by Josh Lanyon
“Look,” Nick said briskly. “By the time I leave here, this will all be sorted out. There’s only so many possibilities, you know?”
Perry had turned away and was facing the rain-speckled window. His shoulders were rigid. He said roughly, “Really? When are you leaving?”
“I’ve got a few loose ends to tie up. It’ll be a couple of weeks.” Nick was surprised to hear himself say this after telling Roscoe and the guys that there was nothing to keep him from pulling up stakes immediately.
But he couldn’t walk out and leave Foster in this jam. No fucking way was he leaving him until this thing was past crisis point.
Perry sighed. His shoulders relaxed, and he turned to face Nick. “Well, personally, I think if it’s going to get sorted out, we’re the ones who’ll have to do it. I was thinking maybe I would try the historical society today. See if I could find some more information on the history of the house.”
This aggressive, hands-on approach took Nick aback and didn’t quite jibe with his image of Perry Foster as a damsel in distress. Still, he was relieved beyond measure that the kid was taking his withdrawal calmly. He had been on guard against an emotional outburst. Foster’s calm redirect to the problem at hand was unexpected — and welcome.
“What about getting hold of a copy of the blueprints?” Nick asked.
“There won’t be blueprints for the original structure,” Perry said. “Before 1900, builders didn’t draw up elaborate plans like they do now. Not with the kind of specs architects provide these days. There might be some kind of plans from the renovations done when Alston bought the place in the twenties.”
“Would Mrs. Mac have them?”
“Maybe. But do we want her to know we’re looking that closely into the history of the house?”
Once again, Nick was nonplussed by this unexpected shrewdness on Foster’s part.
“What are our other options?”
Foster considered. “We could try the building inspector’s office at Town Hall. They must have filed for permits when they did the last bunch of renovations, when the house was gutted for apartments. That was probably done in the last twenty years or so. I’m not sure when Mrs. Mac took over.”
“Does she own the place or does she manage it for someone else?”
“Now that you mention it, I don’t know.” Perry thought it over. “Everyone sort of assumes she owns the place. Maybe she doesn’t. We should find out. And we could also check out the fire insurance maps while we’re at Town Hall. Some of those date back to the late 1800s. You can get a good three-dimensional view sometimes. Something that would indicate the outlines of buildings, the placements of doors, windows, porches —”
“You’re still thinking secret passage,” Nick said. He wasn’t jeering at the idea as he had before.
“I guess so, yeah. Somebody got upstairs past the deputy.”
“The deputy could have been downstairs a lot longer than he’s saying — or even realizes.”
“True.” But clearly Perry was only giving lip service to this idea, because he added, “We could try the city archives too, or maybe the library. Definitely the historical society. The house has always been one of the important ones in the area, even back when it was Hennesey Farm. I’m sure some version of the plans will be in the historical records somewhere.”
“You seem to know a lot about this stuff,” Nick said curiously.
Perry’s expression grew vague. He said, “I was studying to be an architect for a while. It wasn’t my thing, though.”
“Your thing is painting,” Nick said, watching him.
“Yes.” Perry changed the subject. “The other possibility is what they used to call pattern books. A lot of turn of the century builders got their ideas from stock plans published by different companies. But I don’t think those would give us a clue to any secret passages or hidden tunnels. Those would probably be unique to the house.”
“Okay,” Nick said, reaching for his jacket. “Sounds like we’ve got a plan. Let’s start with the historical society and work from there.”
* * * * *
Jane was taking delivery of a pizza as they reached the front hall. She paid the girl in her brightly-colored uniform and locked the door against the rain and wind, starting as she spied Nick and Perry.
“The breakfast of champions,” Nick remarked, taking in the familiar logo on the flat pizza box.
“Hey, it’s after noon,” Jane said. “Besides, I like pizza for breakfast.”
“You’re not going to work again?” Perry asked.
“No.” She lowered her voice. “I just heard about Mr. Stein getting clobbered in your apartment.”
“He said he heard someone walking around in my rooms,” Perry said.
“And he went upstairs to investigate? That was civic-minded of him.”
Nick scrutinized her. “Why do you think he went upstairs?”
“I have no idea,” Jane said. “Maybe he did hear someone walking around, but everyone in this place is starting to act very strange. I noticed Miss Dembecki wandering around in the garden a while ago, and I had to call to her four times before she came inside. I hope she’s not losing it. I don’t think she has any family.” Jane resumed normal speaking tones. “So where are you two off to?”
“Town,” Perry said succinctly.
“You might want to rethink that. There’s another storm on the way.” She shivered. “Mr. Teagle thinks the bridge will flood out for sure.”
“Gee, wouldn’t it be too bad if we couldn’t get back,” Perry said sarcastically.
“Oh, but it would!” Jane said. “You’ll miss the séance.”
Perry, who had one hand on the door handle, stopped. “What séance?”
“D — Mr. Center — has agreed to conduct a séance tonight here in the house.”
“You gotta be kidding me,” Nick said.
At the same moment, Perry demanded, “A séance? Why?”
Jane said defensively, “Why, because of the haunting, of course!” But she was avoiding his accusing gaze.
“That’s ridiculous,” Perry said with unusual heat. “A ghost never hit Stein over the head. No ghost shot Tiny.”
“I never said a ghost hit Stein over the head. Not that I would blame them.”
“Whose idea was this séance?” Perry demanded, his pale face flushing with angry color. “Who are you supposed to be contacting in the spirit world?”
Jane looked impatient. “Your ghost, of course.”
Perry’s mouth parted, and he seemed to struggle for air. Nick put an unobtrusive hand on his arm. The younger man was shaking. “He isn’t mine! Anyway, he wasn’t a ghost.”
“David says it was.”
“He wasn’t there! I was.”
Jane was now red as well. “Well, sweetie, sometimes it takes an expert to tell the difference.”
Perry’s mouth moved, but no words seemed forthcoming. He seemed genuinely at a loss — or maybe just inarticulate with anger.
“You’re not going to win this argument,” Nick told him, his hand tightening on the tensed arm. “Come on.” He opened the door and thrust Perry outside.
“You’ll be back in time for the séance, right?” Jane threw after them. “You’ve got to be here, Perry. David says we need your presence.”
“Don’t wait up for us,” Nick told her and closed the door on her indignant face.
“Everyone in that fucking house has gone insane,” Perry cried as they ran across the flooded scraggy lawn. “Why doesn’t anybody see what’s really going on here?”
They reached Nick’s pickup. Nick unlocked the passenger door and ran around to his side. Perry was still fuming as Nick started the engine.
“Just cool down,” Nick said, a little amused. “Nobody can make you do anything you don’t want to.”
Perry stared at him in open astonishment. “Do you really believe that?”
Nick considered. “I’m not talking about death and taxes, but yeah. Up to a po
int, yeah. Sure as hell no one can force you to attend some psychic tea party if you don’t want to.”
Perry made a small, bitter, and dismissive noise, turning his face to the steaming window.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Nick shot a quick, curious glance his way.
“Nothing.” Nick looked his way again, as they bumped onto the long covered bridge, but Perry’s expression was lost in the darkness of the tunnel. Nick could feel the buzz of his emotions like an electrical field.
“What’s with you?”
“Nothing.”
“What’s wrong?”
Perry said quietly, “People have all kinds of ways of forcing you to do what you don’t want to.”
“I don’t even know what we’re talking about,” Nick said. “I’m not going to let anyone force you to take part in some hocus-pocus bullshit. You can count on that.”
Silence.
The truck exited the darkness of the covered bridge, and Nick risked another glance at his companion. Perry was still staring out the window, his expression oddly cold and removed.
* * * * *
“Verity Lane,” Mrs. Bartlett said with a reminiscent twinkle in her eyes. “I think they’re showing one of her films down the street.”
Perry wondered if the elderly Mrs. Bartlett, curator of the Fox Run Historical Society, just might — in the words of Jane — be losing it, but she relieved his mind by clarifying, “They’re holding one of those vintage film revivals at the Players Theater on Dove Street. The matinee is just two dollars. They’re calling it the ‘two-bits matinee.’”
“We were more interested in Shane Moran,” Nick said. He was examining the display of disabled eighteenth-century firearms.
“Oh, but you can’t understand Shane without discussing Verity,” Mrs. Bartlett said, amused. “They were lovers, you see.”
“I thought she was married to Henry Alston,” Perry objected with the naive surprise of the product of a stable, middle-class union.
“She was! It was a terrible scandal. Alston was a stuffy New Englander, but rich as Croesus when he bought the house at the start of Prohibition and set about renovating it. He had fallen in love with one of the Ziegfeld Girls, Verity Lane, and the story is he bought the old Hennesey Farm for her, although why he thought a little butterfly like Verity would want to live in the wilds of Vermont…”
To keep her to himself, Perry thought. But he didn’t say anything, letting Mrs. Bartlett run on unchecked.
“The story goes that Verity originally spurned him — several times and quite publicly at that, but he persisted and eventually won her over. They moved here in 1923, and became quite famous for their wild parties. I shouldn’t say their, because I suppose that was all Verity, with Henry simply hanging on for dear life.”
“I read an article on the house,” Perry said. “Hot jazz and hooch. And illegal gambling.”
“And that’s where Shane Moran comes in,” Mrs. Bartlett said. “It was Prohibition, of course, and the sale, transport, and manufacture of alcohol were illegal in the United States.”
“Hard to believe they got that passed,” Nick said.
“The temperance movement has a long history in Vermont,” Mrs. Bartlett said. “But you’re quite right. The Eighteenth Amendment was extremely unpopular with the vast majority of people in this country, and that created an enormous market for contraband and served to legitimize the criminal element. Otherwise law-abiding citizens began to do business with gangsters such as Shane Moran. Because of its proximity to the Canadian border, Vermont was a corridor for bootleggers and rumrunners.”
Mrs. Bartlett led them down an aisle, past a series of lithographs of early village life and household utensils to a montage of old photographs.
“This was Shane Moran.”
Perry had been expecting someone who looked like Al Capone — or at least Humphrey Bogart — but Moran was a clean-cut-looking young man with rough-hewn Irish features. Perry studied the photo. One thing for sure: this was not a picture of the dead man in the bathtub.
Nick said, “So Henry Alston started buying booze for his big parties from Shane Moran and…what? He tried to double-cross Moran?”
“I see you have a cynical view of human nature,” Mrs. Bartlett said. She was twinkling again, so apparently she approved of Nick’s jaded worldview.
“I’ve been around,” Nick replied.
“Apparently Henry did try to pull a fast one on Moran, but it might not have been entirely Henry’s fault. The story I heard from my grandmother, who was a maid at the Alston Estate, was that Verity fell in love with Shane Moran.”
“Uh-oh,” Perry said.
“Henry’s words exactly, I suppose,” Mrs. Bartlett agreed. “Henry wanted Moran out of the picture, and so the story goes he tried to set up some kind of sting with immigration agents. Moran got away.”
“And then Moran crashed Henry’s private party and robbed him and his wealthy guests,” Nick said. “I’m surprised Moran didn’t just shoot Alston.”
“Oh, Moran wasn’t a killer. At least not a cold-blooded one. And in any case, what he really came for was Verity.” Mrs. Bartlett pointed with one gnarled hand, the golden wedding band glinting dully.
“I didn’t read anything about that,” Perry said.
“It didn’t make it into the local papers, although it was quite well known in these parts. Moran showed up and begged Verity to come away with him, but I suppose the role of gangster’s moll didn’t appeal to her. Anyway, he left with a fortune in jewels and valuables — but without Verity. He was caught in the woods at Witch Hollow a few days later and gunned down by lawmen who, so the story goes, had been bribed by Henry Alston to make sure Moran was not brought in alive.”
“And the fortune in jewels and valuables was never located?” Perry asked.
“Correct. There are all kinds of stories about that. But the most likely answer is that Moran’s confederates took the loot away with them. Although as far as anyone knows, not so much as a pinky ring ever turned up.”
“How would anyone know?” Perry asked. “Maybe the jewels were broken up and sold out of state.”
“Verity was wearing the Alston sapphires. It was a very valuable and well-known collection. There was a necklace, two bracelets, and a ring. It would have been hard to fence any part of that without someone recognizing the stones — the robbery got a great deal of attention in the media. And several of the other guests lost quite valuable pieces in addition to the usual gold cigarette lighters and silver compacts.” Mrs. Bartlett smiled her sweet, apple-cheeked smile. “I think word would have got out if any of that haul had turned up.”
“Why didn’t Moran leave?” Nick wondered aloud, frowning as he considered the long-dead gangster’s photograph. “Why keep hanging around after the Lane broad turned him down?”
“Maybe he thought she’d change her mind,” Perry said.
Nick gave him a level look. “Sounds like she made her feelings pretty clear.”
“That’s just another one of those things we’ll never know,” Mrs. Bartlett said, apparently untroubled at the idea.
“Who owns the house now?” Nick questioned.
“Now that’s a very interesting question,” Mrs. Bartlett said. “Of course, Mrs. MacQueen has managed the property — if you can call it that — for nearly twenty years, but the house has changed hands many times since Alston lost his fortune in March of ’33. It’s currently owned by the Dunstan family in Barre. In fact, one of the current tenants is a distant relation.
“Who?” Perry asked.
“Jim Teagle,” answered Mrs. Bartlett.
Chapter Nine
“It’s not exactly an amazing coincidence,” Nick said, raising a bottle of Sam Adams to his mouth. “What you’ve got is somebody farming out their pain-in-the-ass elderly relative to live for free or nearly for free in one of their investment properties. Teagle can keep an unofficial eye on the place — and Mrs. MacQueen — and it relieves th
e relatives from having to deal with him. We haven’t heard anything to indicate there’s a connection with the Alstons or with Shane Moran.” He drank from the bottle.
“It’s funny he never mentioned it,” Perry said, raising his voice to be heard over the large-screen plasma TV in one corner, where two college football teams were charging into each other.
“Do you tell him everything?” Nick inquired. “Did you tell him your reason for going to San Francisco?”
“Well, no,” Perry admitted.
They were grabbing a bite at the Moosehead Tavern on Bank Street. Leather-lined booths, a pool table in the adjacent room, and the head of a moose wearing a Santa Claus hat mounted over the bar — it was not Perry’s kind of hangout, but he felt comfortable with Nick sitting across the table. Nick sipped his beer, his dark blue eyes flicking to the TV screen now and then.
“What’s the job?” Perry asked.
“Hmm?” Nick’s eyes met his.
“In Los Angeles. Your new job.”
“Oh.” To Perry’s surprise, Nick’s color deepened. “Private investigator.”
Perry’s face lit up with interest. “For real?”
“Yeah.” Nick sounded sheepish. “A SEAL buddy of mine started up the firm with some friends of his.” He shrugged.
“You’ll be great at that,” Perry said.
That seemed to make Nick more uncomfortable. He said, “It’s nothing like the movies — or those books you read. It’s a lot of background and vehicle locates.”
Perry suggested hopefully, “Insurance fraud? Missing persons?”
“Yeah, maybe,” Nick admitted. “It’s still not like the movies.”
“How do you know?”
“I hope it’s not like the movies,” Nick said, and Perry chuckled.
The waitress came over to their table, and they ordered food and a couple more beers. She returned shortly with chicken cheesesteak for Perry and smoked pork chili topped with Vermont cheddar and onions for Nick. Nick was thinking that this was one of the things he was going to miss in California: the chili and the honey-jalapeño cornbread.
He glanced up, and Perry was smiling at him. That was another thing he was going to miss in California, but it was better not to think about that. Instead, he said, “Listen, I’ve been doing some thinking.”
