Three Can Keep a Secret

by Mayor, Archer

  The drive took under twenty minutes, and they went in separate cars, Mahoney predictably navigating a high-end Lexus SUV. At the apartment, Joe was at first disappointed to find that his request for a guard on the door had gone ignored—until he used the key and discovered one of Carrier’s men inside.

  He laughed at him. “Don’t tell me,” he said. “Let me guess.”

  “What?” the man answered.

  “Rick parked you inside to spare you from Graham Dee.”

  The cop smiled. “Don’t think I don’t appreciate it.”

  “So you’ve met the man.”

  “Oh, yeah. He tags us every time we roll into the parking lot. Quite the unit.”

  Joe stood aside and introduced Michelle Mahoney. After arranging for a time to return, the cop left them to get some air and a coffee.

  Michelle stood looking around. “Kind of funny,” she said quietly.

  “What?”

  “It’s over,” she said. “It didn’t really strike me till now, but seeing this, and smelling him in the air…” She left the sentence dangling.

  Joe was struck by the same realization—that her matter-of-factness had overshadowed what had actually befallen her. She was an only orphan, and was now confronted with having to forage through her father’s belongings, deal with funeral homes and lawyers, all while confronting a lifetime of complicated, not-so-fond memories.

  “Would you like to do this later?” Joe asked. “There’s no rush.”

  That was all she needed. She faced him, her eyes shining but dry. “Of course there is. You have a man wounded and a homicide to solve. What would you like me to do?”

  He took her through the apartment, room by room, asking her to stop and consider each view as they came upon it. He asked her about furniture moved, pictures missing, objects disturbed, files gone astray. They wound up before the dresser, where he pulled open the drawer and asked her to check its contents. Sadly but not surprisingly, she merely gave him a blank look.

  “You think I know what was in my father’s sock drawer?”

  He indicated the space before her. “It’s not socks, for one thing. Take a look.”

  Amused, she did as he’d asked, even poking her finger in among the odds and ends. “Okay,” she then announced.

  “Did he have a jewelry box?” he asked her. “With cuff links, tie tacks, things like that?”

  Her brow furrowed slightly. “I think my mom gave him one. He used to scatter those things across the top here.” She patted the dresser’s flat surface, which was clear aside from a decorative lamp. She added, “Where we used to live. It drove her a little crazy. She was kind of a neatnik.”

  In the end, she fell short of being the oracle he’d hoped for, including about the contents of the stolen box. She did tell him of a politically oriented photograph that was missing from the office wall, and that the telephone must have been voided of messages by someone not her father—she claimed he would never have done that, since he’d habitually used the answering machine as a form of to-do file, stacking up to twenty messages there on a regular basis.

  “Do you remember who was in the photograph?” Joe asked, standing before the spot it had occupied, as if willing its ghost to reappear.

  She stood beside him. “It was a group shot, with my father. The governor at the time may have been in it. But there were others—men and women, both. I just don’t know who. Not sure if I ever did, to be honest.”

  “You say, ‘at the time.’ So it was old?”

  She considered the question before responding, “It looked old—black-and-white, a little contrasty because of the flash. I’d say a half century, more or less. It was back when my father was at his peak. He looked very pleased with himself.”

  “You ever see a copy of it elsewhere?” Joe asked hopefully. “In a newspaper, maybe?”

  But she announced what he didn’t want to hear. “Nope. That might’ve been it. Probably gone for good now.”

  Joe had brought along a file of documents related to the case. He fetched it from the kitchen counter and extracted a copy of the photograph that he and Lester had found in Barb Barber’s album in Shelburne, of Carolyn and Michelle’s father facing the cameras during the Governor-for-a-Day event.

  He laid it on Gorden’s desk. “This the missing picture?”

  She barely glanced at it. “No. As I said, it was a group shot.”

  Disappointed, he picked it up and handed it to her for closer scrutiny. “That is your father, though, correct?”

  “Oh yes,” she said, taking the copy. “And this was around the same time. That girl may have even been in the other picture.” She waved it gently in the air, adding, “But this isn’t it.”

  “Did you ever hear your father refer to anyone named Carolyn Barber?” Joe asked.

  “Never,” she said.

  “Or hear him mention an event from about that time, called Governor-for-a-Day?”

  Again, she couldn’t help him. “No,” she said. “Sounds pretty silly.”

  He took the picture back. “Yeah. I thought so, too. Once.”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Rob stepped off the elevator on the third floor and looked around. He’d been to Sheldon Scott’s office building before, but only at ground level, where the conference rooms and reception staff were located. He knew that the firm owned the entire building—it was that kind of operation—but he’d gotten the clear impression that people sharing his political philosophy weren’t likely to be invited upstairs.

  That had always been the projected image of Scott & Company, as the business was officially called. From the formidable turn-of-the-century building to the formal dress code adhered to by everyone down to the lowest-ranked employee, the place smacked of a generally anachronistic attitude—displaying the sensitivity of an upper-crust manor in a land of tepees and yurts.

  Not that Montpelier was lacking in monumental architecture—or suits, dresses, and business attire. It was the state capital, after all, even if that state was small and rural. Still, for all the effort exerted in the form of gold domes and urban “power-wear,” Perkins had nevertheless spotted a Vermont Supreme Court justice wearing clogs under his robes.

  “Mr. Perkins?”

  He turned to find a young woman, immaculate from toe to head, standing in an unmarked entrance halfway down the otherwise empty mahogany-paneled hallway.

  “Mr. Scott will see you in here.”

  Perkins approached and followed her into the room she’d appeared from. Having entered, however, he heard the door closed behind him and found himself alone in one of the largest offices he’d ever visited—as big as the entire end of the building, with towering windows on three of its fifteen-foot walls. He was instantly reminded of the set for My Fair Lady.

  “Rob. How nice to see you.”

  He glanced about, unable to locate the source of the voice.

  “Hi, Mr. Scott,” he said nevertheless, the man’s age advantage earning him the title—a reflection of Rob’s traditional upbringing.

  “Up here,” replied the disembodied voice, drawing Perkins’s attention to the two-story, balcony-equipped bookshelves directly behind him. He walked farther into the room and turned to look up at his host.

  Sheldon Scott, in pinstripe suit, red tie, French cuffs, and trademark thick mane of snow-white hair, smiled down on him like the cross between a TV evangelist and an emperor of Rome. Perkins half expected to receive an imperial thumbs-down as a tiger was set free from under the truck-sized desk near the far wall.

  Instead, Scott walked the length of the balcony and nimbly descended a wrought-iron spiral staircase, emerging from it with manicured hand extended.

  “How long’s it been?” he asked.

  “Nine months,” Rob answered, having checked the fact in his calendar before coming here. “The Cross-Border Conference reception at the Hilton.”

  “Really?” Scott gestured for him to proceed to the other end of the room, where a cluster of l
eather armchairs was gathered before a cavernous fireplace. The walls at this end were adorned with books as well, but allowed, too, for a scattering of carefully framed photographs—each of them featuring Sheldon Scott with some conservative luminary, dating back to Richard Nixon and Barry Goldwater. A large shot of Scott and then Senate President Pro Tem Gorden Marshall caught Perkins’s eye, if only because of an article in the morning paper stating that Marshall had died at his retirement home in eastern Vermont.

  “Then we’re overdue for a catch-up,” Scott was saying. “Would you like anything to drink?”

  “No, thank you. I’m all set.”

  Scott waved him to one of the chairs and settled down himself, crossing his legs and shooting his cuffs with the grace of a seasoned actor. Perkins had long considered that one of the weapons in this man’s arsenal was this almost theatrical aristocratic bearing. For a country that had violently broken from a monarchy, the United States had, in Rob’s opinion, forever-after harbored a longing for royalty, which the likes of Sheldon Scott exploited to the hilt.

  “Having a good time working for the governor?” Scott asked airily, as if making conversation.

  “An excellent time.”

  The older man nodded thoughtfully. “This storm has certainly added to your headaches, though. Terrible thing.”

  “We’re managing,” Perkins said cryptically.

  “So, what brings you to see me?” Scott asked his guest with an expansive gesture of hands, apparently tiring of a game of manners that clearly had no traction.

  Rob had expected this opening gambit, and so didn’t hesitate to respond, “You wouldn’t be seeing me in your inner sanctum if you didn’t already know. For that matter, one could say that you indirectly asked to see me. So why don’t we start there? Why am I here, Mr. Scott?”

  The lobbyist gave him an avuncular smile as he lamented, “Ah, Rob. I love it. How I wish our politics were more compatible. I would hire you in a New York minute.”

  Perkins made no comment.

  Scott steepled his fingers before his lower lip, allowing Rob to see that his gold cuff links were stamped with something suspiciously reminiscent of the presidential seal. “All right. Since the topic of Irene has already been broached, let’s talk about that. It is hardly my own opinion that Governor Zigman is taking a beating because of FEMA, among other things—deservedly or not. Can we agree on that?”

  “I will agree that people have their facts wrong and are blaming us and FEMA for their problems,” Rob said cautiously.

  “Ah, ha,” Scott responded, one finger in the air. “Still, that suggests that a little help proffered in that area might be seen as a real advantage.”

  “Depending on the ins and outs attached to that help, sure,” Rob agreed. “What are we talking about, exactly?”

  “Philosophically?” Scott immediately evaded. “Let’s call it the common man’s readiest complaint: I need money and I want it now.” He laughed at his own wit. “That’s their frustration in a nutshell, is it not? Vermonters think FEMA has the cash, and they want it faster than it’s being produced. Already, the papers are filling with nightmare stories about the size and complexity of the government’s aid applications. All the more poignant with the first twinge of fall in the air.”

  Again, Rob kept silent.

  “The proposal I’m imagining,” Scott continued, “would result in a noncompetitive, legislatively backed, but privately funded program that would effectively address those delays and the overall cash availability surrounding the present situation.”

  Perkins couldn’t resist smiling at the careful phrasing—each word chosen for its apparent precision and its vagueness.

  He responded in kind. “Well, of course you know that the governor’s office can’t speak for the legislature.”

  Scott laughed artificially, making Rob wonder how it was that so many people fell for this man’s supposed charms. “Oh, come, come, Rob. We Republicans are barely allowed access to that building. Between the Democrats, the Libertarians, and the Progressives, I’m half surprised Gail Zigman hasn’t been proclaimed governor-for-life.”

  “And yet she hasn’t been,” Rob said, “which leaves us with an old-fashioned democracy, as clunky as that can be. Which also, by the way, includes FEMA itself. I imagine they’ll be fascinated to hear of this project, and more than happy to withdraw their own money if Vermont comes up with a benevolent billionaire to replace them.” He seemed to ponder the thought of that possibility, and then asked, “Putting that aside for the time being, where are you proposing the money come from?”

  Scott raised his eyebrows. “Was Susan Raffner that poor a messenger that she didn’t tell you?”

  “I’m just asking for confirmation,” Rob said stiffly, beginning to thoroughly dislike the roundabout, quasi-devious, pie-in-the-sky nature of the conversation. He was feeling himself increasingly among the shoals.

  “Who did she say was offering his generosity?” Scott asked innocently.

  Rob sighed. “Harold LeMieur.”

  Scott spread his hands wide. “Well, then—there you are.”

  Perkins frowned. “Are you his official representative with this proposal?”

  “I represent Harold on all his affairs in Vermont, and many others elsewhere.”

  Rob held up a hand, as if in protest, struggling to remember that he was here on assignment, and not to air his own opinions. “I get that. Look. Don’t get me wrong. We like the sound of this. It would be good for us, reflect well on LeMieur, and help the entire state get past this mess far more quickly—if,” he emphasized, “we’re all very clear on who’s offering what and how. To be perfectly honest, Mr. Scott, there is nothing in Mr. LeMieur’s past that would make me believe he’s being genuine with this offer. It just stretches credibility.”

  Scott was nodding sympathetically. “Totally understandable. You merely repeated what I said when I first heard of this, Rob. There is a factor here, however, that you’re unaware of, and I think it may help to change your mind—Harold is not in the best of health.”

  Rob’s mouth fell open, as much stunned by the message as by its manipulative undertone—assuming it was true. “He’s dying?” he blurted out.

  “He’s not well, and you know how sentimental people can get, especially if they’ve lived a long and full life and feel that they need to give back before it’s too late.”

  “You’re telling me that’s what this is?” Rob asked. “A dying man’s guilt trip?”

  Scott’s polite smile froze. “That’s a bit harsh. He is my dearest friend. But it may be one way of looking at it, from your perspective. I see it in a more sentimental light—a man lending a hand to his birth state in its time of greatest need.”

  Perkins couldn’t sit still anymore, he was feeling so uncomfortable with the various covert possibilities—most of them bad. He rose from the clinging embrace of the large chair and crossed to a window to stare sightlessly out onto the Montpelier traffic below. Sheldon Scott let him take his time quietly.

  Eventually, Perkins turned and faced the owner of this elaborate scheme. “Mr. Scott,” he said. “I’ll have to get back to you on this. The ramifications, the logistics, the sheer number of players that would have to sign on to make it happen are staggering, not to mention that the need for money and action is right now—today.”

  Scott nodded sagely and seemed to carefully consider what Perkins had said before replying, “Of course you’re right, Rob. I had mentioned all of this to Harold. It does seem as if we may have knocked on the wrong door. Your mention of FEMA’s possible response to this philanthropic gesture makes me think that we should perhaps speak to Vermont’s Washington delegation. They are, after all, right there at the seat of power, even controlling FEMA’s purse strings. This entire matter may in fact be more than a mere governor can address.”

  Rob Perkins stared at the man in wonder and horror, fully realizing with that last pitch the true nature of the trap that had begun with Susa
n Raffner and ended with him. He felt light-headed and slightly nauseated as he heard himself say, “I’ve got to go. We’ll be back in touch soon,” while feeling like a man who’d just told his own firing squad that he would in fact enjoy the short-lived respite of a last cigarette.

  Sheldon Scott didn’t protest, nor rise to see him out. Instead, as if by magic—and reeking of prearranged orchestration—the far door opened and the same tailored woman appeared to usher Perkins from the room. As he passed her by, Rob made a conscious effort to memorize her features, suspecting that he’d see her again, most likely as a witness to his having met with her boss in a clandestine, closed-door setting, no doubt to be portrayed in the worst of all lights.

  * * *

  “Hey,” Joe said into the phone.

  Beverly Hillstrom chuckled on the other end—a side of her that he had rarely glimpsed. “Hey, yourself. Are you calling about your two burned special deliveries from Shelburne?”

  He let out a laugh, startled by the phrasing. “Not actually. I really just wanted to hear your voice.”

  “Ahh,” she let out slowly. “Now, that’s very nice. How are you feeling, Joe?”

  “Truthfully?” he replied. “Very happy. The whole state is under three feet of silt, you’re buried in bodies, and I have an asylum escapee wandering loose, an old folks’ home straight out of Agatha Christie, and somebody who’s missing his coffin, but I feel as if something fundamental has just slipped into its proper place. I’d like to thank you for that. How ’bout you? Is that way more than you wanted to hear?”

  “It’s pure music, Joe. I’m very happy about what’s happening.”

  “I’m sorry I had to leave so early,” he said. “All this stuff—”

  She cut him off. “If you start apologizing for that, then I’ll have to join in, and there will never be an end to it. A pinkie swear, Special Agent-in-Charge Joe Gunther: Never let that be a problem. Okay?”

  “Okay.”

  “Would you like to hear about your two cremated bodies? It’s preliminary, but it’s fine with me if it’s acceptable to you.”