Free Ice Cap by Chris Knopf Page B

car door.
    â€œWell, hello there,” I said to the dog. “Are you the official greeter?”
    The collie let me pet her head, then turned and ran toward the barn, stopping after about twenty yards to look back at me. When she saw me following, she ran on. I had yet to reach a side door at the end of the path when the collie ran back again to make sure the dumb human hadn’t gotten lost.
    â€œI’m coming, I’m coming,” I said.
    The door opened and Dayna stepped out.
    â€œGood girl, Misty, you brought me another one,” she said. “You probably didn’t know I cooked up people in the barn,” she said to me. “This wood thing is just a front.”
    â€œWait’ll you get a hold of Joe Sullivan. Feed you for the whole winter.”
    Inside the barn was nothing but wood. The structure itself was hand-hewn chestnut post and beam, as was the floor. The planks between the posts were wide-board hemlock, all original from the eighteenth century. Dayna told me the outside was sheathed in another layer of new western cedar, stained red.
    Along every wall were racks filled with thick slabs of wood in various stages of refinement. In the middle of the floor were massive olive drab machines used for cutting, planing, and joining the planks. These dated back to the thirties and forties, Dayna said, when her husband’s grandfather first started in the lumber business.
    â€œJeffrey’s dad bought all the spare parts he could get when they stopped making these things,” said Dayna, brushing dust off a pair of coveralls. Unlike the ones she wore the other night, these were bright red and made of lighter-weight material. Her hair was pulled back in a ponytail, and under the golden incandescent light inside the barn, her face looked younger, her bright blue eyes kindly and vaguely amused. “Otherwise, I’d never be able to keep them going. Better than new, of course. A lot heavier and truer once they’re set up. That’s the hard part.”
    â€œJeffrey’s your husband?” I asked.
    â€œYup. He inherited all this.”
    â€œCool. Does he work here, too?”
    She smiled at me like women do when they’re about to fill you in on their husbands, boyfriends, or lovers—current and ex.
    â€œJeffrey doesn’t work,” she said. “His only job is surfing, at present somewhere on the north coast of Oahu.”
    â€œInteresting gig.”
    â€œFive years ago he sold Southampton the development rights to the farm and announced he was going to travel around the world and surf for the rest of his life. I could come along if I wanted, though he couldn’t guarantee he’d stay faithful, what with all the surfer chicks hanging around all the time.”
    â€œSure. What’s a man to do?” I said.
    â€œTo his credit, he agreed to stay married so I could still live here. The town has to wait till we’re both dead before they get the place, which I’m responsible for keeping up, so it works out for everybody.”
    â€œExcept you’re out a husband,” I said, as much of a question as a statement.
    â€œLike I said, works out for everybody,” said Dayna, her blue eyes somehow catching a glint of light from the surrounding ruddy glow.
    We retired to her office, where I gave Dayna my five-minute briefing on “How to Talk to Cops” (look them in the eye; keep your answers short, to the point, and unwavering; always tell the truth, unless you can’t, in which case shut up and don’t lie). During all this Misty had me lobbing her a sawdust-encrusted tennis ball, which she caught in her mouth despite the close quarters, only to bring it right back and drop it in my lap for a repeat performance.
    â€œDoes she ever get tired of this?” I asked Dayna.
    â€œWhat do you think?”
    Sullivan showed up soon after that. He was wearing camouflage pants tucked into paratrooper boots and a black