by Archer Mayor
“He’s outside-the local decor was getting to him, classic as it is.
We have different tastes.” I decided to ask the question foremost in my mind before Smith crossed the threshold. “Where do I stand in all this? I don’t want to ung out between you and Potter on this thing. I’d like to know how people see me.” “As an asset.” Spinney answered immediately, which came as a ial relief.
Hamilton was slower and more diplomatic, and a whole lot more mfortable.
“We’re talking apples and oranges. It’s not up to me ace you anywhere in our structure. Technically, you’re an indepenwith whom we share what we find. Plus,” he added more sternly, ‘ve been a bit of a loose cannon so far.” “Come on, Lieutenant, put him in with me under Smith. God he’d be a good buffer between us.” Hamilton looked like he was being forced to eat something disful. “This is inappropriate; it’s not the way it works.” “If I’m a freelance, so to speak, couldn’t I just keep Spinney here pany, as his sort-of guest?” Hamilton shook his head. “That’s between you two and Smith. On r, it’s an unstructured relationship. You guys do what you want; make it work and don’t step on people’s toes anymore.” He wandered toward the front door, as if for some fresher, less lsive air, although I knew it was to fetch Smith. “So, you and Smith need a buffer?” Spinney shrugged as an answer and changed the subject. “I’m a an of yours.” “Yeah?” “Yeah. I followed that Ski Mask case you handled down in Bratt0 very
‘damn-the-rules-full-speed-ahead.’… Balls.” I followed his look.
Crofter Smith had entered the building and oming toward us with the studied expression of the serious official. “What’s his problem?” I muttered.
“I used to be, but from what I’ve been hearing about you, I think oing to be both of us now.
Smith stopped in front of us and nodded his head curtly at Spin”Les.”
Spinney aped the gesture with a small smile. “Croft.” I had taken stant and instinctive liking to Spinney, but it occurred to me that ever ended up on his bad side, as Smith obviously had, Spinney’s y humor could be used to peck you to death. It evoked in me a quiver of sympathy for Smith that I hoped I could nourish. Smith stared at him for a couple of seconds, his expression blank, e turning to me. “So you’re Potter’s man.” His voice had the same chromatic quality I’d noticed earlier.
“Among other things.” “I’m Crofter Smith. I’ve been put in charge of this investigation.” He didn’t offer his hand. “Is this yours?” He handed me the sketch I’d made of the scene.
“Yup.” “What do you think we have over there?” His monotone reminded me of a bad l950s science-fiction movie. “Don’t know. That’s why I suggested the lab go in there first; there’re a lot of footprints.”
“There’s also a lot of time being wasted.” “Maybe.” “Hamilton didn’t argue the point.” It struck me as I said it that shoving his boss down his throat was not the way to get on Smith’s best side. It was possible I had nothing to lose, but I didn’t know that yet and instantly regretted the comment. Smith gave me a baleful look.
“I’m not Hamilton.” “I know, dumb thing to say.
He paused, I think a little startled by the apology, and then turned to glance at the closed front door for no apparent reason. He spoke to me with his back turned. “So tell me about him.” I glanced at Spinney, who rolled his eyes and smiled before I catered to Smith’s request. I gave him everything I knew, from Wingate’s defenestration to his admission last night of owning a supposedly stolen 9 mm. I was in the middle of replaying my interview with Ellie Wingate a few minutes ago when his portable radio squawked that the Vermont State Police Crime Lab had arrived at the ravIne.
Smith acknowledged the message and marched for the door. He turned back when he noticed that neither Spinney nor I had moved. “You coming?” he asked his colleague.
Spinney shrugged. “Not much I can do until they’re finished. If it’s all right with you two, I’d like to follow up with Mrs. Wingate.” “Suit yourself,” and Smith was gone.
We both stood silently for a moment, looking at where he’d been standing. “Well, he didn’t say we couldn’t team up,” Spinney murmured.
I smiled. “Glad to have you. What’s he like to work with?” Spinney made a face. “What you see is what we got.” “Is he any good? I was told he’s Hamilton’s senior man.” “He is that.” Spinney waved his hand, as if to shoo away a fly.
“Oh, hell, he deserves it, too. He works hard, gets results-he’s good at what he does. I just think he has no personality.” I gave a shrug and turned toward the staircase. “Want to meet the widow?” We were halfway up the stairs when the front door opened below We both looked down to see a tall, tanned, immaculately dressed an in loafers, tan slacks, a herringbone sports coat, sweater, and tie. Bruce Wingate’s wardrobe had once struck me as J.C. Penney strivg for bigger times, this guy was an advertisement for Gentleman I uarterly.
He turned a vaguely George Hamilton-type face toward us, obvisly startled. “Who are you?” Before either one of us could answer, I saw Ellie Wingate swing to view at the top of the stairs, with Greta hard on her heels. “Paul, ank God you’re here.” “Paul” double-stepped up the stairs. Spinney and I moved aside let him float on by. His after-shave lingered in the air behind him, using Spinney to cock an eyebrow and tilt his head slightly to one e, like an emaciated owl spying a vole from afar. At the top of the stairs, Spinney introduced us both to the stranger. e’re with the police.” The other man shook our hands. “Paul Gorman, a friend of the ily. Have you found out anything yet?” “We’re just beginning.” “Of course, and no doubt you want to speak with Ellie.
Give us couple of minutes, will you?” Without waiting for an answer, he returned to the women and ooped them up. We watched them wend their way down the hall to eta’s apartment.
Spinney gave a theatrical gaze toward the blotchy ceiling. “Ohhhy and who was that cast of characters?” “The square one with the red face was Greta Lynn, who owns this mp; the lady in distress is Mrs. Wingate; and Gorman heads up eedom to Choose, or FTC, some sort of Boston-based deprogramng organization for parents with children ‘abducted’ by cults.”
“I thought FTC was the Federal Trade Commission.” I glanced down the hall. Greta had been left standing outside her or. She saw me looking and turned her back, obviously embarrassed having been so obviously excluded from Gorman and Ellie’s little -together.
“Interesting,” I muttered.
Spinney followed my look. “Not in the mood to share, I guess. So I me,” he added, leaning his bony hip against the newel post. “What’s zng on here? You think Edward Sarris has anything to do with zngate’s death?” “Him or anyone else. If this were the movies, he’d be the bad guy sure.” “Wingate burns five of Sarris’s people to death, so Sarris knocks off Wingate?” Spinney had obviously been briefed on the case earlier. “Right.” “But you don’t like that.” I ran my fingers through my hair and scratched my neck. “It could be that simple. I’d like some details, though.” Greta’s door opened and Gorman’s inappropriately smiling face appeared.
“Please, come in.” “Sounds like a dentist,” Spinney muttered. But to me, it sounded worse, like a man who had taken control. I very much doubted that the interview we were about to conduct would get us very far; Gorman would see to that. The question was, why?
He led us-including Greta, who seemed more like a guest in her own home down a short, dark, somewhat sour-smelling corridor to another door.
We entered a large living room, the corner windows of which looked down onto Route I 14 and North Street. The surprise was that it was bright, cheery, immaculately clean, smelled like roses, and was furnished not with antiques, but with an assortment of beautifully maintained, well-coordinated pieces. It was embracing, gently feminine, and very homey-an unthinkable jewel buried in the middle of a gigantic rotting hulk of a building.
“My God, Greta, this is amazing.” She didn’t answer, indeed, she looked quite angry th
at her secret had gotten out. Gorman settled comfortably onto a sofa next to a strained Ellie Wingate and waved us to the various seats around the room. “Now, how may Mrs. Wingate help you?” he asked, with all the charm of a yacht salesman.
I looked at Spinney. He sat back in an armchair and stuck his long legs out, an easy smile on his face. “Just a few questions, nothing remarkable.” Ellie Wingate sat as before, her hands in her lap, her eyes focused on the ground, but her back was ramrod-stiff-not the curved, caved-in posture I’d come to expect from most people with her recent grief. This was a woman far more nervous than bereaved. “Fire away, Sergeant.” Gorman leaned forward and put his elbows on his knees, his hands gathered loosely before him, his body language shifting to a let’s-shoot-the-shit-with-the-boys kind of guy.
“Why are you here’?” Gorman let a second pass before smiling. “Ellie called me. Told me what had happened.” “When did you call him, Mrs. Wingate?” Gorman answered for her. “This morning. A little over an hour 0. Actually, she had Greta here do it for her.” He looked like the cat ate the canary. “Where were you?” “In Hanover, New Hampshire.”
“And you knew to call him there?” Spinney looked to Ellie aln.
She looked up, but Gorman answered for her once more. “I have ar phone.
All my calls get forwarded to wherever I am.” Ah, I thought, aren’t we clever. I glanced at my watch. If the call d been a little over a hour ago, that would have meant that immedily upon hearing of her husband’s death, Ellie had dispatched Greta the phone. It struck me as an unusual reaction, especially in someone hard hit as Ellie Wingate obviously was.
What was she trying to ver up?
“And you dropped everything to come tearing up here.” “Of course.
Wouldn’t you have done the same thing?” Spinney shifted in his seat.
“Mrs. Wingate, how are you feeling?” “She’s upset pretty natural reaction, isn’t it?” “Mrs. Wingate?” She looked up, her lips tight.
“Feel like talking?” She nodded.
“I know you already talked to Joe here. But I just want to hear or myself.” “That’s fine,” she whispered.
“Okay. So you two went to bed last night, and when you woke up, ur husband was gone. Is that right?” “Yes.” “What did you do then?”
“Then?” “Yes, after you realized he was gone.
“I started to get dressed. Then Mrs. Lynn came and told me Bruce had been… killed.” “Where did you think he’d gone?” “I don’t know.” “Were you concerned?” “No, well I mean… I don’t remember.” “Did you think he’d gotten up early to go for a walk?” “What does it matter, Sergeant?
She was barely awake.” “Mrs. Wingate, what did you think?” “I was sleepy.” “Was your husband in the habit of going out early, before you got up?” “You were the one who said that.” Spinney, as always, ignored Gorman.
“Was he?” “No.” “So it was odd, his not being there?” Gorman sat forward on the edge of his seat, his voice harder than before. “I’m not sure I like this. You’re implying Ellie knows something she’s not admitting.”
“Am I?” “I think so. And as her friend, I think I ought to tell her not to speak any further with you.” “Is that right, Mrs. Wingate? You want to stop talking with us?” She looked from us to Gorman and back.
“We’re trying to find the man who killed your husband. Anything you could tell us might help.” “I would like to help, but I took a Valium last night. I was asleep.” I cleared my throat and Spinney glanced over to me, cocking an eyebrow.
“Ellie,” I said, “I looked at your prescription bottle. It was filled a month ago. All twenty pills are still in the bottle.” Ellie’s eyes shot up and flitted nervously between Spinney and me. “I… I was asleep.” “This has nothing to do with finding out who killed this poor woman’s husband. If you suspect her of something, then come out and say it.
Otherwise, I’m going to ask you to leave.” I heard a car drive up outside and a door slam. A few moments later there was a knock at the door. Spinney rose and left the room.
“Ellie, do you have something you want to tell me?” “No.” “I think you do. I think you know who wrote that note last night. I think your husband may have gone off to meet someone. Was that note from Julie? Or from someone claiming to know where she was?” Her hands were a tight ball in her lap, the knuckles white. “No.” I heard Spinney talking with someone in the hall, then steps going back down toward the stairs.
“That’s enough. What are you implying?” Spinney spoke from the hall door. “We’re implying that Mrs. Wingate knows more than she’s telling us. She lied about the Valium and we think she’s lying about the identity of whoever wrote that note.” Gorman stood up and grabbed Ellie’s elbow, just as her husband had earlier. The repetition of the gesture deepened my already-keen interest in her she was taking on the look of a talisman of sorts, the “~ r of the secrets. Did she know if Wingate started that fire? Did Il Fox beforehand? Did she know who killed her husband? orman’s voice pulled me back to the present. “We’re leaving. is lying dead out there, and you’re in here badgering his widow. ‘re so hung up on getting who killed him, talk to Sarris. That’s man, or one of his goons. Bruce Wingate challenged his authority, ow Bruce is dead. It doesn’t take Sherlock Holmes to figure that ut.” rose as Mrs. Wingate did. “Are you leaving, Ellie, or do you want k with us further?” pinney stood in the doorway, filling it. Ellie looked around the ‘Please get out of the way, Sergeant.” ‘Ellie?” I asked again. ‘I want to go,” she whispered. pinney stood aside. “Where’re you headed?”
‘Home,” she said vaguely.
‘You’re not going to try to find Julie, after all this?” I asked.
‘That’s my job now,” Gorman answered. “I’ll be staying at the Horse Motel in St. Johnsbury until this mess is cleared up.” He d her past Spinney into the hallway.
pinney reached out and touched his arm as he passed. “I know Wingate is eager to get home and put this behind her, but like it t, we’re going to have to ask her more questions over the next e of days.” ‘So?” pinney leaned forward just a hair-a hint of aggressive body age. “Mr.
Gorman, you know and I know that there are some ems with all this, some unanswered questions. It would be a lot if she stuck around here for a while. Cooperation from you will in your favor.” orman started to answer, but then paused a moment. “All right. Mrs.
Wingate up at my motel for a couple of days. But no more, nderstand?
She needs to get back to a familiar environmenta e.
pinney smiled. “Thank you, appreciate it.” eaving Greta behind, we followed them downstairs and watched rman piled Ellie into his car.
“We’ll send along her things after ime lab’s through with them.” orman flipped a hand at me. “Whatever.” He walked around driver’s side of the car, got in, and drove off toward II 4. As left, I saw Ellie’s white face looking back at us, drawn and strained-stressed, I thought, as much by her knowledge as by her grief.
Spinney looked at me. “Holding out on the sleeping pills, hey?” “Not on purpose. I was about to tell Smith when he took off.” “No sweat; it went okay. We got other problems, though.” “What?” “You know a guy named Rennie Wilson?” “Sure.” The introduction of Rennie’s name in this context startled me. I looked at Spinney’s serious face and felt the plug being pulled from some small but sensitive vial in my chest. “Why?”
“They just found his lighter at the scene, under the body.” “I don’t want to talk to these butt-heads.” Rennie sat on the tailgate of his pickup, his feet dangling, his arms crossed over his chest, his torso rocking slightly back and forth like a tightly wound-up toy.
“So they told me.” “Fucking assholes.” Spinney stood nearby. Slowly, without much movement, he got all the troopers and most everyone else away from the truck. “Shit. I was the one that got all these bozos up here in the first place. Some murderer.” From where I stood, I could see into the ravine. Bruce
Wingate’s body was being placed into a black body bag, his hands enveloped in clear plastic sacks. The almost mystical feeling of this morning-of the lonely corpse wreathed in foggy tendrils-had been replaced with one of mechanical industry. Crime lab technicians, troopers, and plainclothesmen were slowly combing the outlying reaches of the scene, using tape measures, cameras, and assorted esoterica. The ground was littered with evidence cans, tool boxes, and odd pieces of equipment.
Wingate, in his bag, looked uncomfortably out of place, as if he’d fallen unnoticed out the back of some ambulance.
Rennie followed my gaze. “What the fuck kind of airhead do they think I am? I’m going to kill a guy, ditch his body in that hole, and then call everyone except the fucking National Guard? Get real. I’d have to be some kind of dick-head, you know?” Procedure is that the body stays as found while the search team through its routine. Only then does the medical examiner come o an examination, and finally roll the body over to check the other That’s when they found the lighter, lying on the ground. I noticed medical examiner was a man this time, presumably Hillstrom’s I rep. He was a heavyset bald man with black-rimmed glasses who ed to have difficulty moving around.
I looked at Rennie. I’d known him a long time, had seen him fly he handle many times, although never violently. Still, he was impulbull-headed, and right now, incredibly angry. God knows I didn’t him to be guilty of Wingate’s murder, but in all honesty I couldn’t him out. “It’s not unheard of for the guilty party to scream the est, just to divert attention.” “Well, what about the lighter? Shit. IfI was that smart, why would left the fucking lighter behind? Besides, I haven’t seen that damn g in months.” “The lighter might have fallen out of your pocket by accident.” “I told you I lost it months ago.” I didn’t reply.
He looked around at the now distant state cops. “Assholes.” “You told them you’d only talk to me. So talk.” “I didn’t do it.” “Okay. So how ‘bout I ask some dumb questions, just for the rd?” “Do I have a choice?”
