As he pulled into his driveway, Indy noticed that his neighbor was continuing to do work behind his house, probably still trying to deal with the wasps. Figuring that would keep him busy for a few moments, he walked to Fred's mailbox and started sifting through its contents. At the bottom, Indy found one that was rerouted from their old address.
"Can I help you with something?" a man asked sternly.
Indy slipped the letter into his pocket. "No. I'm sorry. Is something wrong?"
"You're going through my father's mail?" Indy then recognized Fred's son, Chris. He stood a bit too close, jaw jutting out, in order to intimidate the intruder.
"Chris, right. Oh, is this your mailbox? I was on a walk and figured I would check my mail. I must have mixed them up. All the mailboxes in this development look the same." Indy looked at his mailbox, which was clearly blue as opposed to his neighbor's, which was green. "You'll know when you get to be my age, but sometimes it's easy to mix these things up."
Chris's demeanor softened, his shoulders relaxing. "I'm sorry. I can just get protective of the old man. You know how it is."
"You're a good son. I can tell. I was actually hoping to speak with your father too. Do you mind?"
"Sure. He's doing work in the back. I'm sure you can find your way. I have to help my mother with unpacking. It never ends."
Indy found Fred behind his house with a shovel, several divots opened up in the ground before him. "These damn things have to be somewhere," he said presumably to Indy, but still staring at his work tearing up holes in his yard.
"Still searching for the wasps?" Indy asked.
"They're a nuisance. And if there's one thing I cannot abide, it's a nuisance. They will persist until I've rooted them out."
"You could call a pest company."
"I like to do it myself. And now I'm committed. It's me versus the wasps. Besides, at our age, I like to keep active. You know how it is. You look fit."
"Thanks. I like to bike when I have the opportunity. It gives me as much exercise as running, but it's a little easier on the knees."
"That's good advice. I need a glass of water. Please, come with me." The two entered the house to find Chris and his mother still unpacking. "Would you like some tea or coffee? A beer? Maybe some whisky? I think I saw a bottle we got from our trip to Kentucky last year."
"Just water's fine for now." Indy looked around to see if paintings were up on the wall yet, but he hadn't much of a view of the rest of the house from the kitchen table.
"I came over because I wanted to see how you're settling in."
"Good. Good. Everything is finding its right place."
"That's great to hear. I know it can be tough getting your house in order after the ordeal of transporting everything. Where are you coming from, by the way? I don't think I caught where you lived before moving here?"
"We're coming down from Vermont. The Burlington region. We like our cozy New England towns. There's a real sense of tradition in these places. Some of these towns, it seems like they haven't changed for over a century."
"It's wonderful up there. Did you spend your winters skiing? You know, take advantage of the slopes."
"We did for many years. But you know how it is."
"Did you have a favorite ski resort? Perhaps a favorite hill?"
"We were always partial to Burke Mountain."
"And there's a wonderful little history museum up there. I just can't remember the name."
"The Shelburne Museum."
"Yes. That's it. Well, what brings you out here. We're no more exciting than Burlington."
"We came to be closer to Chris."
"I'm sure it's nice being closer to family. My wife is actually out in California visiting family."
"And you're not with her?"
"Too much to do around the house. You know how it is. By the way, I was also hoping to see that painting from the other day, the one of the young girl."
"That old thing? We packed up most of those yesterday. Right now, I don't think I could even find it if I tried."
"Maybe another time. Well, I have to go call my wife. She's worried I can't take care of myself without her."
"What would wives do if they couldn't fret over their husbands."
As Indy left he took one last look at the Mapuche pottery, which still stood on the mantel. Fred had cleared away the painting, claiming it was buried in storage, but he kept the pottery on display. He had seemed reluctant to discuss either of them yesterday, but clearly the painting posed some sort of risk that the pottery didn't.
Once next door, Indy pulled out the piece of mail he had taken from Fred's mailbox. "Let's hope the Postal Service doesn't learn of this bit of mail theft," he said to himself. Next to a sticker with Fred's current address, the original address peaked through the plastic on the envelope. It looked like an electric bill. The original destination was a town just outside Albany. "It looks like Fred mistook Burlington for Albany." It was a strange lie, the kind of lie that covered up darker revelations.
* * *
When Indy pulled up to Fred's previous house, he found a handful of people milling about, a sign out front advertised an open house. They hadn't sold the home yet.
The drive took a little over two hours, but Indy was ready to stretch his legs. He walked up to and entered the house along with other potential buyers and home sale tourists. Much like the house in Connecticut, Fred's New York home was a modest post-war construction. Inside, much of it bore the smooth, orbicular and geometric design of the 1950s.
Indy wasn't certain what he was looking for. He hoped to speak to some neighbors to see if Fred had kicked up any suspicions around the block. But, judging by his unassuming, pleasant demeanor, he knew that wasn't a sure thing. If Fred had been living in the U.S. for decades, then he surely learned how to blend in.
Still, no matter how charming, how easily he tossed a joke, Fred was a Nazi. Indy couldn't forget, and he worried that his suspicious were too obvious, especially for a man who had not only survived the destruction of the Third Reich but had insinuated himself into American society. A man like that would have honed his sense of suspicion. It didn't pass Indy's notice that Albany was a quick drive from Burlington, the perfect spot for a quick winter vacation. It would have been smart to choose as your fake home, a place that you've visited often.
"It really stayed the same all these years," Indy heard an older woman say to her partner. "Whoever buys the place will have to replace the bedroom wallpaper. I don't think anyone wants birds on their walls anymore."
"I'm sorry to eavesdrop, but it sounds like you knew the tenant."
Both women nodded. "Yes. We live just across the street. The woman who lived here with her husband used to invite us over regularly."
"It sounds like something happened. A falling out?"
"You could say that." The woman gave a look to her partner, as if she was considering what to say next. "Fred didn't like the fact that my partner and I live together."
"I see. What did his wife think?"
"Honestly, who knows? She's always been something of a mouse, trapped under the claws of her husband."
"Did the husband confront you?"
"Nothing so dramatic. When he understood the nature of our relationship, he turned cold. Isn't that right, Sarah."
"Oh, yes," Sarah piped in. "But when you're born attracted to other women, then you learn to discern who's accepting, who will politely tolerate you, and who's just a bigot."
"I take it, the husband was in the third category?"
"Almost certainly, although he hid his contempt behind some nice manners."
"Do you have any idea why the couple moved?"
"I can't say for sure," the first woman continued. "But they were having trouble with a recurring visitor."
"A recurring visitor?"
"In the months before they packed up and left, they were often visited by this rumpled man. He drove a older Chevy. I don't know much about cars, but this car was easily recognizable because the paint was peeling and rust ate away the bottom."
"And you think he had something to do with why the Martins left?"
"I can't be too sure. I don't snoop on my neighbors normally, but this didn't seem to be the kind of guest they would have over regularly."
"You don't know who this man was, just that he seemed out of place?"
"Actually, Sarah said she thought he seemed familiar. Didn't you Sarah."
"I was walking my dog some weeks ago, and I ran into the man. He seemed very familiar, but I couldn't place it at first. And then I remember, I've seen his face in the newspaper. He writes sports and opinions for the Albany Herald. It's a terrible paper. Just awful. But there's always a copy in the lunchroom at work. And they have a picture of the man's ugly face next to each byline. Craig Lewis is the man's name."
"Do you have any idea why he might be visiting the Martins."
"I'm just speculating, but I can hardly imagine that the Martins would consort with someone like Craig Lewis. And the fact that his beater kept on showing up in front of their house and then they're suddenly gone? Well, it could be a coincidence, if you believe in that sort of thing."
Indy thanked the two women and then quickly left the open house as more people were streaming in.
* * *
Not more than a half a dozen men populated the offices of the Albany Herald. Every single one wore a disheveled suit that looked like it hadn't seen the cleaners in months. They huddled over their typewriters with a burning cigarette either in their mouth or in the ash tray next to them, smoke winding upwards like some sort of incense offering. They might as well have tapped their ashes out on the floor. It wouldn't have made much of a difference since nicotine had long since seeped into the walls, ceiling, and floor.
When he entered, no one bothered to even look up. Less reporters, they had the air of newspaper men about them. Indy had to try and flag down a man who initially walked past him like he was another desk. "Hey, buddy. I'm trying to find a Craig Lewis. He here?"
The man gave Indy an odd look. "You ain't gonna find him here. You better check in with our editor, Sam." He pointed Indy to a makeshift corner office, one of the few with its own cubicle. "And I really hope Craig didn't owe you money. I'm never getting my twenty-eight seventy back."
Indy weaved his way through the desks, making certain not to disrupt the men clacking away. Occasionally, one of them gave an unsettled grunt when he got too close.
Indy knocked on the cubicle door but was greeted with someone else's name. "Greg! I told you not to come back here until you fixed that lede and figured out what a split infinitive is. I know that our rat-poisoned readers don't care, but I care."
"Sorry. It's not Greg. The names Indiana Jones."
"Fine. Come on in, but make sure no one else comes with you. I can only handle about a dozen things at once, and you're the eleventh."
"I'm looking for Craig, and I was told you could help me out."
Sam gave Indy a pained look and even released a little wheezing sound. "I hope Craig didn't owe you money."
"He didn't, but I've got a feeling I'm in the minority. I'm looking for him because he may have had some dealings with a friend of mine, Fred Martin."
"I don't know who your friend is, but Craig had dealings with every bookie and their cousins in the tri-state area. But there's no more squeezing money out of Craig than there is a stone."
"Why's that?"
"Because Craig has about as much life in him as a stone. He's dead."