Cloudland Read Free

live on Cloudland when his wife was offered a college professorship at Colby-Sawyer College in nearby New Hampshire. He worked at the psychiatric hospital down in Springfield, the only place that was hiring when they moved to the area. Anthony also had invited one of our only other Cloudland residents, Paul Winter, an internationally recognized painter.
    We chose a secluded, tattered vinyl booth facing a horseshoe-shaped counter. The moment I sat down all eyes in the restaurant were fixed on me, looking concerned; after all, this was a local café and I knew most of the patrons. One by one folks began rising from their places, leaving their half-eaten breakfasts to tell me they were sorry I had to witness what I did. One or two even dared to gently suggest that I consider renting out the studio apartment that I’d fashioned out of an extra sitting room—so I’d have another presence in the house. Living in rural New England and dealing with people on a daily basis requires a certain kind of protocol, a “what do you think of the weather we’re having” sort of preamble before business is done or opinions are delivered with reticence and sometimes even wry humor. Some of those who left their meals to come over made a few moments of small talk before asking if I owned a gun. I assured them I had a rifle. One young electrician I’d watched grow up informed me that the sale of firearms had skyrocketed in recent days, particularly to women like me who were living alone. That doors, forever left unsecured, were being bolted. That Home Depot over in West Lebanon kept selling out of security locks. People paid their respects and went back to eating, but I could read in their faces that they were wrestling with the reality of a series of brutal crimes that remained unexplained and unsolved.
    I automatically ordered scrambled eggs, knowing I’d probably have no appetite. Since discovering Angela Parker’s body I often felt queasy whenever I smelled food, imagining her gelid gray flesh, what little blood that remained in her body frozen in her veins, its deep rusty stain like Italian ice in the orchard’s snow, her neck purpled from strangulation.
    Combing his thick, shiny auburn hair out of his eyes, Anthony said, “I guess I should have realized you’d have to receive people here. Hope that’s not too uncomfortable for you.”
    “It’s okay. I actually appreciate all this concern. Let’s face it, everybody is freaked out.”
    Glancing around the room, Anthony said softly, “I asked both of you to lunch to let you know that I’ve begun working on all the cases, going over the evidence that has come in.”
    We stared at him for a moment and then Paul said, “Working on the cases? I thought you were down in Springfield dealing with all the schizos.”
    “Do you know anything about forensic medicine?” I challenged.
    “Back in New Brunswick, forensic psychiatry was one of my specialties. I offered to work on these murders when I heard Dr. McCarthy”—he paused respectfully—“was unable to.”
    We’d all heard that Dr. McCarthy, Windsor County’s forensic psychiatrist, had been diagnosed with Alzheimer’s. Anthony turned to me. “The police don’t want anyone to know I’m working for them until I get up to speed.”
    “So you invited us here to tell us to keep our mouths shut,” I pointed out.
    “No, just a request. I’m actually concerned about how everybody is doing.” Anthony was looking meaningfully at Paul, a short and gnomelike seventy-five-year-old with prominent, questioning blue eyes. “Let’s face it, the two of you, Wade, my family, and myself are the only full-time residents on Cloudland. It’s pretty desolate up where we live. The perfect place to leave a body that won’t be found for a good while.”
    There was a gnawing silence between the three of us. Finally, I said, “So you’re working with that guy Prozzo?”
    “Directly.”
    “He seemed to know me.”
    “I’ve spoken of