The Coal Black Asphalt Tomb: A Berger and Mitry Mystery (Berger and Mitry Mysteries) (11 page)

From Dunn’s Cove it was less than a mile down Route 156 to the turnoff for Nehantic State Forest. A narrow, rutted dirt road led her to Crescent Moon Pond, which was her idea of a lake more than a pond. It had to be a good half mile across to the densely wooded shore on the other side. Buzzy’s shack was not visible from the parking lot. One car sat there in the lot—his black Volvo. It had brackets attached to its roof. No rowboat. The car was unlocked. Keys were in the ignition.

Des was unhooking the rowboat from her cruiser when her cell rang. It was the first selectwoman.

“Des, my mother has just informed me about the visit you paid to Bob and Delia Paffin,” Glynis stated forcefully. “I want to assure you that I am 100 percent at your service. There’s no way I can be an effective first selectwoman if I don’t assist you in any way that I can. I won’t stonewall you or circle the wagons simply because my own parents happened to be two of the last people who saw Lance Paffin alive.”

“I appreciate that, Glynis.”

“
But
I do wish to make two very important points. One, my father was the most decent, ethical man I’ve ever known. If he knew anything about Lance Paffin’s disappearance—and I’m in no way suggesting he did—he would have kept quiet about it not out of complicity, but because attorney-client privilege required him to do so. He would never betray a client’s confidence.”

“Are you saying that a client of his was involved?”

“I’m saying no such thing. I honestly have no idea.”

“Did he ever speak to you about Lance’s disappearance?”

“Never. My father was extremely tight-lipped.”

“Well, do you think there might be anything in his files that could help us? Notes, journal entries…”

“I doubt he would have put anything down on paper.”

“Do you mind if we have a look?”

“Not at all—provided you have a judge’s written consent.”

“That’s funny, I could have sworn you just said you wouldn’t stonewall me or—what was that other thing, circle the wagons?”

“And I won’t. But there are laws about these things.”

“What’s the other important point you want to make? You said there were two.”

“I’d like to be present when you speak with my mother.”

“In what capacity?”

“As her attorney.”

“Okay, I’ll let you know when I’m going to talk to her. Has she ever spoken to you about Lance?”

“Only in a general way. His drowning served as a go-to cautionary tale around our house back when I was a reckless teenager.”

“I have trouble imagining you as reckless.”

“You didn’t know me when I was seventeen.” Glynis fell silent for a moment. “Des, may I speak candidly?”

“Please do.”

“We’re talking about ancient history here. Something that happened long before you and I were even born. Part of me wishes we could just tuck that hideous skeleton into Lance’s plot at Duck River Cemetery and forget about it.”

“All of me wishes we could do that, Glynis. But we can’t. There are laws about these things, too.”

Des rang off and muscled the stubby rowboat into the chilly waters of the pond. Thin sheets of ice floated on the surface where there was deep shade. She put one of the life vests on over her Gore-Tex jacket and tossed the other one in the boat, then climbed in and set off, powering the wooden oars through the water. Her muscles welcomed the exercise. It was extremely peaceful out on Crescent Moon Pond on this early spring afternoon. This would have been a pleasant way to spend her time if the circumstances were just a bit different.

When she’d made it halfway out she realized how Crescent Moon Pond got its name. It had a severe crook in its middle. What she’d been looking at from the parking lot was merely the bend, not the farthest bank. As she rounded the bend the other side of the pond came into full view. And so did a small shack. A rowboat was tied up there at a rotting dock. She rowed her way to it and tied up next to it. Got out and started toward the shack, walking carefully on the dock’s none-too-sturdy planks. The shack was old, with a rust-streaked tin roof. There was a well with a hand pump out front. Two wooden steps led up to the front door, which was half open. Inside, she found a potbelly stove and a plain wooden worktable that had a couple of wooden chairs placed at it.

Seated at the table with a nearly empty bottle of Old Overholt rye whiskey in his hand was Buzzy Shaver. The old man wore a gray cable-stitched cardigan sweater, white shirt, tan slacks and a glazed expression. A bronchodilator inhaler sat before him on the table. His deer-hunting rifle, a Remington bolt action Model 700 BDL center fire, was positioned on the other chair with its barrel propped on the table and pointing directly at his jowly face. Its walnut stock was pressed against the back of the chair and held in place there by Buzzy’s gnarly, muenster-scented bare feet. His two big toes were squeezed around the Remington’s trigger. They were trembling.

“I’ve always wondered if that would work,” she said quietly. “I’ve seen people do it on TV but never in real life.”

Buzzy didn’t respond to her words for a long moment. Just stared at the muzzle of the rifle. His mind was already somewhere far, far away. He was almost gone. “It’ll … work,” he responded finally, his voice hoarse and slurred. “Stick around and you’ll see it for yourself.”

“What have you got in there, Mr. Shaver?”

“A thirty-aught-six cartridge.” He took a swig from the bottle. “The hell you want?”

“Nothing much. Just came by to say thank you.”

“For…”

“Leaving me with such a bloody mess. I’m the one who gets to clean up after you, you know. And I’ll have to inform Bart.”

“My
ball boy
?” Buzzy let out a derisive snort. “My father would turn over in his grave if he saw the stupid orange ball that kid sits on. It’s a newsroom, not a day-care center.” He let a wheezy sigh, his chest rising and falling, rising and falling. The simple act of breathing was hard work for him. “Or it was a newsroom. The paper is history now. Bart’s destroyed it.”

“Bart told me he’s trying to save it. He loves
The Gazette
. Loves you too, Mr. Shaver. He thinks you’re a sweet old guy. But you’re not, are you? You’re nothing but nasty through and through. If you gave a damn about Bart, or anyone else, you wouldn’t blow your face off like this.” She paused, her eyes fastened on the old man’s trembling toes. “Then again, you did shlep all of the way up here. I guess that counts for something.”

“The hell you talking about now?”

“You were alone in your house on Appleby this morning. Had your rifle, a perfectly fine kitchen table, chairs. Why didn’t you just do it there? Were you ashamed to take the coward’s way out in front of your mother?”

“My mother’s dead.”

“Really? You wouldn’t know it by the look of the place.”

“You get out of here,” he snarled, flaring at her.

“Happy to, Mr. Shaver.
If
you’ll let me have that rifle.”

“No!” His shaking toes tightened on the trigger. “Just get out of here and leave me alone. I’m ready to go.”

“If you’re so ready then what’s with the drama?”

He blinked at her, his brow furrowing. “What drama?”

“You had to row all of the way out here, gasping and wheezing. If you’re so ready to go why didn’t you just chuck your bronchodilator into the pond? You’d probably be dead by now from oxygen deprivation or heart failure. No muss, no fuss. So what is this—a cry for help?”

His gaze returned to the muzzle of the Remington before him. “What have I got to live for?
The Gazette
is gone.”

“That’s not how Bart sees it.”

“Bart’s an idiot,” he growled. “And I don’t think much of his girlfriend either. That is one plain-faced girl. Can’t imagine what he sees in her.”

“Maybe he loves her.”

“I wouldn’t know about that.”

“You’ve never been in love?”

“Go away! Just leave me in peace, will you?”

“Afraid I can’t oblige you, Mr. Shaver. The State of Connecticut expects certain things of its sworn personnel. One of them is that I’m not allowed to let a cranky, drunk old man blow his face off. Sorry about that.” She tipped her hat back on her head, studying him. “You know, I think I’ve got you figured out. You’re trying to serve as a weapon of mass distraction, aren’t you? You e-mailed Bart that cryptic suicide note knowing he’d contact me and I’d come looking for you. And that when I found you here, dead, the media would get so caught up in your tragic suicide that they’d forget all about the other thing.”

“
What
other thing?”

“The body we found underneath Dorset Street. This is a Hail Mary play. Except you messed up because you’re not ready to die. If you were then your blood and brain matter would already be congealing all over that wall behind you. Hell, you had a two-, three-hour head start on me.”

Buzzy took a swig of Old Overholt, scowling at her. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You couldn’t do it, Mr. Shaver. Couldn’t pull that trigger. It’s fine by me. I’m not disrespecting you. But you’re sure disrespecting me and mine.”

“How so?”

“You don’t think we can walk and chew gum at the same time. The media might get distracted, but we won’t. We
will
find out what really happened to Lance Paffin on that warm spring night back in 1967.”

Buzzy had nothing to say to that. Just stared at the muzzle of the Remington, his toes still trembling on the trigger.

“I understand you and Beryl Fairchild are an item these days.”

“Just old friends. She makes me dinner two, three nights a week because I’m no good at cooking. Rents us a movie to watch on TV. Sometimes I fall asleep on her sofa while she’s doing the dishes. She doesn’t like to wake me because people our age have a lot of trouble falling asleep. So I get home late some nights and I—”

“You park your car on Dorset Street so your neighbors won’t gossip.”

“This is
Beryl Fairchild
we’re talking about, not some barmaid at the Monkey Farm Café. She feels sorry for me,” he said morosely. “Always has. I never had much luck with girls. They’d take one look at this face and run for the hills. Mostly, I took care of Mother. Not that I could please the old bitch. Nothing I did was good enough. And, God, the one time I did bring a girl home it was pick-pick-pick the minute Mother laid eyes on her. Pick-pick-pick. Because she was afraid she’d lose me. I was all she had, you know, a-after…” He let out a strangled sob. “… after Frances died. Frances slit her wrists because of that bastard. Mother was never the same. Life was never the same.” He flexed his toes on the trigger, wincing. They’d cramped up on him from the awkward way he was holding them. By now Des was fairly certain she could snatch the Remington away from him. But she didn’t want to take that chance. Not if she could avoid it. Especially when he was feeling chatty. “Everyone loved Frances. She believed in people. Believed that all of us are good inside. Lance
wasn’t
good inside. He was pure bastard. Had to go after her. Had to have her. It was Luke who she loved. And Luke loved her. They belonged together. But
no
woman one was off-limits as far as Lance was concerned.”

“Mr. Shaver, what do you know about his death?”

Buzzy peered up at her, his eyes narrowing. “The same thing everybody else knows. He took the
Monster
out and never came back.”

“Were you surprised that we found those remains under Dorset Street?”

“I’ve been around for a long time. Nothing surprises me anymore.”

“And nothing goes on in Dorset that you don’t know about. So tell me, what really happened that night?”

He took another swig of Old Overholt. “I have no idea.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“Then don’t believe me. I don’t care. Because I’ll never tell. You can put me in front of grand jury or a goddamned firing squad and I’ll never tell. None of us will.”

“Who is
us
?”

Buzzy glanced at her sharply before his gaze returned to the muzzle of the Remington. “I’ll die before I tell.”

“Suit yourself. But not on my watch. I can’t let you shoot yourself.”

“I’ve been sitting here like this for over an hour,” he confessed. “Can’t do it. Can’t pull the trigger. You were right a-about…” He broke off, coughing. A hacking, painful cough. “I don’t have the guts to do it.”

“It doesn’t take guts to kill yourself. It takes guts to stay alive.”

“Wouldn’t know about that. I just know I was glad as hell to see you walk through that door. You probably think all of this is pretty funny, don’t you?”

“I don’t think any of this is funny, Mr. Shaver.” With one swift move she reached down and snatched the Remington from its perch on the chair. “Why don’t you put your shoes and socks on? We’ll row our way back, okay?”

“Are you going to arrest me?” Buzzy asked her defeatedly.

Des shook her head. “I’m going to call the Jewett sisters. They’ll come pick you up.”

“I’m not going to tell you anything about that night,” he warned her. “You can’t make me.”

“I’ve got a thermos of hot coffee in my cruiser. We’ll have some coffee while we wait for the girls and you don’t have to say a thing. Have we got ourselves a deal?”

“Why not?” Buzzy Shaver grumbled in response. “Why the hell not?”

C
HAPTER
6

T
HE
D
ORSET
C
OUNTRY
C
LUB
sat high atop a hill on McCurdy Road. Considering just how hard it was to become a member—letters of recommendation from no less than
three
active members were required—the club really wasn’t much to look at. The golf course was narrow, featureless and decidedly inferior to the course at the decidedly less exclusive Black Hall River Club in neighboring East Dorset. There were two tennis courts that no one ever seemed to use. A swimming pool that was still covered over for the winter. And the circa-1957 vinyl-sided clubhouse was drably furnished with mismatched plaid sofas and worn, threadbare carpeting.