Willy wondered—families being the curious things they often were—if the two men were related.
It wasn’t an entirely random thought. He was driving down Route 8, off the tapered southern end of the Green Mountains, along Stamford’s strung-out bottomland between the Hoosac and Taconic Ranges, in order to interview Eileen Rozanski Ranslow—the sister of the man whose only monument nowadays was a coffin full of rocks. Given his research to date, Willy had become convinced that the Rozanskis were another clan with a story they’d deemed worth hiding.
He slowed his car to note the addresses passing by. Years ago, the state-stipulated 911 regulation that all houses should be clearly numbered had for some reason been decreed voluntary. As a result, all too few of them were.
Happily, the Ranslows had heeded the rule, which Willy hoped was a good sign. If they were compliant enough to make that effort, who knew if they might not be willing to speak with the likes of him?
The house was set back from the road, clad in white clapboards, and about a hundred years old. Willy pulled into the gravel driveway, killed his engine, and in one fluid movement, swung out of the car, noticing the by-now routine detail of how the front yard’s grass had acquired a coat of plant-smothering river mud. He was longing for the first full day in which the subject of Irene—or any evidence of her destruction—wouldn’t come up in conversation.
Which was clearly going to be a long time from now. Luckily for the Ranslows, though, at first glance, it didn’t seem as if they’d lost more than their lawn.
The front door opened as he approached the house, and a small, somewhat squared-off woman wearing glasses and holding a dish towel stood before him with a questioning look.
“May I help you?” she asked.
“Mrs. Ranslow?” he replied, pulling out his credentials. “I’m Special Agent Kunkle, of the Vermont Bureau of Investigation. I hope I haven’t caught you at a bad time.”
She allowed the faintest of smiles as she said, “I don’t know. Are you about to make it a bad time?”
He laughed, taking note of how carefully she was watching him. “I hope not. I wanted to ask you a few questions about your brother Herb.”
She nodded several times. “Ah. I was wondering when somebody would come by.”
He kept smiling. “Well, I guess that’s me. Seems like you know what got me here.”
“The graveyard thing,” she confirmed. “Sure.”
“Right,” he confirmed, again struck by her self-constraint. “Could I come in?”
Instead of answering, she stepped aside to allow him passage.
The house reminded him of a thousand others he’d entered—furnished with hand-me-downs and Walmart sets, the walls bare aside from some family photos, the requisite huge flat-screen TV reducing the living room to a single function. It was at once neat enough and messy enough to support a family that—as Willy had researched—consisted of this woman, her truck driver husband, and their two teenage sons.
She led him into the living room, where the set was on but muted, pantomiming the world beyond like the flashing scenery outside a train window.
Eileen Ranslow did not offer Willy any amenities, nor the usual apologies for the home’s appearance. Preceding him, she sat on the edge of an upright chair facing the couch, the dish towel still in her hands, and waited for him to choose a seat.
He took the couch opposite.
“What do you want to know?” she asked him.
He took his cue on how to proceed from her—straight down the line, but with enough Big Brother to encourage her to be open from the start. “Are we alone?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“Hank and Ted are where?” he inquired, using her sons’ names.
It worked. She hesitated and the hands holding the towel moved closer together. “They’re at school, at a work detail to help clean up after Irene.”
“And Phillip? Making deliveries?”
“Trying to,” she said.
“You’ve lived here about twenty years. Is that correct?”
“Twenty-one.”
“And you’re the only member of your immediate family, aside from your brother Nate, to have moved away from where you grew up.”
Her mouth tightened a fraction before she answered, “If you know this stuff, why’re you asking me?”
He fixed her with a severe look. “My information may not be accurate. Please answer the question, Mrs. Ranslow.”
“Yes, then.”
“Yes, what?”
“Yes, I’m the only one except Nate.”
“You don’t keep in touch with folks back home?”
“Not much.”
“Not much, or not at all?”
Another small flare crossed her features. “Is there something wrong with that?”
He stayed silent, watching her.
“Not at all,” she said, her eyes dropping to the towel, which she draped across her left knee.
“Why is that?”
“Family stuff. I made a new life here.”
“You have a falling out?”
She seemed to consider that before replying, “I wanted to see other places.”
“What did you do between leaving home and settling here?” he pressed, having been told by others that she’d left home shortly after Herb’s supposed funeral and her other brother’s disappearing altogether.
“I drifted around,” she said vaguely.
“You got arrested a couple of times,” Willy reminded her. “Disturbing the peace, drunk and disorderly. What was going on?”
“I was unhappy. I was young.” She sat forward for emphasis. “I thought you wanted to talk about Herb.”
“Where is Nate now?” Willy asked, ignoring her.
“I don’t know. Maybe he’s dead.” Her voice had picked up an edge.
“Like Herb?” Willy suggested leadingly.
She became silent. Willy rose and circled the cluttered coffee table to sit beside her on a matching chair, a foot away. She shifted defensively but stayed put, at the same time staring at his inert left arm.
“I was shot in the line of duty,” he explained, his voice softer and confiding. “Years ago. I know what it’s like to be in a tough place. I kept my job because people stuck up for me.”
“I’m sorry,” she murmured.
“I’m going to take a wild guess, Eileen, but I think you’re in a tough place. Something happened twenty-seven years ago that tore up your family, probably playing a part in why your mom died of a broken heart.”
At the allusion to Dreama Rozanski, her daughter’s eyes welled with tears, which she didn’t bother wiping away.
“How long did your dad live?” Willy asked softly. “After whatever happened with Herb?”
“A few years,” she said dully.
Finally, he got to his reason for being here. “Tell me about that, Eileen—what happened to Herb?”
She sighed and said, almost inaudibly, “He got caught up in the sawmill.”
“Did you see it happen?”
She shook her head.
“Were you there, at home?”
“Mom was. I was at a friend’s house.”
“How did you find out?” he asked.
“They told me when I got home.”
“Did you see your brother?”
“Which one?” she asked, which he thought interesting.
“Let’s start with Herb.”
“No. They said it was too bloody.”
“So where was he? Where’d they put him?”
“In a closed box. It was the coffin later.”
“How ’bout the sawmill? Did you go in there?”
“Later, I did,” she admitted, and shivered. “It was horrible. Blood all over.”
“Okay,” Willy said. “What about Nate? Where was he in all this?”
“He was there.”
“At home? At the mill, working with them?”
“The mill.” Her words had become so so
ft that he placed his head inches from her mouth.
“What did they say happened?”
“An accident. Herb got pulled into the saw.”
“Is that likely? Some mills are more dangerous than others.”
“I wouldn’t know.”
“Describe the mill to me.”
She tilted her head back, as if interpreting an image off where the wall met the ceiling. “Open sides. Lots of those pulley things. My dad had to put his truck near one wall to drive everything.”
“There was more than just the saw, then?”
“There was a big saw. That’s where it happened. But there were other machines, too. It was super noisy.”
“What happened to it afterwards?” Willy asked. “When I was there, it had been burned down as a fire department exercise.”
“Nothing,” she said. “Nobody ever went in it again.”
“Tell me about Nate, Eileen. How did he take this?”
“He left. The next day.”
“Was there a fight?”
“No,” she said with more strength, but her eyes wandered to the floor. “The next morning, he was just gone.”
“What did your parents say or do about that?”
“Nothing,” she repeated. “They just kind of retreated into themselves.”
Willy pressed her. “I think you’re leaving something out about Nate. Tell me.”
“He looked awful.”
“How?”
“He was cut and bruised and maybe some of his fingers were broken.”
“From what?” Willy asked. “A fight?”
“I don’t know.”
“Do you think maybe he fought with Herb?”
“Maybe.”
“In the mill?”
“I don’t know.”
Willy reached out and touched her hand. “Eileen, this is important. Do you think they had a fight, and that’s what sent Herb into the saw blade?”
She nodded without comment.
Willy nodded and mentally reviewed everything she’d told him. “On the day of the accident,” he began, “how did your father handle the authorities? He couldn’t just bury Herb and have done with it.”
“The sheriff came over after I got home. They talked. I watched them through the kitchen window. It was open.”
“The sheriff saw the body?”
“He saw the box,” she countered. “He wanted to open it, but my dad got mad—said he knew his own son, and could tell a dead man from a live one.”
Willy let out a small, contemptuous puff of air. “And the sheriff bought it,” he stated.
“The box wasn’t opened up,” she replied as an answer.
Willy waited before asking, “What really happened to Herb?”
She gave a half shrug. “I guess he didn’t die.”
“Where did the blood come from?”
“It was his. He was really hurt. I mean, he must’ve been. He just didn’t die. Whose blood could it’ve been?”
“People have told me they think this whole thing killed your parents,” Willy told her, moving on.
Her voice shrank down once more. “I guess.”
“Eileen,” he said, matching her tone. “I think you knew about all this when I walked up to your door. I know the price this has taken on you, on your family. But I’ve also got to know the details. I’m sorry.”
“Why?” she challenged him, staring at him, her cheeks coursed with tears. “What does it matter now?”
“You know what keeping it a secret has cost you,” he explained. “How could my uncovering the truth be any worse?”
To her silence, he continued, “How many years have you had this bottled up? How many times have you wished you could be honest with your sons? What stories have you made up about your childhood, knowing they were the sort of lies you tell your kids never to tell? You know in your heart this has got to stop.”
Speechless, she barely nodded in agreement.
“Tell me what you know,” he almost whispered.
“I have Nate’s phone number,” she admitted at last. “Or the store he lives near. He’s pretty much a hermit.”
Willy kept any satisfaction out of his voice. “When did you two last talk?”
“Maybe a year ago.”
“So he knows nothing about the grave being exposed?”
“Not from me.”
“Where’s that store located?” he asked.
“Below West Glover, sort of between Hardwick and Barton.”
That put it in the state’s Northeast Kingdom—a place, like Stamford, not heavily populated. But unlike here, famous for the way it defended its isolation. It was custom-made for someone wanting to fade from view.
He touched her wrist. “Thank you, Eileen. I’ll let you know how it goes. But you know the favor I need to ask now, don’t you?”
“Don’t warn him?” she asked.
“Exactly. Or all of this—and the trust you’ve just put in me—will be for nothing. With any luck, I’ll be the one who might get you all talking again.”
She barely nodded her acknowledgment.
“One last thing,” he mentioned as he rose to leave. “Have you kept in touch with Herb? Do you know where he is now?”
“No,” she said, looking up at him. “I thought he was dead until they told me about the empty grave.”
Willy had to take her at face value there, but he didn’t like it.
* * *
Joe cocked his head to one side and gave Lester an admiring look.
“Spare me,” his colleague moaned. “I asked them not to do it.”
“Shave half your head to apply a little bandage?” Joe asked him, crossing the room and giving Spinney’s wife a hug. “Why wouldn’t they?” he finished, speaking over her shoulder. “They knew you were a cop, didn’t they?”
Sue quickly turned, her arm still around Joe’s waist, and spoke before her husband could respond. “He’s kidding. The doc explained they had to get in there and check you out. Look on the bright side, honey—we can always shave the other side and turn you into a cool dude. Your son would love it.”
Lester gave her a lopsided smile. “It’s an idea.”
Joe sat by his hospital bed as Sue left the room to get them coffee. Sergeant Carrier had called an ambulance after seeing Spinney’s injury, and they’d transported Les to what the MedEvac chopper pilots nicknamed the Emerald City—the Dartmouth-Hitchcock Medical Center—a vast green and white boxy sprawl tucked in among New Hampshire’s wooded hills. Fortunately, Lester proved to have a hard head.
“I heard the description you gave of the man who whacked you,” Joe told him. “Anything to add?”
“Only that he must’ve had a key,” Les said. “I locked the door behind me, so I wouldn’t get disturbed by the crotchety old guy who yelled at you that first day.”
“Mr. Dee,” Joe recalled. “Wasn’t there a guard at the door?”
“Not when I got there. I asked Carrier about that afterwards, and he admitted they dropped the ball. I doubt that’ll happen again. Anyhow, I was checking out the dresser, as part of a general search, thought I’d found something that needed documenting, and turned to reach for my camera when—standing right behind me—there he was. Split second later, he beaned me and took off.”
“What did he hit you with?”
Lester smiled weakly. “Something hard. He was wearing a stocking over his head—like in a bank robbery comedy.”
“White guy?” Joe asked.
“Ecru,” Lester countered.
Joe gave him a look. “You did get hit on the head.”
“Something else,” Les added. “When I went after him, kind of seeing double, I thought he might be carrying something, but maybe it was whatever he used to smack me.”
His boss stared off toward the far corner of the room, deep in thought. “How long had you been there, grand total?”
“Not long. I started in the bedroom. Maybe fifteen minutes. I checked the floor and u
nder the furniture; the obvious surfaces. I had just begun on the dresser when he showed up.”
Joe nodded absentmindedly before asking, “What had caught your eye, that you were reaching for the camera?”
“Marshall had a jewelry box—cuff links, tie pins, junk like that. Some of it looked commemorative—stuff you get for being an Elk or a Shriner. I was gonna take a picture of it so I could ask somebody what was what later on.”
Joe’s attention sharpened. “What else was in that drawer?”
“Handkerchiefs, a couple of watches. I forget what else. Why?”
“I went to the apartment afterwards,” Joe explained. “To see if I could get an angle on your guy. The drawer was still open. There was no jewelry box.”
Lester stared at him. “Big as a book, maybe, but square?”
Joe suggested, “Could be what he was carrying when you chased him.”
Les looked chagrined. “I can’t believe I was staring right at it. Damn. Two more minutes and I would’ve had it documented. Who the hell’s gonna tell us what I was looking at?”
“Maybe his daughter, Michelle,” Joe suggested. “How old do you think Mr. Ecru was?” he asked, changing subjects.
“Not a resident,” Lester answered quickly. “He was a jackrabbit—kind of ran like one, too, a little weird—and dressed like a maintenance guy. I never got to ask Carrier … or maybe I did. I don’t remember, but did they see anyone leaving the complex?”
Joe shook his head. “No, which doesn’t tell us much. If he was ballsy enough to sneak up behind you, he could’ve hung around the parking lot long enough to drive out with the flow of traffic later. It doesn’t mean he works there or is a relative.”
“He did have a key, though,” Lester reminded him.
“True,” Joe agreed. “We’ll look into that. But why was he there? Was it the box?”
Les volunteered, “If he was the same guy who smothered Marshall, maybe he forgot it when he cleaned out the filing cabinet.”
“Big risk to come back for it,” Joe mused.
Three Can Keep a Secret Page 15
