I resisted being too judgmental, although what he’d just said sounded useless as well as self-serving, as if he were here merely to preserve his sainthood by hedging his bets. But Gail respected him, he’d served long and selflessly in his cause, and he was obviously feeling both his years and a sense of obligation. I decided to play him straight—for the moment.
“I hear it,” I said, “but from you only. Sounds like neither one of us knows what some of your colleagues might be capable of.”
His brow furrowed with concern. “I’m not sure what to do.”
“Keep me informed through Gail,” I suggested, heartened by the chance of forming an alliance within the TPL. “Not about what your plans are,” I added carefully. “You have a right to your ideas and to protest if you want. But if you discover that someone inside your group is endangering others, I’d like to know about it.”
He was silent for a long while and finally said, “This is not the first time I’ve been made such an offer, Joe. The police have always been canny to the ambiguity of social protest, and they’ve always been good at driving wedges in among us.”
I resisted reminding him that he’d broached the subject first. “I’ll put it to you differently, then,” I said instead, grateful I didn’t have to deal with him on a regular basis. “You and I have now met. You’ve checked me out and drawn some conclusions. You also know how to contact me if need be. I’ll let you look to your own conscience to decide if that need ever comes up.” I reached out and shook his hand again. “That okay with you?”
He nodded and smiled, giving me a wink so slight I wasn’t sure I’d seen it. “You’re very good at this, Joe Gunther.” He then raised an eyebrow at Gail. “Careful around him.”
· · ·
I stood beside Gail at the window, watching Roger Betts drive away in an old Buick, ironically spewing a thin plume of oily smoke. “Frustrating son of a bitch,” I said, slipping my arm around her waist. “He actually winked at me when he left.”
“He’s no fool,” she agreed. “He plays that fuzzy-wuzzy angle like a violin. It forces people to meet him more than halfway. He wasn’t bullshitting you, though, and he was impressed with you personally.”
“Oh, right. I’m sure that’s what the wink was all about—a sign of respect.”
She looked up at me. “He’s eighty-nine. You know that?”
“You mentioned he was pushing ninety. I hope I look as good.”
“I hope you’re even alive.”
I dug a finger into her ribs and she spun away, ending up sitting on the edge of the bed, laughing. I sat down next to her. “Thanks for setting this up, by the way. It was one of the stranger conversations I’ve had in a while, but at least it makes me feel I have another set of eyes where I need them.”
“Who do you think messed with that chair?” she asked, placing her hand on my thigh.
“Don’t know. The lack of a clear motive really bugs me. If it was sabotage, I can’t see who benefited.”
“Maybe it’s totally unrelated—a pissed-off employee.”
“Yeah, we’re looking into that. We’ll figure it out soon enough. Whoever did it’ll probably get restless and try something else.”
A moment of silence fell between us. “What about the other things you’re looking into?” she asked vaguely.
I was struck by something in her voice, having nothing to do with her question. “You okay?” I asked.
She sighed. “To be honest, I’m not sure. I’ve been staring at a lot of walls lately. How’re we doing, Joe?” She sounded suddenly wistful.
I leaned back a little to get a clearer view of her face. “The two of us? I’m okay. What’s up?”
She gazed out the window before answering. “I don’t know. I’m having a hard time figuring out if I’m doing the right thing.”
“Working for VermontGreen?”
“That, and living half my life in Montpelier, away from you. It’s been a crazy few years, you have to admit. I can’t tell if I’m making sense anymore.”
I could sympathize with her there. Watching her rebuild her life after being raped at the point of a knife several years ago had been an emotional roller-coaster at times. But not a directionless one.
“Well, not to sound trite, but are you happy at what you’re doing?” I asked.
She looked at me, her expression hopeful. “I think I am. I mean, I know that politicians aren’t really normal. They’re mostly needy and ego-driven, and some of them aren’t bright enough to light the inside of a fridge. But I love the energy of their world—the deal-making, the laws that result from it. I hated it all when I was young and looking in from the outside, but I can’t get enough of it now. I really do believe it’s one way to make a difference. Sort of a logical extension of what brought me up here in the first place, and why I got so active when I was a selectman in Brattleboro.”
“I’m not sure I see the problem, then,” I admitted.
Gail let out a puff of air and lay back on the bed to speak directly to the ceiling. “Because there’s got to be more to life than being politically involved. I don’t really have a family anymore, I haven’t talked to my parents in so long. I have no husband, no kids, I stopped living with the only man who could put up with me for more than a week. I sometimes feel that in exchange for this new life, I’m about to lose everything else. And then I’ll just be somebody wearing a suit and cell phone.”
I stretched out next to her, propped up on one elbow. “I’ve worried about losing you, too.”
She stared at me, her eyes wide. “Why?”
“Remember when I was accused of stealing that jewelry and that jerk from the attorney general’s office tried to hang me? He described me to the court as an over-the-hill flatfoot trying to compensate for living with an attractive, younger, upwardly mobile woman he was worried would leave him behind.”
Gail reached out and squeezed my hand. “Oh, Joe. None of that was true. The man was an idiot. He’s not even a lawyer any more, he was proven so wrong.”
“Maybe so, but it hurt. You are all of those things.”
“But you aren’t compensating for it.”
“I joined VBI.”
Her mouth half opened in astonishment.
“I love what I’m doing now, too,” I explained further. “But part of the reason I took the job was to earn your respect.”
She rolled over and hugged me. “My God, Joe. How could you think I didn’t respect you? You’re the love of a lifetime. Christ, what a screwy idea.”
I kissed her. “No, it’s not. And it worked out beautifully. You’ve found something to do that really floats your boat, and I got the kick in the pants I should’ve given myself years ago. We’ve never been a conventional couple. Why should that change now?”
“So, you’re okay?”
“Absolutely.”
“And you don’t mind living apart?”
“Sometimes,” I answered her honestly, “but it’s got its up sides, too.”
She smiled at me then. “Oh, yeah? Like what?”
“Being with you now, stretched out on a motel bed.”
She chuckled and her hand traveled across my chest. “What’re your plans for the rest of the evening?” she asked softly.
I kissed the corner of her mouth. “I have a meeting with Sammie later. But I’ve got an hour at least.”
She reached up and touched my bearded cheek. “So I can play with this?”
“You rented the room.”
· · ·
A little more than an hour later, I was crossing Tucker Peak’s employee parking lot, moving from one halo of light to another, the first fat flakes of a long-anticipated storm barely starting to drift by like albino moths, indecisive and tired.
“Joe?”
It was a man’s voice, quiet, vaguely familiar, belonging to a shadow that stepped out from behind a parked car some ten feet ahead of me. The light being directly overhead at this point, his face was shaded in the darknes
s cast by his baseball cap. His hands, however, were in plain sight and empty.
I stopped and tried to sound innocent first, although I suspected it would be useless. “Who?”
He stepped nearer, still speaking very softly. “It’s Win Johnston. You okay to talk?”
I glanced around, both relieved and surprised. It looked like we were alone. “For a minute.” Win was a private investigator, an ex-cop, and a friend. But I could only guess that his appearing from behind a car in the dark of night was going to cost me some peace of mind in the midst of an already complicated case.
“I thought I saw you a couple of days ago, but I guessed you were undercover. Your heroics on the chairlift clinched it, though. Nice beard. How’ve you been?”
We shook hands and stood closely together, almost whispering. “Okay. You working on something here?” I asked.
“Yup.”
“What can you tell me?”
Unlike in the movies, such a question of a good PI was well within the rules. Cops weren’t fond of the profession, that much was true, but the antagonisms, at least in a rural place like Vermont, weren’t played up. Win had been a state trooper, had retired in good standing, and was self-employed now because it kept him in the game without forcing him to kowtow to too many bosses. I trusted his integrity and had even worked with him in the past, since PIs could often do things and go places we couldn’t.
“Checking up on an employee, seeing if he’s aboveboard.”
“Oh, oh,” I said. “Sounds like embezzling.”
He quickly held up a hand. “No, no. It’s much vaguer than that.”
“But still interesting to someone with a big problem and a lot of money,” I suggested, “like maybe the resort brass?”
His vanity prompted him to admit half an answer. “I’m not cheap.”
“So, it’s serious.”
He wobbled his head from side to side. “Could be. I haven’t found anything yet.”
“I don’t guess you’d tell me the target.”
“Sorry.”
“Would it have anything to do with that chair breaking loose?”
“Is that why you’re here?” he asked.
I considered being as coy as he was but didn’t see the point. “No. That came out of the blue. We’re here on a string of condo rip-offs.”
He looked surprised. “You were just working on that killing in Brattleboro. Is there a connection?”
“You didn’t answer my question,” I reminded him.
He took my own evasion in stride. “About the chair? I don’t know. A contact at the Tramway Board told me it was tampered with. But it’s a puzzle piece I haven’t been able to place yet.”
“No… me neither. Win, do me a favor, okay? Keep me in the loop as much as possible. There’re a couple of things going on here, and to answer your question, I don’t know if they connect or not, but you already know one woman’s dead and another was almost killed. I realize you have confidences to protect, but pay extra attention, all right?”
“Sure, Joe. What’s your cover name again? Max something?”
“Lambert. And Sammie Martens is a ski instructor named Greta Novak—bottle-blonde.”
He laughed gently. “Some name. I saw her, I think. Looked like she was having a ball. Didn’t recognize her. She’s very attractive.”
“And very serious, as always.”
He shook my hand again. “Keep your head down, Joe… Max. I’ll let you know if I find anything interesting.”
He turned away, passed between two SUVs, and was gone, leaving me to wonder what else might fall into my lap.
· · ·
Sammie was waiting for me where we’d met the night before, checking her watch as I walked up.
“I thought we’d have to scrub this,” she said.
“Sorry. Ran into Win Johnston in the parking lot. He’s working here, too, looking into an employee. I’m guessing one of the management types, given his standard rate, but he wouldn’t fess up. The interesting thing is that he’s bothered by the chair sabotage, meaning it might play a role in what he’s investigating.”
“An employee trying to do in the company?”
“He doesn’t know, says it doesn’t fit, but it makes more sense than the TPL doing it. I asked him to keep an eye open.”
“You trust him?” Sammie knew Win only to say hi and shared the common police prejudice against his profession.
“To report anything outright criminal? Absolutely,” I told her. “He’s proved himself enough times. Plus, he thinks you’re very good looking.”
“I think he needs to lose weight.”
I left it at that. “I also had a private chat with Roger Betts this afternoon.”
She gave me a surprised look. “How’d that happen?”
“He’s worried some of his folks might be getting a little overenthusiastic.”
“As in screwing around with chairlifts?”
“That was the implication, although I told him that, pretty predictably, more people are blaming the TPL for that than the resort, which makes the whole point of the exercise a little weird. Still, after you and I are done, I’m going to call Lester and have him compare notes with Snuffy’s office. They’ve been building files on the protesters since this started. Could be they have a candidate we should look at more carefully.”
Sammie suddenly shivered and then checked the time. “Why did you want to meet? Lester made it sound important.”
“We think your Richie Lane might be Marty’s contact man. His real name’s Robert Lanier, and he has a king-size rap sheet.”
“Shit,” she spat out. “I knew it. Slimy bastard.”
“Maybe, but that’s all we know. We could pull him in and sweat him, but I’m betting he knows the rules enough to just sit us out and then vanish. I’d prefer to keep an eye on him instead, nail him for something crooked if we’re lucky, and then use that to open him up, or maybe follow him till he leads us to the ever elusive Marty Gagnon.”
“Shouldn’t be hard to catch him dirty. He aspires to do something criminal every night. It’s in his blood.”
You know where he is?”
“Right now? No idea, but I bet he started out at the nightclub, ‘cruisin’ for a lonely lady,’ as he puts it. That’s his daily routine—brags about it every morning. Some of the other instructors told me he might as well be a wall fixture over there.”
“Tomorrow morning, we’ll put a twenty-four-hour tail on him. I’ll have Spinney figure out a schedule. If you’re right about his habits, we should have something on him pretty quick.”
“Great,” she said, “it won’t be too soon.”
Chapter 10
I SMELLED HIM BEFORE I RECOGNIZED WHO IT was—that all-enveloping body odor.
“Max, wake up.”
Fred’s face was hovering over mine. “Max, wake up. They want everybody on the mountain—fast.”
I swung my legs out of bed. “Why?”
“Something about water pumps. We’re supposed to meet outside Mountain Ops dressed for weather… and it’s snowing like crazy.”
The scene was out of some Russian movie: a huge, mingling, nighttime crowd of heavily clothed people standing before a tall, dour building, bracketed by bright lights that made the endless swirl of wild falling snow shimmer like a phosphorescent dust storm. Facing them from the deck of a Bombardier, using a bullhorn like a commissar, Linda Bettina was barking out orders.
“People, we’ve had a power outage in the pump room and a water main break,” she announced. “Everyone has to get on the mountain to contain the spill and drain the pipes before they freeze. Report to your department managers and do what they tell you, on the double. Remember, if this mountain goes down, we’re all out of work.”
She then listed the managers and their locations as they stood in various spots around the equipment yard.
As best I could in my insulated coveralls and heavy boots, I jogged to where I was supposed to be and found m
y boss directing teams toward a large gathering of grooming machines, four-wheelers with chains, and snowmobiles. I ended up in a group of five men on the open back deck of a groomer, speeding up the mountain in the pitch darkness, our assignment to be dropped off, one by one, at a series of snowmaking hydrants and to open up the drain cocks.
We held on for our lives. The decking was slippery steel diamond plate, the side rails only a foot high and hard to grasp, and the groomer’s broad, thrashing caterpillar treads—completely exposed and flashing by with the speed of commercial meat grinders—were as mesmerizing as two cobras, especially whenever the driver hit a mogul or a dip and sent us scrambling to keep our balance.
It was a long night. The storm was unrelenting, the snow cutting off all vision, muffling communications, covering familiar landmarks, and reducing the world in which we worked—mostly soaked in freezing, spraying water—to tiny, frigid capsules of frantic energy. But slowly, pipeline by pipeline, hydrant by hydrant, often using propane torches to thaw what we had to, we all covered the mountain in roaming squads, carried back and forth by screaming, whining, or deep-throated machines driven by people who seemed to know where they were going by feel alone.
By the time the snow-clotted gray veil around us began to take on the dull glow of early dawn, we were told the worst of the crisis had passed and that those of us not specifically assigned to mountain maintenance could leave the line.
We convened in the large room of the base lodge, ironically around the scale model of a perfect, pristine resort of the future, to be fed hot coffee and breakfast by a haggard-looking kitchen crew before the first customers showed up for a day’s recreation. It was there I noticed Linda Bettina ducking into a small side office, and I followed her in before she could close the door.
She seemed remarkably chipper for someone who’d just orchestrated a near-military campaign, waving me cheerfully to a seat and slamming the door.
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