The Coal Black Asphalt Tomb: A Berger and Mitry Mystery (Berger and Mitry Mysteries) (20 page)

“I was … looking for Young Henry.” Mitch’s own voice sounded rusty.

“And you found him.” Young Henry had to be pushing eighty, although he still seemed ruddy and plenty fit in his checked wool shirt, moleskin trousers and well-worn work boots. Alert, too. His blue eyes were piercing and sharp. He had big ears, a big, bony nose and huge brown hands that were roughened from a lifetime of outdoor work. “You’re not a member, are you? I’m pretty sure I know all of the club members.”

“My name’s Mitch. I’m a friend of Bart Shaver.”

“Is that right? Afraid you missed him. Bart was hee-yah, oh, must be an hour ago.” He peered at Mitch curiously. “Say, you don’t look so hot, you don’t mind me saying so. Kind of on the pale side. Are you okay?”

“Define … okay.”

“Park yourself there, son,” he commanded him, gesturing to an old easy chair next to the stove. “Have just the thing for you. Got a quarter?”

“A quarter?…”

“Never you mind. It’s my treat.” Young Henry sprang nimbly to his feet and went over to a battered red Coca-Cola vending machine—a boxy floor-chest model that had to be fifty years old. He fished a couple of quarters out of his trouser pocket, popped them into the coin slot and, raised the lid. Removed two chilled six-and-a-half-ounce glass bottles and lowered the lid. Opened them with the opener that was fixed to the side of the chest, handed Mitch one and sat back down with the other. “Now you drink that whole thing right down,” he ordered Mitch. “It’ll put the color back in your cheeks.”

Mitch gulped it down. He didn’t usually care much for soda pop but he had to admit that this particular bottle of icy cold Coke tasted awfully damned good. Also that its infusion of corn syrup, caffeine and god-knows-what-else perked him up almost instantly.

“Doesn’t taste any good unless it’s in a glass bottle,” Old Henry informed him, sipping his leisurely.

“I thought they stopped making these little glass bottles last year.”

“Yes, sir, they did.”

“Wait, don’t tell me. You have a ten-year supply of them stashed somewhere, don’t you?”

Young Henry didn’t say. Just smiled at him. “Mind you, the glass isn’t near as thick as it used to be in the old days. But that’s life. You have to make do. We’ve had that machine since the early sixties. Used to be by the swimming pool until the club decided to install the snack bar. They wanted us to get rid of it. Dad said to them, heck, I’ll take it. And darned if it doesn’t still run. That’s because they built things to last in those days. Would you believe that the compressor on the last refrigerator the wife and I bought crapped out in less than five years? Plus the danged thing never did keep my bee-yah cold enough.”

Mitch warmed his hands over the stove, gazing around at the homey office. There seemed to be duck decoys and fishing rods everywhere. An old wall clock was tick-tocking away. It felt as if the old man’s whole life had been lived in this office,
tick-tock, tick-tock
. He was totally at ease here,
tick-tock, tick-tock.

“Feel better now?” he asked, eyeing Mitch critically.

“Much better, thanks.”

“Did you pick up a bug or something?”

“No, I’m just having a really rotten day,” Mitch said. “Forgive me for staring, but when I heard that your name was Young Henry I was expecting—”

“Someone young?” He cackled in amusement. “Well, I
was
young, once upon a time. And when I first came to work hee-yah they took to calling me Young Henry so as to tell me apart from my dad, who also went by the name of Henry. He was the original head groundskeeper when this club first opened back in 1936—which also so happens to be when I was born.”

“So that would make you…”

“Seventy-eight years old,” he said. “You got something against older people working?”

“No, sir. Not a thing.”

“What would I do with myself all day if I didn’t work? Sit around on my keester watching Movies on Demand on the TV?”

“No, sir. Besides, I don’t need the competition.”

“You don’t need the what?”

“Nothing. Don’t mind me.”

“My dad put me to work hee-yah part time way back when I was still in high school. I hired on full time soon as I finished my schooling. When he retired back in 1972 I took over for him. Only job I’ve ever had. Or wanted.”

“And is there a next-generation Henry learning the ropes from you?”

“Afraid not. Our two girls both married paper pushers. And our grandsons don’t seem to care about a thing except for those handheld computer games of theirs. Always pushing the little buttons with their thumbs like lab monkeys. I can barely get them to talk to me. But I’ve got a couple of good young fellas I’m bringing along,” he said, meaning the middle-aged guys who were servicing the mower out in the garage. “And I have no intention of retiring any time soon. I’ve don’t need glasses or a hearing aid. And my doctor says he wishes
his
cholesterol and blood pressure were as low as mine. I get plenty of fresh air and exercise. I never smoked. Never drank anything stronger than bee-yah. I figure I should be good for another ten years easy.” He took another sip of his Coke, eyeing Mitch with those piercing blue eyes. “Bart’s a good kid. Buzzy’s lucky to have him.”

“Do you mind if I ask you what you and he talked about?”

“Don’t know if I do or I don’t.” Young Henry tilted his head at Mitch slightly. “Why are you asking?”

“He’s been helping me collect some background information. We’re working on a story together for
The Gazette
.”

“Uh-huh. So why don’t you talk to
him
about it?”

“That’s not possible right now.”

“Uh-huh. Well, no harm in repeating myself, I guess. Seems like I do it all the time whether I intend to or not—or so the wife says. Bart was asking me about that old spiked fence we used to have around the rose garden before the big fire of ’92.”

Mitch opened the manila folder he was toting and removed Bob and Delia Paffin’s wedding photograph. “Do you mean this fence?”

Young Henry squinted at it. “Yep, that’s the one. Can’t understand why the both of you are so curious about it. Hasn’t been they-yah since the ladies on the garden committee decided they wanted a boxwood hedge instead. Bart wondered if I had the vaguest idea where it might be these days. I told him I don’t have the vaguest idea at all. I know exactly where it is. Moved it they-yah myself.” He drained his bottle of Coke, smacking his lips together with pleasure. “Care for another, son? This one will cost ya.”

“I’m just fine, thanks. Moved it where?”

“To the Cahoon family cemetery up by our seventh fairway. Dorset’s cemetery commission is supposed to be responsible for the upkeep of the old family plots that are tucked around town, but most of the actual work gets done by volunteers from the VFW and the Boys Scouts. I take care of the Cahoon cemetery. Always have. It’s the neighborly thing to do. Some of those old gravestones are getting so crumbly I’m afraid they’ll turn to dust if I bump my mower into them. There’s one particular cluster of real early children’s gravestones, tiny ones, that’s in sad shape. That’s where I put the fence. I felt those little ’uns ought to be protected. Thought it looked kind of nice there, too.”

“This would be those kids who died in 1696?”

Young Henry frowned at him. “Sounds to me like you already knew the answer to your question.”

“Just making sure.”

“That’s it, all right.” He peered at the photo again. “This is Bob and Delia’s wedding, isn’t it?”

“Yes, sir. I guess you’re a bit older than they are.”

Young Henry nodded. “Five, six years.”

“That would make you about the same age as Bob’s brother Lance.”

“Just about. Lance was one class ahead of me.”

“What did you think of him?”

“Think of him?” He let loose with another cackle of laughter. “Lance was
the
wildest young buck Dorset’s ever seen. That fella couldn’t get enough of women—I am talking two, three different women a day, seven days a week, fifty-two weeks a year. He wanted them all. And they all wanted him. Even the married ones who should have known better. Why, he could turn even the most prim and proper ones into shameless hussies. One Sunday morning—and I’ll never forget this for as long as I live—I came in hee-yah real early to get some mowing done for my dad. This was back in, let’s see, the summer of ’62 it was. There’d been a luau party here the night before or some such. Anyhow, I’m walking by the pool and what do I see but Lance and another man’s pretty blond wife fast asleep together on a couple mats, naked as can be. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. I woke those two up and told them in no uncertain terms to get their clothes on and get the hell out. This hee-yah is a nice club for nice people, not a brothel. She was awful ashamed. As well she should have been, her not only being married but a good fifteen years older than Lance. She couldn’t get dressed and run fast enough. But Lance was as cool as can be. Offered me fifty dollars cash money to keep my mouth shut. ‘Here’s something for your trouble, sport,’ was what he said. Which I didn’t care for one bit. Don’t ever call me ‘sport.’”

“I won’t.”

“I told him to keep his money.”

“Did you ever tell anyone what you saw?”

“Not a soul. Not my dad. And for danged sure not the wife. She’s a devout Christian and would have insisted I speak up. But I figured what people want to do is their own business. Besides which, I didn’t want that particular married lady for an enemy.” Young Henry sat back in his chair with a sigh. “Lance always gave me a sneaky smile after that, like him and me played for the same team.”

“And how about the married lady?”

“Couldn’t look me in the eye. She’d scurry off soon as she saw me coming.”

“What do you think happened to Lance on the night he disappeared?”

“Why, he took the
Monster
out and fell overboard. Everyone knows that.”

“Everyone doesn’t know that he was found buried under Dorset Street yesterday morning in his dress blues.”

Young Henry’s eyes widened. “Is that why they stopped the dig?”

“It is.”

“He’s been under the road this whole time?”

Mitch nodded. “With a fractured skull.”

“Say, you must be the Mitch who keeps company with our resident trooper.”

“It’s true, I am.”

“Is she figuring that somebody
murdered
Lance?”

“It certainly appears that way.”

Young Henry tugged at a big ear. “Holy Toledo.…”

“Do you have any idea who might have wanted him dead?”

“You mean other than half of the men in Dorset? The way Lance went through women
somebody
was bound to go after him eventually. He was asking for it.” Young Henry handed the Paffins’ wedding photo back to Mitch and said, “When I told Bart where he could find this hee-yah fence he ran out that door like a bat out of hell. I wouldn’t be surprised if that’s where you’ll find him right this very minute.”

“I wouldn’t be surprised either.” Mitch’s cell phone vibrated in his pocket. He reached for it, glancing down at its screen. Des was texting him her next destination. He pocketed it, running a hand through his damp, unruly curls. “Why didn’t you want her for an enemy?”

Young Henry frowned at him. “Who’s this we’re talking about now?”

“The married lady who you found by the pool with Lance.”

“Oh, her.” His weathered face dropped. “Because she was in a position to get me fired if she decided I was going to cause trouble for her.”

“Trouble with her husband, you mean?”

“That, too.”

“There was some other kind?”

“Oh, most definitely.”

“Would you mind elaborating on that?”

“I don’t mind. See, it so happens that the lady in question was also the mother of one of Lance’s own friends.”

“You don’t say.”

“I do. I do say.”

Mitch leaned forward, his pulse quickening. “Which friend?”

C
HAPTER
13

S
EVERAL CARS WERE PARKED
in the damp, creosote-scented dirt road outside of the office of
The Gazette
. And when Des went inside she found the newsroom crowded with people, most of them over the age of seventy. Bob and Delia Paffin were standing there, both wearing raincoats and tense expressions. The missing congressman, Luke Cahoon, was there, looking grave and statesmanlike. Beryl Fairchild was there, looking cool and calm. So was her daughter, who looked anything but. Glynis was pacing back and forth, back and forth.

Buzzy Shaver was seated in a swivel chair in front of his enormous rolltop desk wearing a white button-down shirt, dark green knit tie and gray slacks. There was a nearly full bottle of Old Overholt rye whiskey and a shot glass on the desk next to his vintage manual typewriter. Also a laptop that looked an awful lot like Bart’s laptop. A half dozen five-by-eight notepads were stacked on top of it. In his right hand Buzzy was holding a Ruger Speed Six revolver, a circa-seventies six-shooter that had a short barrel and a round, compact grip. The Ruger wasn’t much for long-range accuracy but for close-up work it did just fine. Fired a .38 Smith and Wesson cartridge if Des’s memory served her right. And it did.

Buzzy wasn’t pointing it at anyone. Just sitting there holding it in the palm of his hand, his moist, pendulous lower lip stuck out peevishly.

“Want to give me that gun?” Des asked him, breaking the taut silence in the newsroom.

“I don’t think so,” the old editor wheezed in response. “Although you’re welcome to try and take it from me.”

“Is that some kind of a dare?”

Buzzy didn’t answer her. Just poured himself a jolt of Old Overholt and drank it down while the others stood there in stiff silence.

“I’m sorry to disappoint you, Mr. Shaver, but if you’re angling for an officer-assisted suicide you picked the wrong trooper. Also the wrong day. Yesterday, I felt genuine sympathy for you. Today, you can go ahead and blow your miserable head off for all I care.”

“That was your big mistake,” he said, gazing down at the Ruger in his hand. “You shouldn’t have talked me out of it.”