CHAPTER 23
“You’re back,” Laporte said, not looking very surprised.
He stood by his truck as Horse approached from his little car, sporting the four all season tires. The parking lot was crammed with private vehicles—pick-up trucks mostly—ill parked in the dirt and gravel patch that surrounded the office. There is no room for most cars, but Horse had managed to find two trucks that have misjudged the distance between each other enough to slip in his Festiva. With barely enough room to squeeze through the space between his door and the frame, he turned and saw Laporte waiting for him.
Spring thaw had finally come. The walk across the parking lot was a muddy mess.
“I have a question,” Horse replied.
“Of course you do.” With workpants and jacket lined for bracing cold, and insulated boots, Laporte hardly noticed the wind that was whipping as the sun retreated beyond the trees. “I thought we were done with questions?”
“I thought that was just friendly advice,” Horse replied.
Laporte smiled in a way that indicated it would be the last smile Horse saw from him.
“I’m trying to figure out the kid…” Horse began.
“Drop it.” The command stopped Horse cold. The two stood squared off against each other, eyes locked. “I feel for the kid, but what’s all of that going to do for him now? Just drop it.”
‘There’s something to drop,’ Horse thought.
“So Dan was doing something below board.” It was a statement. Horse did not lower his gaze.
Laporte’s face didn’t show a thing.
Instead, he said, “There’s a little corner cutting in any operation.”
Encouraged, Horse asked, “Is this corner cutting or an extra source of income?”
Moving in slightly closer, Horse remembered that Laporte had a good two inches on him. The contractor was also a broad man. And he lifted heavy things every day, giving him muscles a classroom teacher would never have.
Horse took a step forward.
“As I said, there’s a little corner cutting in any operation.” Then Laporte looked away. “The thing about the building industry is it’s a business of booms and busts. During the lean times, we can lay people off but we still have to pay the bank. All of these backhoes and diggers and lifts still need to be paid for. Loans. Insurance…”
“So you diversify.”
Laporte looked back at Horse. Looked him in the eye.
Then smiled.
“Yeah,” Laporte said. “Diversification. That’s the key to survival, right? That’s what Darwin said.”
Horse added, “Survival of the fittest.”
Laporte’s face hardened and his eyes narrowed. Without a word, the look alone repeated one of Horse’s words back at him: survival.
“I’m guessing Dan hasn’t done anything too unseemly,” Horse added. “But nothing that would be on the books.”
“He’s a plumber. Subcontractor.”
“Sure,” Horse said. “And he lets you sugar in his backyard. You seem to have a cozy relationship.”
“Friendship goes a long way where money won’t,” Laporte answered. His voice slipped back into a salesman’s, the bluntness gone. “If you take care of guys, they’ll stick with you during lean times. When the machines are idle we’ve dug septics for the guys or helped with roofs. It’s survival for them; get along, even when there’s no work or cash. Day to day; that’s the business. I’ve had guys apologize to me when I’ve laid them off.”
“I’m sure Dan was pleased you poked around in the snow to find his body.”
“And we found nothing,” Laporte snapped. “That body wasn’t there when we searched. You were there.”
“I was with you.”
“So were the state police.” Laporte smiled and said, “Look. I’ve got a business here. I get through the lean times. I’ll admit that to you. Asking the state police to help isn’t smart. Asking thirty guys—even your own employees—to keep a secret never works. I’m sure a body—a body of someone they worked with—wouldn’t be kept a secret for long. I’m smart enough to know this. I’m not clever enough to hide a body in plain sight. We’re digging holes and dumping cement all the time.”
Horse looked him up and down. “You’re clearly that smart.”
“Smart enough to know that snow melts.” Laporte scratched his chin. Darkness was starting to take for real, and the halogen lights of the parking lot kicked in. “Here’s my advice. You want to find someone without that type of forethought. Someone was either desperate who just stuck it out there, or didn’t think about the thaw.”
“Or didn’t care.”
“Maybe he just died out there.” For a moment Laporte looked tired. “Who the hell is that guy, anyway? Some homeless guy? Maybe he’s a Long Trail hiker who got lost?”
Looking over Laporte’s shoulder at the office, Horse asked, “Did Dan help you get through the lean times?”
“I wouldn’t send thirty men over, paid, if he wasn’t important to me.”
“Who is the frozen guy?” Horse asked.
Laporte looked around. “Do they still teach that in school anymore? Survival of the fittest? Darwin? Evolution?”
“We don’t need to,” Horse replied. “Up here, we live it.”
“Well,” Laporte said, turning his back. He began to walk towards the trailer, but called over his shoulder. “That’s your answer.”
“Scratch Laporte,” Horse told Wells as a greeting.
As Wells took a seat, he wondered why he was there—as colleague or friend. As principal, he spent too much of his time watching Horse’s back. ‘He might be a good teacher,’ Wells often thought, ‘but not irreplaceable.’
As a friend…
The two found themselves at the Snow Shoe Lodge with a couple of locally brewed pints of Scottish ale in front of them. Remote enough that it was both a skiers’ bar serving Jay Peak and also a hangout for locals, it had the ambience of a basement with the first floor accessibility. A dark hole, it was lit by strings of aged Christmas lights, several of the bulbs winked out. Double diamond and other mountain signs brought by lift operators and ski instructors in exchange for free pints were nailed to the wall, along with various beer promotional posters. Both Horse and Wells were glad no local band was blatting in the background; a photocopied flyer on the door had threatened as much. Only three others were in the room, two huddled in a dark corner not talking to each other. It was late for a Tuesday—ten o’clock—and Horse and Wells sat at the bar. Their bartender was restocking the back room and occasionally checked in to see “if everything was okay.”
“You saw him and still have your teeth,” Wells noted.
“I think he realized I wasn’t going to be intimidated.” Horse lifted his pint, but put it down without drinking. “So, he was honest enough to make me go away.”
“Are you going away?”
“From Laporte?” This time Horse took a sip. The head was long gone, as he had been waiting for Wells for nearly an hour.
“Everything all right?” the bartender asked.
“I’m waiting for someone,” he had replied. For most of the interval he had gotten a combination of queer and dismissive looks. “I don’t care what Laporte does,” he added after a time.
Wells did not mention that Laporte Contracting was scheduled to do the roofing on the school that summer, or that several Grace Union Community School parents were Laporte employees. It wasn’t relevant—to Horse. Inside, Wells felt relief. He would have a contractor and a friend and not need to compromise a thing. Floating new construction bids would have delayed the job another year, causing all sorts of complications. Horse’s answer wasn’t a guarantee not to stir the pot, but it was as close as he gave.
“So what does this mean, now?” It was the principal’s turn to take a sip.
“Identify the body,” Horse said as the bartender passed.
She was in her forties, her hair had understated highlights and hung to her s
houlders. A blue T-shirt peeked out of her gray sweater—which Horse guessed to be Woolrich—and she wore men’s jeans. Eyes green; the green ink of an old tattoo peeked out of her collar. Watching her for an hour before Wells arrived, Horse noted that she didn’t smile more or less than other bartenders he had known. Her conversation was minimal with chatter, which suited him fine.
Wrestling a case of Budweiser bottles through the narrow space between the bar and the back wall, she dropped it onto two other cases.
“Gret, here, was telling me that they stock Budweiser for the skiers from New Jersey who thought they’d like local stuff, but realized they’re pretty limited so order Bud.” The bartender—Gret—straightened her back and looked at Horse and then at Wells.“I think that’s just bias against tourists.”
“What would I have against tourists?” Gret asked with a detached smile.
Then, she turned to grab another case of beer, this one Coors Light.
“It’s an easy joke. The kind of thing a bartender might say night after night to make locals feel okay.”
“You’re not local.”
“I don’t think you want me to feel okay.”
“Not anymore.”
Horse turned to Wells. “What do you see on the walls?”
Wells looked and shrugged—it seemed like any other bar to him, with ski paraphernalia instead of the sports or college crap you might find elsewhere.
“Specials.” Horse looked above the bar where a series of cheap posters exclaimed Bud Light Monday Special and Heineken Thursday. “Someone who spends hundreds of dollars to get all the way to the Canadian border is not going to skimp a few bucks. That’s for the locals. The regulars. The people who pay in quarters.”
Gret began to stock the cooler with the contents of the boxes she’d been throwing around. “That’s a nice theory,” she said, not bothering to look up. “And you might be right about the easy joke. But most of the tourists are good for one local beer, and then they return to the familiar.” Horse watched as she grabbed three bottles with each hand. “But the locals like the familiar, too. And local is familiar. That’s what they drink.”
“What about us?” Wells looked down at his pint.
“In limbo.” Putting the empty box aside, she opened the next and continued to fill the cooler in front of them. “Local in name only.”
“He’s a Hardwick boy,” Horse said, mocking.
Gret said nothing about that, but instead added, “Cheap is cheap. People who buy specials have no loyalty because they can’t afford it. That’s what those signs are for.” Then, she went into the back room before emerging again with another case of Corona. She dropped it onto two other cases and said, “Before, were you talking about the frozen guy in Grace Haven?” she asked.
“Probably.” Horse ran the tip of his index finger on the edge of the glass. “Did they find another one?”
“No.” She straightened her back and looked him in the eye. “But I know that one.”
“How do you know? I didn’t think they had a name.”
“They released a sketch on the news, asking for help.”
Looking up at the television, Horse noticed it was on one of the local stations. Mute. Most of the bars had their televisions tuned to ESPN. Then he noticed a second television, also tuned to the local station. Noticing his gaze she said, “I like the local channels. When it’s slow, that’s what we watch.”
“You’re the boss.”
“Did you call?” Wells asked.
“No.” She turned and bent over the boxes. “I don’t know his name,” she said, her back to them. Horse eyed it. Working in a bar had given her muscles, he noted to himself. “Or much about him. He came here time and again.”
“Did you know anything about him?” Horse asked.
“He was a plumber,” she said. Putting the last of the bottles that would fit in the cooler, she closed its door and, still bent over, she looked up at Horse. “He’d come by after a job that sent him up this way. A lot of people here do their own work, so there are not a lot of real plumbers in the phone book. Not that people can’t do it themselves. But you get a lot of cob jobs. When it’s serious, they call someone who knows what they’re doing.”
“When did you see him last?”
She turned to Wells. “Oh, last fall.” Then she returned to her job, ripping open another case. Bud Light, which she didn’t do anything with. “He was working on an old inn up in Troy that was being renovated.”
“It sounds like you remember a lot.”
“Is it a bartender thing?” Wells asked.
“No. He felt sick. Said his head was spinning. He said he was using his torch a lot in small spaces; something he doesn’t do much but he was trying to get the job done quick and make it in a single day. He needed to get back to his kid, I guess. Anyway, I remember because he puked all over the entrance.” She looked at the one door. “I think he tried to make it outside.”
“And failed?” Horse smirked.
“Three pints and a bucket of wings.” The bartender laughed, followed by a frown when she remembered she was the one who had cleaned it up.
“At least he drove home sober,” Wells added.
Then there was nothing else to say. After puttering with the final case—Coors Light, there was no room in the coolers—she returned to the back room. Horse looked at his half pint, while Wells tipped back his second.
“Are you going back to Laporte’s?”
Wells placed his empty glass on his coaster.
“I just have one more question.”
With that, Wells called to the back room an order of one for the road.
Jesus, Laporte thought as he looked out the window of his office and saw Horse crossing the parking lot.
It was late—after midnight—and Laporte was bent over his desk crunching numbers. The contractor rarely slept. Some people are successful businessmen because of their competent work. Others are able to work financial wizardry. Laporte liked to socialize. Everyone knew him. When wealthy second home owners, businessmen, or civic leaders talking about “knowing a guy” or “keeping the job local” they were thinking of him. His handshake was inviting. On the other end, he took care of the little guys. He had no trouble getting his employees to stay late or work a few hours off the clock; during tough times he’d float some hours their way, or extend benefits to cover a sick kid.
But more important than that, he knew everyone’s name. Laporte knew their family members, and asked about them. What made him a successful businessman was that he knew which family members to ask about, and which to breeze over during small talk. And he did it all day. Constantly. So much so that, after everyone went home, that was when he did his own work. Now, after midnight, Horse was able to find him here, at the office.
Laporte grunted as he got up from his chair and went to the door.
“You knew the dead guy,” Horse accused, meeting him on the stairs leading into the building. Laporte stood on the stoop, towering above the teacher.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Laporte growled. The man was tired and feeling irritable.
“Did you watch the news?”
“No.”
The two stood still, sizing the other up.
“The body was a plumber,” Horse said. “He had worked on the renovation of an inn up near Troy. Breathed some fumes.”
Laporte’s face showed no recognition, not because he didn’t know anything but because it was hardened. Situations such as these were ones the contractor excelled at. Even in childhood Laporte had faced down teachers and his father as they accused him of things—cheating, stealing, and the usual boy mischief. These had been formidable personalities, especially for a young boy to take on. He never backed down. Some of those acts he was guilty of, but mostly he was protecting others. Loyalty was a value Laporte learned at an early age, and it had paid well as an adult. His instincts were not going to stop now.
Horse knows, he thought.
> But his face gave nothing away.
“Now he’s dead.”
“I don’t know any plumber,” Laporte said.
“I thought Dan was your plumber?” An accusation more than a question.
“He’s one.”
“Did you do work on an inn in Troy?”
“Honestly,” Laporte said, face loosening. “I don’t remember.” At that moment, he knew he was innocent. This had nothing to do with him. “Check with my secretary,” he said.
But Horse knew that wouldn’t turn up anything. He could read Laporte’s face.
“Look,” Laporte said. “I don’t care about any of this. I care about my business, and what affects it. I’m not covering anything up. But, now, all of your questions are starting to get attention. That hurts business.” Turning to go back inside, he said, “Either check with Sally or get lost.”
CHAPTER 24
Dan peeked out the window to see who was at the front door. Saturday was a quiet day for him, with Peter cleaning his room after the two of them had had a late breakfast of pancakes. He drunk from his first cup of coffee and craned his neck to see what car might be parked on the road. There was no car in the driveway, but he doubted that anything without four- wheel drive could get up it without getting stuck.
Three feet of snow became two. Everything was mud.
‘I’ll need another load of gravel dumped,’ he thought.
Fifteen years ago, when he had cleared the land for the house, the skidders and Laporte’s heavy trucks had turned up the ground pretty well. Between them and logging, digging and pouring the foundation, and hauling in the materials, there was no question it would be years before the land would settle down. Although the house was on a small hill, the soil was soft and the water had turned everything to mud. Those first years, Dan had ordered at least five trucks of gravel. It had held for a while, but that had been a decade ago. Whether another load had been dumped in the meantime, he didn’t know. He figured he was going to be parking his truck at the bottom of the driveway until mud season ended.
Absentee List_An Old Horse Mystery Page 18
