But of course I knew that in real life, motives were not as indispensable as they were in books and movies. In real life, sometimes people did horrible things for no discernible reason.

Jodie returned with coffee and ham and cheese sandwiches.

Earl’s face lit up as if his girlfriend had walked into the room. “Thank you kindly, dear. You’re too good to this old fool, and we’ve only just met.”

“I have a soft spot in my heart for fools,” she said, smiling. Then she twirled a finger in my hair. “Just ask my husband.”

After Earl snapped a couple of photos of me to go along with the article, he gave Jodie a one-armed fatherly hug, and I walked him to the front door.

“I’ll let you know when the article comes out,” Earl said, tugging on his sheriff’s jacket and stepping onto the porch. Beyond the tamaracks, the sky was a mottled cheesecloth color that made me feel instantly sad for no perceivable reason. “And again, I appreciate your time.”

“No sweat.”

“Here.” Earl thrust one of his hands into mine, his callous fingers like barbed fruit against my palm. When he withdrew his hand, there was a folded piece of notebook paper in mine. “If you don’t mind a messy bachelor pad and stale beer, you come on by, and I’ll show you some stuff you might be interested in.” He zipped his jacket and shoved his hands into the pockets. “I know what it’s like to sit awake at night thinking the thoughts of a haunted man.”

This struck me as oddly profound.

“You take care, Travis.”

I watched him leave and didn’t look at what he’d written on the slip of paper until after his pickup had pulled out of the driveway. In an old man’s spidery, hieroglyphic handwriting: his address.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Earl’s bachelor pad was a double-wide that looked suspiciously like an old boxcar, with multiple TV antennas and drooping Christmas lights (even though it was mid-January) on the roof and a few old junkers rusting away in random places on the lawn. It sat atop a wooded hill at the end of Old County Road, which wasn’t exactly part of Westlake, although the lights of Main Street were clearly visible from his front door. It was late afternoon, two days since the interview at my house, and the sky was bruising to a cool, steady purple along the horizon.