“Of course,” she said, and gestured to them to follow her down a short corridor to her office, where she waved them into guest chairs and offered them coffee, which they each turned down.
“You have to understand that communities like ours run as much on rumor and gossip as on cash,” she explained. “And bad news travels the fastest of all. I know you may not be willing to tell me what’s going on, but I was told that Mr. Marshall’s death was completely natural. That’s what my medical director told me when he was about to sign the death certificate.”
“It may be,” Joe admitted. “But there are circumstances beyond his death that caught our interest, along with the SA’s. It happens sometimes that the usual protocols have to be tweaked a bit. I didn’t realize we’d cause such a ruckus.”
Hannah Eastridge shooed that away with her hand. “Oh, George. He was exaggerating slightly. Death at The Woods is sadly an almost weekly disturbance. So, the appearance of the police this time will guarantee some extra chatter over dinner tonight.”
She settled down behind her modest desk in an office remarkable mostly for its small size and self-effacement. “That having been said,” she continued, “I can’t deny that my cell phone has come alive since the first squad car pulled up, and I’ve already heard back from a family member of Mr. Marshall’s.”
A large white cat suddenly appeared on the desk between them like a magic trick, startling the cops and making Eastridge laugh as she reached out to pull the animal toward her.
“I am sorry,” she said. “Meet Echo, the true boss of the operation. She’s only allowed free rein in this suite of offices, but she rules the roost.”
They exchanged a few comments about Echo before Lester asked politely, “Who was Marshall’s family member that you mentioned?”
“His daughter,” Eastridge said. “Michelle Mahoney, who also has power of attorney. She’s it, when it comes to relatives. She was automatically informed of her father’s passing, soon after he was found. She lives in Connecticut and is making travel plans. When she called back, I told her pretty much what you just said, that sometimes the police get involved for vaguely related reasons, and occasionally order an autopsy. I stressed that there’s usually nothing to it. Purely procedural, is how I phrased it. I also mentioned to her that since this is all so vague, the police might want to access her father’s apartment, and would that be all right? For the record, she told me you could if need be, but she wanted to be informed if anything was removed.”
“Thank you,” Joe said. “That was exactly right. You are clearly a practiced hand at this.”
“Twenty-eight years in the business,” she stated, absentmindedly stroking the happy cat. “Thirteen of them right here.”
“And Gorden Marshall? How long was he here?”
“Eight years,” she answered quickly.
“Just him?”
“Yes. He arrived as a widower, which is not the norm, since the women generally outlive the men, and to be blunt, he was never in great shape.”
“How was he discovered?” Joe asked. “I take it he lived alone.”
“He did,” she replied. “But he also had an early breakfast routine with some buddies. He didn’t show up, they made a phone call he didn’t answer, and they sounded the alarm.”
“How was he as a tenant?” Joe asked. “Or whatever you call them.”
“We prefer ‘resident,’” she instructed him. “And he could be a bear. The Woods of Windsor is pretty high on the social ladder, as you probably noticed. It attracts some leadership personalities.”
Joe smiled. “Very diplomatic.”
“That’s the first thing you learn here.”
“He was a politician?” Joe asked disingenuously. “Agent Spinney and I were called in pretty abruptly, so we didn’t get a chance to dig into his past.”
“A Vermont senator,” Eastridge replied. “Although I got the sense that it was more than that.”
“A mover and a shaker?” Lester asked.
“That’s what I was led to believe,” she agreed, “although I never knew the details. I understood that he was the epitome of the glad-handing good ol’ boy. He certainly handled himself like that. He joined a bunch of committees early on and tended to make more of his responsibilities than perhaps they deserved.”
“In other words, a real jerk,” Lester said flatly.
Eastridge burst out laughing, making Echo look up at her. “I hope I can trust you not to get me in trouble, but of course you’re right.”
Joe was smiling when he suggested, “Sounds like he could’ve been pretty unpopular.”
But she raised her eyebrows in surprise. “It does, doesn’t it? But with this group, things are often not what they appear. We’ve got more ex-CEOs and company presidents and retired chairmen than this county has horses, which is saying something. The type A’s among our residents tend to consider someone like Gorden Marshall as one of their own. For you or me, they can be pretty unpleasant, but in context, he was no nastier than a competitive tennis player on the pro tour. Half the time, what I might write off as pure orneriness is seen here as game playing. Just strolling the hallways, I witness as much combative psychology as I’ve heard they have in the Marines.”
“Sounds charming,” Joe said softly.
She leaned forward slightly in her chair, finally making Echo jump from her lap in search of quieter quarters. “That’s the interesting part. It mostly is. I’m no glutton for punishment. I get paid well, but if the job didn’t have its perks, I’d leave. I don’t come from the same world they do—the real extremists, I’m talking about—but because of my title, they pretty much treat me as an equal. All the stuff I’ve been telling you is what I see, not what I suffer at their hands. And the truth is, they can also be generous, supportive, and incredibly helpful at times—most of the time, in fact, if you know how to handle them.”
She stood up and moved to the door. “Speaking of which, I’ve got to head off to one of the forty or so committee meetings I regularly attend. I’ve arranged for someone—not George”—she smiled—“to take you to see Mr. Marshall’s body and then to the apartment, if you’re so inclined.”
They joined her at the door, where they shook hands once more.
Hannah Eastridge held on to Joe’s hand for a split second longer, in order to say, “So we’re clear, the people I just told you about represent twenty-five percent of our population—the equivalent of maybe one percent out there in the real world. That means seventy-five percent of The Woods of Windsor is made up of rich people—true enough—but who’re pretty regular, too. This is a nice place, filled with overwhelmingly decent people. Some of them just have too much time on their hands.”
“Okay,” Joe said, touching her shoulder to emphasize that he did get the point. “We’ll keep that in mind. Thanks again for your help.”
She gave him a rueful smile. “It goes with the territory.”
* * *
Gorden Marshall was currently residing as far away from the rest of the facility as geography and architecture would allow. Eastridge’s guide took Joe and Lester on an impressive hike through the complex’s nether reaches until they arrived at last at a large refrigerated room to the rear of the terminal care unit—and one door shy of the loading dock.
“Kind of says it all, don’t it?” Spinney said appreciatively, looking around. “The high-end, industrial-housing version of ashes to ashes.”
Joe didn’t challenge him there, and headed to the one shrouded occupant of the room, now adorning a steel gurney and draped with a white sheet. On the way, he thanked their Sherpa and promised to find their own way back—although how, he wasn’t exactly sure.
He peeled off the sheet and folded it neatly, revealing a white-haired, oddly angry-looking man dressed in a pair of pajamas.
“Whoa,” Lester said, drawing near. “Not a man to piss off, even now. Want me to poke him with a stick first?”
Joe shook his head, but with a slight smi
le. “Who wound you up this morning?”
Lester didn’t answer, bending over to better scrutinize Marshall’s face. “He doesn’t look all that different from how he did in the old newspaper photo. Just older.”
Joe agreed. He reached for a convenient dispenser of latex gloves and sheathed his hands in electric blue rubber. Lester did likewise, in case Joe needed help.
“What’re we looking for?” he asked, positioning himself on the other side of the gurney.
Joe barely murmured, “Don’t know yet,” as he unbuttoned the pajama jacket.
It was cold in the room, but the body had obviously begun cooling before being moved here. The limbs and jaw were stiff, the anterior part of the body pale and its posterior mottled with pooled and congealed blood. Joe pressed his thumb firmly into a section of dark red skin and saw no blanching, indicating that livor mortis had already set in. On TV, fictional pathologists were always setting the time of death as if it were stamped on the body’s forehead. Joe and Lester knew better. Time of death was an elusive standard, camouflaged by the whims of temperature and circumstance, among others, and best established by someone reliable having seen the person die. Nevertheless, estimates could be reasonably assumed, as Joe demonstrated by saying, “Well, he didn’t die ten minutes ago.”
Lester glanced at his watch, taking a more serious stab at it. “Last night sometime? The pj’s suggest after he went to bed. If we find his sheets messed up when we check his apartment, that would support it.”
“He could’ve been a Hugh Hefner fan,” Joe said distractedly, his face inches above the body and his hands running along the man’s arms, checking for defects or abnormalities. He studied the fingernails for any signs of a struggle. Lester started doing the same thing from his side.
Slowly, they proceeded from scalp to toes, sometimes comparing notes, scrutinizing the body’s anatomy inch by inch and then flipping it over carefully to do the same along the discolored dorsal side.
Finally, not having found anything out of place, they returned Marshall to his original position, and Joe moved to his face. There, he delicately lifted up an eyelid.
“Any petechial hemorrhaging?” Lester asked, inquiring after the tiny blood bursts that often accompanied strangulation or asphyxia.
Joe shook his head. “Nope. It’s not always there, though.”
His fingers felt at the lips, barely working to pry them open. But they were frozen shut, by rigor and the bonding effect of dried saliva, and he desisted immediately, muttering, “I’ll let the ME mess with that.”
“We’re definitely going for an autopsy?”
Joe looked up. “The guy dies just as we’re about to interview him? I don’t care if he was diagnosed with triple cancer. That’s a coincidence I want looked at. Besides, after what it took to convince Roger Carbine, I’m not about to back down now. He was already wary of messing with a famous ex-politician, complete with a doc standing by, ready to sign a death certificate.”
There was a knock at the door, and a uniformed police officer with sergeant’s stripes walked in, looking irritated. “There you are. We heard you hit the premises an hour ago.”
Joe walked up to him, stripping off his gloves and extending a hand in greeting, which the other man had to accept.
“I am so sorry, Sergeant—” Joe quickly checked the man’s name tag. “—Carrier. That was unprofessional and uncalled for. Got carried away when I heard the body was still here.” He stepped aside to introduce Lester. “This is Lester Spinney. I get like a dog with a bone. The apartment okay, by the way?”
Carrier was unimpressed by the apology. His mouth curled as he said, “Wouldn’t know. Your colleague on the phone made it pretty clear there was no search warrant yet and we were to bar the door and not mess up the playground. You might tell her to brush up on her manners if you expect any help in the future.”
Joe could feel Spinney tensing beside him. For all Lester’s joking around, he was a loyalist, and perfectly ready to defend the unit’s honor.
“We’re flying on instinct here,” Joe tried mollifying Carrier. “Not on hard evidence. But consider the odds: We’re running an interview on the far side of the state, this guy’s name comes up—out of the blue—and I immediately get notified that he’s dead. I don’t know about you, but I had to check it out. We’re all working on so little sleep by now—just like you guys—that we’re getting a little punchy. No offense intended.”
Joe paused for half a breath and asked, “How bad did Irene hammer you?”
Carrier paused, caught off guard. “Bad enough—like everybody, I guess.”
“Yeah. We’re based out of the Brattleboro–Wilmington area,” Joe said.
The reference to Wilmington softened the sergeant’s demeanor, even though Joe hadn’t actually been to the town.
“Shit,” Carrier said sympathetically. “What’s left of it?”
“Not much,” Joe stated vaguely. “They pretty much got clocked. The whole downtown.”
“Yeah. I saw the footage on YouTube. Amazing.”
Joe took advantage to pat Carrier’s upper arm lightly, as a peace gesture. “Anyhow, I do apologize. None of us needed a death investigation, and you sure as hell didn’t need us getting under your skin.”
Carrier took the hint and moved on, casting a glance at the exposed body. “You find anything?”
Joe raised an eyebrow. “Wish I knew. We’ll send him up for a closer look, but nothing obvious so far. You want to help me with the apartment? I’ll get a team up here later, but I’d love to take a quick look-see. We got permission from the next of kin.”
Carrier hardly jumped with joy, but he did give a grudging nod. “I suppose. Sure.”
CHAPTER TEN
Gail Zigman lived in a condominium overlooking Montpelier. It was a nice place, modern, with two floors, three bedrooms, and two full baths—part of a complex stretching out to either side. All the units had views of the capitol building’s shimmering gold dome, the crooked Winooski River—now looking benign despite its savagery earlier—and the town’s scattering of lights, cradled in the valley’s lowlands, as if delivered by an avalanche of lightbulbs from the surrounding hills.
Of course, there was security—plainclothed state troopers placed inconspicuously about. The neighbors only appreciated the extra protection and enjoyed the fact that their governor lived among them.
Gail did live alone, however, as she had ever since winning one of the more bitter gubernatorial contests in recent history. She’d had a lawyer companion before then, complete with a BMW, who’d looked good on her arm and performed adequately in bed. But he’d become a casualty of practical thinking and her career, along with a rueful, late-blooming realization that she was less sentimental than she’d previously believed.
She could admit that now, much as she might have denied it earlier. And as she sat alone in the darkness of her spare and immaculate home, sipping wine in the comfort of a Marcel Breuer Wassily armchair and facing the darkened panorama through a wall-to-ceiling picture window, she could also admit that it wasn’t the rape that was to blame, or her breakup with Joe. More fundamentally, despite occasionally expressing a degree of self-pity, she’d come to accept that she alone had abandoned her early communal life, not ever wanted a child, avoided settling down with Joe, and grown tired of being a local municipal politician. She had a hardness within her, she’d realized, mixed with a drive that the rape might have laid bare, but which had been hard-wired within her all along.
The doorbell rang, and she reluctantly rose from her clifflike aerie, in exchange for the gloom near the front door. It was almost midnight, she’d been up since six, and yet she approached whoever this was with more curiosity than irritation. A late-night encounter was as good a way to wrap up the day as staring into the darkness.
Still, she was pleasantly surprised at who was standing before her and happily gave the thumbs-up to the cop a half step behind Susan Raffner.
She hugged her o
ld friend in the darkness and reached for the hallway light switch, offering to fix something for Susan to drink, but Raffner stopped her by laying her hand on her forearm. “No. Leave it dark. I like it. It’s kind of wonderful.”
Gail turned in the direction of Susan’s gaze and saw that she’d noticed the view filling the far end of the distant living room, whose faint glitter touched the pale walls even back here.
“I’ve got a bottle of wine open,” Gail suggested, taking Susan’s hand.
“That would be perfect.”
They walked together into the lofty space, and Raffner sat as at a stage play before the wall-to-wall scene while Gail fetched another glass.
Susan let out a sigh and toed off her shoes, one by one, enjoying the massage of the thick carpeting on her soles.
Gail resumed her seat and filled the glass before handing it over. “Tough day?”
Susan took a sip. “Interesting,” she said afterwards. “I know we’re not supposed to gloat or poke a stick at others’ misfortunes, but I think, so far, that we’re doing better with this mess than they did with Katrina in Louisiana.”
Gail snorted. “Well, yeah. We had three deaths and have just over half a million people in the whole state. What’s Louisiana got? Four and a half million? Plus, they got an ocean surge on top of the rain.”
Susan took a second sip, unruffled. “You know what I mean. Pat yourself on the back, girl. You’ve been out in the towns, standing in the muck, talking to people in food lines, you’ve been shown meeting with FEMA and the Corps of Engineers. You’re like the goddamn Energizer Bunny. That’s good stuff, and you know it. And we’ve been just as good in our districts”—she pointed out the window—“working the phones and backing you up. There’s no shame in taking pride in work well done.”
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