The Coal Black Asphalt Tomb

by David Handler

  “Why would he want to do that, Sheila?”

  “He and Luke despised each other’s politics. Luke came back from Vietnam an outspoken opponent of the war. Lance was very gung ho.”

  “The two of them used to get into raging arguments at the club,” Helen recalled. “They had one the very night Lance disappeared. Things got so heated between them that Luke challenged him to step out into the parking lot.”

  “And did they?…”

  “No, Lance just laughed him off,” Helen replied. “Same as he laughed off everything. When I clocked out that night Lance was still sitting with the gang at their table, drinking and having a fine old time. Most of the staff had gone home by then. It was late. But it wasn’t unusual for members to stick around and close up themselves. It was their club. They stayed as late as they wanted to.”

  “I’m confused about something, Helen. Frances Shaver had killed herself over Lance, right?”

  “Right.…”

  “And Luke knew all about what happened between her and Lance, right?”

  “Right.…”

  “Then how could he sit around and socialize with the guy?”

  “It wasn’t like that. They didn’t invite Lance to join them. Lance was … Lance. He’d show up at a dance in his fancy uniform and cruise from table to table, invited or not. If he felt like perching at their table he’d do so, and they’d tolerate his presence. Bob wasn’t going to tell him to get lost. Lance was his big brother. Bob idolized him.”

  Mitch drank some more tea, sorting his way through it. Luke Cahoon had despised Lance Paffin because of what Lance did to Frances. Chase Fairchild had certainly harbored no warm, fuzzy feelings for him—Lance had gotten the future Mrs. Fairchild pregnant. And while Bob was busy looking up to him, Lance was busy scoring with Easy Deezy. And then there was Buzzy. “You said that Buzzy Shaver had to look after his mother after Frances died,” he mused aloud. “It sounds as if Lance did a pretty thorough job of messing up the guy’s life.”

  “Buzzy has had more than his share of misfortune,” Sheila responded. “His dad, Clarence, died of a heart attack during Buzzy’s junior year at Bowdoin. Buzzy had to drop out and come home to run the family newspaper. I had Buzzy as a pupil in two of my English classes. Believe me, he was not a gifted writer. Rather ironic that he ended up being the editor and publisher of a newspaper. Or I always thought so. I mark up a copy of it every week for grammatical errors and typos and I mail it to him.”

  “I’m sure he appreciates it,” Mitch said.

  Sheila grinned at him with savage delight. “I’m sure he doesn’t.”

  Bitsy studied Mitch from across the table. “You were about to make a point, weren’t you?”

  Mitch nodded. “Every man in Bob’s circle had a good reason to hate Lance’s guts.”

  “Not just in Bob’s circle,” Helen pointed out. “Lance damaged a lot of lives. I suppose a few ladies shed a tear after he disappeared. But no one in Dorset, with the exception of Bob, was genuinely sorry to see him gone.”

  “Except he’s not gone,” Mitch reminded her.

  “No, he’s not.” Helen was gripping her teacup tightly now. So tightly her knuckles were white. “And we’ll be sorry we found him. Sorrier than you can imagine.”

  “Why is that, Helen?”

  “Because he’s going to do it all over again, that’s why. Lance Paffin will ruin somebody else’s life before his remains are put to proper rest in Duck River Cemetery. Maybe more than one life. That man’s not done,” she warned them, her voice rising with emotion. “I tell you, he’s not done!”

  CHAPTER 5

  SHE MET HIM AT the Kinney Road boat launch, a secluded little spot on the Connecticut River a few miles up Route 156, in the lush farm country north of the village. On warm summer days folks liked to put their kayaks in at the boat launch. On a chilly April day like this one, when there were still chunks of ice floating downriver from northern New England, Des and Mitch had the parking lot to themselves. She leaned against the hood of her cruiser and picked at the Greek salad she’d gotten for lunch. He stood at the river’s edge skipping stones with feverish intensity. He was having zero luck but that didn’t stop him from trying. Or from thinking he was doing one hell of a job. Mitch was a master of self-delusion when it came to such things. He was, after all, a man.

  “Skipping stones is all in the wrist,” he explained as he flung one after another into the river. Not a single one of them skipped. They all sank right to the bottom like, well, stones. “Happily, my wrists are incredibly strong and flexible, thanks to all of the downward-facing dog I’ve been doing.”

  “Yeah, I can see that,” Des said, gazing out at the ripple of the current on the water’s surface. Except not really. What she was seeing were those skeletal remains in that rotting uniform. That skull with its strands of hair. That Rolex Submariner hanging loose around the bones of the wrist. She shuddered inwardly, certain she would need to draw a picture of it in order to cleanse herself of the memory. But equally certain that what she wanted to draw, had to draw, was beyond her grasp. Which totally pissed her off. When Des was pissed off her stomach went into knots, so she set the Greek salad aside and went back to watching the oddly brilliant man in her life fling stones into the river like a crazed speed freak. “Mitch, is it my imagination or are you a teeny bit on the far side of hyper?”

  “I am way hyper,” he responded. “I’ve been gossiping with the girls for the past two hours. Do you have any idea how much sugar I’ve consumed? Plus Sheila brewed a pot of Earl Gray tea that was unbelievably strong. Did you know that tea can give you a mondo caffeine buzz? Because I didn’t know that tea can give you a mondo caffeine buzz. Oh, hey, you want a chocolate chip cookie? Because I have a whole bag of them. Also a bag of Sheila’s sour-cherry hermits. They’ve got walnuts and chocolate chips in them. They’re really awesome.”

  “No, thanks. So what did you find out?”

  He stopped flinging stones and joined her, parking his generous-sized bum next to hers against the car. “May I say something first?”

  “Have I ever been able to stop you?”

  “I sure do hate slinking around back alleys this way.”

  “I would hardly call this a back alley,” she said, looking out across the river to the Otter Cove mansions on the opposite bank.

  “We’re exchanging information on the sly in a remote locale. Honestly? It’s as if you’re ashamed to be seen with me. I feel used and, well, kind of cheap.”

  She heaved a slow sigh. “This SIG is loaded, remember?”

  “Okay, okay. Down to business. Business it is, thin person. For starters, that whole deal this morning with Buzzy Shaver and his Volvo may not have been what you thought. They tell me that he and Beryl Fairchild are quietly keeping company. It’s entirely possible that he left his car on Dorset Street so that his nosy neighbors wouldn’t hear him driving home at four in the morning. Common practice when you’re stepping out, I’m told. I wouldn’t know about that. I live on an island. And I don’t have any reason to step out.” He reached over and squeezed her hand. “May I say how uncommonly green your eyes look right now?”

  “May I say it’s entirely possible that you’d flunk a drug test right now?” She brought his hand up to her lips and kissed it, showing him her smile. No man had ever made her smile like Mitch did. “Beryl Fairchild is one of the last people who saw Lance Paffin alive that night. I’d love to talk to her. But in order to do that I’d have go through Glynis, who’s a lawyer first and foremost. If I want to speak to her mother in connection with an ongoing investigation she’ll insist upon being present—in which case Beryl won’t give up a thing.”

  “What, you think she won’t be candid in front of her own daughter?”

  “What, I know she won’t. I’m a daughter. I have a mother. Trust me on this one, big boy.”

  “Want me to talk to Beryl for you?”

  She glanced at him curiously. “Exactly how would you go about that
?”

  “I’ll figure out a way. But hang on because I’m not done talking about Buzzy Shaver.”

  “There’s more?”

  “Oh, heck yeah. It seems he had a sweet kid sister named Frances, and Frances and future-Congressman Luke Cahoon were engaged until Lance set his sights on her. Lance convinced her to sail off to Block Island with him for a weekend of illicit humpage. After which he dumped her. She was so shamed and humiliated that she committed suicide.”

  “So Luke and Lance didn’t just go at it over the war in Vietnam.”

  “Correct. Luke truly hated the guy’s guts. He and Buzzy both. And there’s more. Lance also got busy with his brother’s future wife, Delia, whose nickname around Dorset back in those days was Easy Deezy.”

  “Okay, this I am loving,” Des had to confess. “Do you think less of me?”

  “Never. And there’s still more. Lance also slept with Beryl. And got her pregnant. She had an abortion in Barbados when she was a senior at Wellesley.”

  Des looked at him in amazement. “Damn, you did good.”

  “Thank you. I try.” He waggled his eyebrows at her, waiting for her to take his cue.

  Gravely, she intoned, “‘We all try. You succeed.’”

  “Well played. And that’s from…”

  “Casablanca. Bogart to Paul Henreid.”

  “I am so proud of you right now,” he said, beaming at her. “Are you going to finish that Greek salad?”

  “Help yourself.” She looked out at the river again. “So there wasn’t one woman in Bob’s circle who Lance didn’t sleep with.”

  “There wasn’t one woman in Dorset who Lance didn’t sleep with—including our very own Helen Weidler, who used to wait tables at the club. He broke Helen’s heart. She never let another man get close to her. Trust me, that part’s going to depress the hell out of you if you let it.” He munched thoughtfully on a forkful of salad. “Lance was a relentless hound. Everyone in town knew it. And yet any number of attractive, perfectly intelligent women fell for him anyway. Speaking as a weight-challenged screening room nerd who registers a 6.5 on the shlub-o-meter I don’t understand that. Why would a self-respecting woman sleep with a man who she knows is no good for her?”

  A chilly breeze blew in off of the water. Des felt herself shiver inside of her Gore-Tex jacket. “Because we believe we’re different from the others,” she answered quietly. “And that it’ll all work out, even though it hasn’t worked out with anyone else before. It’s only after we’re in too deep that we realize how wrong we’ve been.”

  He leaned over and kissed her cheek. “Sorry, I got too close to the bone there, didn’t I?”

  “That’s okay. Brandon is strictly in my rearview mirror now. All I see in front of me is you. And you’re not a 6.5 on any shlub-o-meter. You’re my idea of a hunk.” She shoved her heavy horn-rimmed glasses up her nose and said, “When I spoke with Bob and Delia about the spring dance they mentioned that they’d set Luke up on a blind date that night with his future bride, Noelle. They said Luke had been ‘on his own’ for a while. But they didn’t say a word about Frances Shaver.”

  “Well, they wouldn’t, would they?”

  “The reason being?…”

  “They have a scripted version of what happened that night. They’ve been sticking to that script for forty-seven years. All of them. Every person who was at the table that night. What I’d like to know is who wrote the script.” He fell silent for a moment. “Helen’s positive that Bob and Chase both knew that Lance was buried under Dorset Street. She overheard them talking on the phone about it years ago.”

  “So that’s why she came to see us last night.”

  Mitch nodded. “And that’s why Bob always refused to regrade Dorset Street. He knew. Always has. My guess? They all have. Every person who was there—Bob and Delia, Chase and Beryl, Luke and Noelle. Can you find Noelle?”

  “They told me she died. But I’ll double-check that.”

  “One thing we know for sure is that Lance never took the Monster out that night. He never disappeared at sea. None of that ever happened. Something else did. And they’ve stayed quiet about it for all of these years. Chase even went to his grave without saying a word. It’s pretty amazing that they’ve kept this huge a secret for so long. Then again…”

  Des frowned at him. “Then again?…”

  “I can think of one good reason why they have,” he said. “To protect an even bigger secret.”

  “What’s a bigger secret than Lance’s body being buried under Dorset Street?”

  “The identity of who killed him. Because somebody did, right?”

  “We don’t know how Lance died. We won’t know until the ME tells us. Still, I’m with you. It’s pretty incredible. You’d think they would have turned on each other by now.”

  “Or used it against Luke Cahoon. We have ourselves a powerful US congressman parked smack-dab in the middle of this, don’t forget.”

  “Trust me, I haven’t forgotten.”

  “Although this may explain why Luke’s never taken a run at the Senate. He’s had his chances. Chris Dodd and Joe Lieberman have both stepped down in the past few years. Either Senate seat was his for the taking. And yet he’s declined to run. Why? Because a Senate run means big money. Special-interest money that comes with special-interest scrutiny attached, as in snarky political operatives combing the man’s past for dirt. Luke’s congressional seat is safe. No one bothers to mount a serious campaign against him. But if he ran for the Senate then the gloves would come off, and maybe he can’t afford that.” Mitch polished off the last of the Greek salad. “Will you be talking to him?”

  “I doubt that. I’m just the lowly resident trooper who’s keeping this investigation warm until the Major Crime Squad can take over.”

  “And when will that be?”

  “Tomorrow, probably.”

  “That means we can’t waste another minute flapping our gums.” He hitched up his jeans and started briskly toward to his truck. “We’ve got to keep on keepin’ on. Let’s do this thing, Sheriff.”

  Des smiled at him. “Whatever you say, Deputy Dawg.”

  * * *

  Des inhaled the heavy scent of eau de creosote as she bumped her way slowly along the partially graded and rolled surface of Dorset Street that Wilcox Paving had left behind. Outside of the Congregational Church, the gravesite had been tented and the ME’s team was hard at work sifting through the soil. Two state troopers remained stationed there to keep people away.

  She parked her Crown Vic in front of a wood-framed one-story building a half block from the crime scene. It was painted a creamy yellow with white trim. Two words—THE GAZETTE—were emblazoned above the front windows in an old-fashioned typeface.

  Inside, the offices of Dorset’s weekly newspaper were stubbornly quaint. The newsroom’s walls were lined with vintage oak filing cabinets and framed, yellowing copies of front pages that appeared to date back to the 1920s. Buzzy Shaver’s huge, cluttered rolltop desk, which anchored one corner of the newsroom, certainly dated back that far. Some kind of an ancient manual typewriter was parked on it, along with an old, old camera, a pipe rack filled with eight or ten pipes and a tin of Sir Walter Raleigh pipe tobacco. The man’s desk was practically a shrine. Hell, the whole newsroom was. Des doubted that the place looked much different than it did back in the old days, with the possible exception of the almost complete absence of people. She saw no sign of Buzzy. The reception desk and four of the five news desks were unoccupied.

  The only person in the place was the young, blond-haired guy whom she’d seen trying to take pictures of the skeletal remains that morning. He was perched at a desk on a bright orange fitness ball tapping away at a laptop computer. Three five-by-eight-inch notepads were open before him, their pages covered with scrawled notes. When he noticed her there, he jumped to his feet.

  He was tall and broad shouldered. Wore a blue button-down shirt, fleece vest and jeans. “Thanks for coming so soon, Troo
per Mitry.”

  She looked at him blankly. “Excuse me?”

  “I just placed the call a minute ago. You are responding to my call, aren’t you?”

  Her cell phone vibrated on her belt now. It was the 911 dispatcher directing her to proceed to the offices of The Gazette.

  “Actually, I stopped by to have a chat with Mr. Shaver. You are…”

  “Bart Shaver,” he said, extending his hand. Bart had alert blue eyes, a strong jaw and a wisp of a see-through moustache that did him no good whatsoever. “I’ve been giving Uncle Buzzy a hand around here for the past few weeks.”

  “So you’re Mr. Shaver’s nephew?”

  “Well, no, not if you want to get technical. He and my dad were first cousins. I’ve just always called him Uncle Buzzy.”

  “Okay. How may I help you, Bart?”

  “For starters, you can tell me if that was Lance Paffin who was buried out there.”

  “Where’d you get that idea?”

  “I hear things,” he said with a shrug.

  “They found unidentified remains that may or may not be human. If you have any more questions about that you’ll have to call our public information officer. Now what else can I do for you?”

  Bart eased himself back down onto the fitness ball, moving his hips gingerly from side to side. “I got thrown from my mountain bike up at Franconia Notch last summer,” he explained. “Gorked a couple of vertebrae in my lower back. They still bother me when I sit—unless I sit on this thing. Uncle Buzzy hates the sight of it in his hallowed newsroom. Gives me nothing but grief. Listen, I apologize in advance if it turns out I’m overreacting, but he’s sort of disappeared. Hasn’t shown up for work today, which is weird considering that newsworthy commotion outside, you know? And he isn’t answering his home phone.”

  Des tipped her big hat back on her head. “How about his cell?”

  “He doesn’t own one. Doesn’t believe in them. I swung by his house about an hour ago and he wasn’t there. He also…” Bart trailed off, clearing his throat. “He sent me an e-mail early this morning, just before eight o’clock. Which I have to admit surprised me—I wasn’t sure he actually knew how to use a computer. He still pecks out his weekly column, ‘Buzzy’s Buzzings,’ on that old typewriter of his. It came from his office e-mail address. So he must have stopped by here before I got in and used one of our desktops. He doesn’t have one at home.”