“What did his e-mail say?”
“Here, have a look.…” He turned his laptop around so she could read what was on the screen:
Don’t try to find me, bub. And do me a favor and keep the old Gazoot alive, okay? Love, Uncle Buzzy
She studied the screen, frowning. “The ‘Gazoot?’”
Bart smiled faintly. “That’s what I used to call The Gazette when I was a little boy.”
“Has he been upset about anything in particular?”
“Well, yeah. His health just for starters. He has emphysema from inhaling pipe smoke for all of those years. He’s definitely been gloomy about that. And our financial situation sure isn’t helping.”
“What financial situation is that?”
“The Gazette is flat broke. Has been for years. There’s no staff anymore in case you haven’t noticed—just Uncle Buzzy and me. The only way we’ve been able to stay afloat this long is because Bob Paffin has been quietly funneling Buzzy money. But now that Bob’s no longer first selectman, and doesn’t need our editorial support, he’s pulled the plug. Kind of cold if you ask me. Those two are lifelong friends. But Bob won’t help him out anymore. So we have to fold our print edition at the end of this month, which is a pretty big deal. We haven’t announced it to our readers yet, but we’ll be converting to an all-online operation. Buzzy hates the idea. He doesn’t believe a paper is real unless he can hold it in his two hands. But this has been happening to a lot of community newspapers. We simply can’t generate enough ad revenue to support a print edition. I’ve been helping him make the transition. I really want to keep The Gazette going. A community newspaper is vital to a town like Dorset, whether it’s on paper or online. How else can we keep the bastards in local government accountable to the voters? The TV stations don’t cover town government. The city papers are cutting back on their regional coverage. It’s up to papers like ours. And once we go online we can do a much, much better job of keeping up with breaking local news. I can update our home page bim-bam-boom. But, hey, I’m not telling you anything you don’t already know. Your boyfriend plays in the big leagues.”
“Mitch is a movie critic.”
“A movie critic who has a master’s degree from the Columbia Journalism School. You know what that makes him, don’t you?”
“You mean aside from insufferable?”
“A journalist. It’s in his blood, same as it’s in mine. I’m one of Mitch Berger’s biggest admirers. He writes with verve.”
“Yes, he does.”
“That’s because he’s passionate about movies. I feel the same way about Dorset. And I don’t know about you but I love what our first selectwoman brings to the table. That woman knows her stuff. She also believes in transparency—unlike Bob Paffin. Did you know that he had public works redo his gravel driveway at the town’s expense? Real deal. I spent three days over at the town garage poring over their requisition forms and time sheets. He disguised it as a road maintenance project on Frederick Lane. There was no such project. The man ripped us off. I wrote a detailed investigative piece all about it, but Buzzy killed it.”
“Did he say why?”
“You mean aside from the fact that Bob’s been bankrolling The Gazette? He said, ‘No one wants to read this crap, bub.’ Please don’t get me wrong about Buzzy, Trooper Mitry. He’s a genuinely great guy once you get to know him, but we have different views about what sort of future we want for Dorset. He wants it to be like it was in the so-called good old days. I want it to become more diverse and inclusive—a living, breathing part of the twenty-first century. I intend to stay put here. As soon as my girlfriend, Mary Ann, finishes up at Vassar we’re going to get married and raise our family here. I love this place. And I love that old curmudgeon. My parents have both passed. He’s the only family I have. And I’m all he has now that his mom is gone. Me and The Gazette. He’s not really happy in the Dorset of today. He absolutely detests Glynis, even though he and her mom are close friends. I did call Mrs. Fairchild before I called you. She hasn’t heard from him.” Bart’s brow creased with concern. “I don’t mean to put you to any unnecessary trouble but can you please make sure he’s okay?”
“Of course. That’s my job. Any idea where he might have gone?”
“He does have a fishing shack way out in the woods on the far side of Crescent Moon Pond. Sometimes he goes there when he wants to brood. He built it before the state turned those woods into a nature preserve. It’s the only shack out there. Strictly bare bones. No electricity or phone. No road either. The only way to get there is to row your way out.”
“Does Mr. Shaver have a rowboat?”
Bart nodded. “Keeps it in his garage. Mounts it on the roof of his Volvo.”
“Is he physically capable of rowing himself across Crescent Moon Pond?”
“If he sets his mind to it. Buzzy’s a stubborn old coot.”
“Have you got a key to his place on Appleby Lane?”
“He keeps a spare in his desk.” Bart got up off of his fitness ball and fetched it for her.
“Do I have your permission to enter the premises if he doesn’t answer?”
“Absolutely.” He looked at her curiously. “You don’t suppose this has anything to do with those remains they dug up out there this morning, do you?”
“I don’t suppose anything. Supposing isn’t my job.”
“I’d sure like to see a copy of the incident report from the night Lance Paffin disappeared back in 1967.”
“Like I said before, you’ll have to call our public information officer.”
“Okay, okay. The lid’s screwed on tight. I hear you.”
“But, listen, I can let you know when the documentation is about to made me public.”
Bart brightened. “You mean I’ll get it first?”
“You will if you’re quick on your feet.”
“I’m plenty quick. Hey, thanks.”
“No prob.” Des started for the door, then stopped. “One last thing, Bart. Does Mr. Shaver own a gun?”
Bart’s jaw muscles tightened. “A rifle. He used to go deer hunting a lot.”
“Do you know where he keeps it?”
“In his bedroom. It’s hanging from a couple of wrought-iron hooks over the closet door. It might be a Remington, but I’m not positive. I don’t know much about guns. The truth? I don’t like guns.”
“The truth? That makes two of us.”
* * *
Appleby Lane was a mix of the old and the new. There were lovingly maintained farmhouses and center chimney colonials that had been there for more than two hundred years. These were set quite close to the road. There were also more than a few newer trophy mansions set way back behind ChemLawn carpets that were already greening up in weed-free, neon-bright splendor.
Buzzy Shaver’s place was one of the old ones, a cramped-looking white farmhouse surrounded by tall cedar trees that really needed to be limbed up. Several of the lower branches were draped right over the roof, shrouding the house in moldy darkness. The house needed a new roof. Its rotting shingles looked like pieces of wet toast. It needed paint and trim work, too. And the fieldstone foundation was crumbling in spots. There was no black Volvo in the driveway. Or in the detached two-car garage, which was open.
Des got out of her Crown Vic and searched the garage. She found no rowboat. Then she started her way toward the front door of the house, feeling the eyes of Buzzy’s neighbors on her from behind their curtains. If anyone had anything to tell her they’d mosey on out. But no one did.
She knocked on Buzzy’s door and waited. No answer. She used the key that Bart had given her.
It was damp and cold inside. Also incredibly dark for midday, what with those tall trees and the heavy curtains over the windows. She flicked on a lamp and found herself in an old lady’s house. The parlor was crowded with plush, ornate Victorian furniture. The satin lampshades had tassels hanging from them. Fussy porcelain bric-a-brac was displayed here, there, everywhere. All of it was
badly in need of dusting.
Des called out his name. No answer.
She made her way into the dining room, where she found still more uber-Victoriana. An immense glass-fronted sideboard was stacked full of china. Eight matching high-backed chairs were placed around a claw-footed table that was covered with a frayed white-linen tablecloth. The glass bowl that was set in center of the table was filled with wax fruit. Des couldn’t remember the last time she’d seen genuine wax fruit.
She called out his name again. No answer.
Although now she could hear a low murmur of voices coming from the back of the house. She made her way through a swinging door into an eat-in kitchen that hadn’t been remodeled in at least fifty years. The countertops were tiled in contrasting shades of pink and charcoal. The linoleum pattern on the floor resembled a Spanish omelet. The low voices were coming from a thirteen-inch TV that was tuned to a black-and-white Western on TCM. Sturdy young Tim Holt seemed to be the star. Des realized to her dismay that it had finally happened. She could now walk into a room and instantly identify any old movie’s leading man. Clearly, she’d been spending too much time around a certain someone.
The kitchen sink was full of dirty dishes. The faucet drip, drip, dripped. The stovetop looked as if it hadn’t been given a proper scrub in six months. She stood there for a moment, hands on her hips, before she flicked off the TV. She tried to silence the dripping faucet, too, but had no luck with that.
Upstairs, she found three small bedrooms and one bath. The first bedroom she came to smelled of face powder and fruity perfume. Buzzy hadn’t touched a thing in here since his mother’s death, it appeared. It was as if the old lady still lived here. Her perfume, powder and hairbrush remained on her dressing table. Hairs. There were long silver hairs in the brush. The old lady’s bed was neatly made. And her clothing was still hanging in her closet. Des pulled open the top dresser drawer and found stacks of carefully folded linen hankies and silk underthings.
Another shrine. The man was into shrines. The only thing missing from this one was Glady Shaver’s slippers positioned just so on the floor beside the bed. As Des stood there she found herself shuddering inwardly. It was too quiet in this room. And just a tiny bit creepifying.
Buzzy’s bedroom was on the weird side, too. Or at least she found it weird that a grown man still slept in a narrow single bed in the very same room that he’d slept in as a boy. He even had his old, faded Boston Red Sox and Dorset High Fighting Pilgrims pennants hanging above the bed, which was unmade. The room was messy. Dirty clothes were strewn everywhere. And it smelled goaty—the telltale old-man aroma that Mitch so dreaded. A pair of black wrought-iron hooks was mounted over the closet door, just as Bart had said. But no rifle hung there. Des checked under the bed. No rifle. She searched the closet from top to bottom. No rifle. She did find a lady’s frilly nightgown and silk bathrobe hanging from a hook on the back of the door, smelling strongly of that same fruity perfume as the room next door. Des didn’t ask herself why Mr. Clyde “Buzzy” Shaver had his dead mother’s nightgown and robe hanging in his closet. She didn’t want to know why.
The third bedroom, which she was guessing had been his sister’s room, was now Buzzy’s den. Clearly, this was where the old curmudgeon spent most of his waking hours. He kept an oxygen tank in here to help him breathe. It was parked beside a worn leather easy chair set in front of an old twenty-inch Sony TV that was as deep as it was wide. On a shelving unit under the TV was a circa-1995 VCR and a collection of vintage videocassettes. Buzzy seemed to be a big fan of the ribald British TV comic Benny Hill. Also of a British TV sitcom called Are You Being Served? Newspapers and magazines were heaped on the floor next to his chair along with a stack of crossword-puzzle books. There were dirty dishes and beer cans on the coffee table.
There was no sign of his rifle.
Des stood there in the damp, silent, creepy house with her hands on her hips. Then she took a deep breath, sighed it out, and decided to rent herself a rowboat.
* * *
A stringy old man who worked in the storage shed up at Dunn’s Cove Marina was able to help her out. He didn’t ask her where she was taking the rowboat. Or why she wanted two life vests instead of one. He was an old Swamp Yankee who didn’t ask questions, especially of a black woman in uniform. Just helped her bracket the thing to the roof of her Crown Vic and sent her on her way.
From Dunn’s Cove it was less than a mile down Route 156 to the turnoff for Nehantic State Forest. A narrow, rutted dirt road led her to Crescent Moon Pond, which was her idea of a lake more than a pond. It had to be a good half mile across to the densely wooded shore on the other side. Buzzy’s shack was not visible from the parking lot. One car sat there in the lot—his black Volvo. It had brackets attached to its roof. No rowboat. The car was unlocked. Keys were in the ignition.
Des was unhooking the rowboat from her cruiser when her cell rang. It was the first selectwoman.
“Des, my mother has just informed me about the visit you paid to Bob and Delia Paffin,” Glynis stated forcefully. “I want to assure you that I am 100 percent at your service. There’s no way I can be an effective first selectwoman if I don’t assist you in any way that I can. I won’t stonewall you or circle the wagons simply because my own parents happened to be two of the last people who saw Lance Paffin alive.”
“I appreciate that, Glynis.”
“But I do wish to make two very important points. One, my father was the most decent, ethical man I’ve ever known. If he knew anything about Lance Paffin’s disappearance—and I’m in no way suggesting he did—he would have kept quiet about it not out of complicity, but because attorney-client privilege required him to do so. He would never betray a client’s confidence.”
“Are you saying that a client of his was involved?”
“I’m saying no such thing. I honestly have no idea.”
“Did he ever speak to you about Lance’s disappearance?”
“Never. My father was extremely tight-lipped.”
“Well, do you think there might be anything in his files that could help us? Notes, journal entries…”
“I doubt he would have put anything down on paper.”
“Do you mind if we have a look?”
“Not at all—provided you have a judge’s written consent.”
“That’s funny, I could have sworn you just said you wouldn’t stonewall me or—what was that other thing, circle the wagons?”
“And I won’t. But there are laws about these things.”
“What’s the other important point you want to make? You said there were two.”
“I’d like to be present when you speak with my mother.”
“In what capacity?”
“As her attorney.”
“Okay, I’ll let you know when I’m going to talk to her. Has she ever spoken to you about Lance?”
“Only in a general way. His drowning served as a go-to cautionary tale around our house back when I was a reckless teenager.”
“I have trouble imagining you as reckless.”
“You didn’t know me when I was seventeen.” Glynis fell silent for a moment. “Des, may I speak candidly?”
“Please do.”
“We’re talking about ancient history here. Something that happened long before you and I were even born. Part of me wishes we could just tuck that hideous skeleton into Lance’s plot at Duck River Cemetery and forget about it.”
“All of me wishes we could do that, Glynis. But we can’t. There are laws about these things, too.”
Des rang off and muscled the stubby rowboat into the chilly waters of the pond. Thin sheets of ice floated on the surface where there was deep shade. She put one of the life vests on over her Gore-Tex jacket and tossed the other one in the boat, then climbed in and set off, powering the wooden oars through the water. Her muscles welcomed the exercise. It was extremely peaceful out on Crescent Moon Pond on this early spring afternoon. This would have been a pleasant way to spend h
er time if the circumstances were just a bit different.
When she’d made it halfway out she realized how Crescent Moon Pond got its name. It had a severe crook in its middle. What she’d been looking at from the parking lot was merely the bend, not the farthest bank. As she rounded the bend the other side of the pond came into full view. And so did a small shack. A rowboat was tied up there at a rotting dock. She rowed her way to it and tied up next to it. Got out and started toward the shack, walking carefully on the dock’s none-too-sturdy planks. The shack was old, with a rust-streaked tin roof. There was a well with a hand pump out front. Two wooden steps led up to the front door, which was half open. Inside, she found a potbelly stove and a plain wooden worktable that had a couple of wooden chairs placed at it.
Seated at the table with a nearly empty bottle of Old Overholt rye whiskey in his hand was Buzzy Shaver. The old man wore a gray cable-stitched cardigan sweater, white shirt, tan slacks and a glazed expression. A bronchodilator inhaler sat before him on the table. His deer-hunting rifle, a Remington bolt action Model 700 BDL center fire, was positioned on the other chair with its barrel propped on the table and pointing directly at his jowly face. Its walnut stock was pressed against the back of the chair and held in place there by Buzzy’s gnarly, muenster-scented bare feet. His two big toes were squeezed around the Remington’s trigger. They were trembling.
“I’ve always wondered if that would work,” she said quietly. “I’ve seen people do it on TV but never in real life.”
Buzzy didn’t respond to her words for a long moment. Just stared at the muzzle of the rifle. His mind was already somewhere far, far away. He was almost gone. “It’ll … work,” he responded finally, his voice hoarse and slurred. “Stick around and you’ll see it for yourself.”
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