The Coal Black Asphalt Tomb

by David Handler

  “What have you got in there, Mr. Shaver?”

  “A thirty-aught-six cartridge.” He took a swig from the bottle. “The hell you want?”

  “Nothing much. Just came by to say thank you.”

  “For…”

  “Leaving me with such a bloody mess. I’m the one who gets to clean up after you, you know. And I’ll have to inform Bart.”

  “My ball boy?” Buzzy let out a derisive snort. “My father would turn over in his grave if he saw the stupid orange ball that kid sits on. It’s a newsroom, not a day-care center.” He let a wheezy sigh, his chest rising and falling, rising and falling. The simple act of breathing was hard work for him. “Or it was a newsroom. The paper is history now. Bart’s destroyed it.”

  “Bart told me he’s trying to save it. He loves The Gazette. Loves you too, Mr. Shaver. He thinks you’re a sweet old guy. But you’re not, are you? You’re nothing but nasty through and through. If you gave a damn about Bart, or anyone else, you wouldn’t blow your face off like this.” She paused, her eyes fastened on the old man’s trembling toes. “Then again, you did shlep all of the way up here. I guess that counts for something.”

  “The hell you talking about now?”

  “You were alone in your house on Appleby this morning. Had your rifle, a perfectly fine kitchen table, chairs. Why didn’t you just do it there? Were you ashamed to take the coward’s way out in front of your mother?”

  “My mother’s dead.”

  “Really? You wouldn’t know it by the look of the place.”

  “You get out of here,” he snarled, flaring at her.

  “Happy to, Mr. Shaver. If you’ll let me have that rifle.”

  “No!” His shaking toes tightened on the trigger. “Just get out of here and leave me alone. I’m ready to go.”

  “If you’re so ready then what’s with the drama?”

  He blinked at her, his brow furrowing. “What drama?”

  “You had to row all of the way out here, gasping and wheezing. If you’re so ready to go why didn’t you just chuck your bronchodilator into the pond? You’d probably be dead by now from oxygen deprivation or heart failure. No muss, no fuss. So what is this—a cry for help?”

  His gaze returned to the muzzle of the Remington before him. “What have I got to live for? The Gazette is gone.”

  “That’s not how Bart sees it.”

  “Bart’s an idiot,” he growled. “And I don’t think much of his girlfriend either. That is one plain-faced girl. Can’t imagine what he sees in her.”

  “Maybe he loves her.”

  “I wouldn’t know about that.”

  “You’ve never been in love?”

  “Go away! Just leave me in peace, will you?”

  “Afraid I can’t oblige you, Mr. Shaver. The State of Connecticut expects certain things of its sworn personnel. One of them is that I’m not allowed to let a cranky, drunk old man blow his face off. Sorry about that.” She tipped her hat back on her head, studying him. “You know, I think I’ve got you figured out. You’re trying to serve as a weapon of mass distraction, aren’t you? You e-mailed Bart that cryptic suicide note knowing he’d contact me and I’d come looking for you. And that when I found you here, dead, the media would get so caught up in your tragic suicide that they’d forget all about the other thing.”

  “What other thing?”

  “The body we found underneath Dorset Street. This is a Hail Mary play. Except you messed up because you’re not ready to die. If you were then your blood and brain matter would already be congealing all over that wall behind you. Hell, you had a two-, three-hour head start on me.”

  Buzzy took a swig of Old Overholt, scowling at her. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “You couldn’t do it, Mr. Shaver. Couldn’t pull that trigger. It’s fine by me. I’m not disrespecting you. But you’re sure disrespecting me and mine.”

  “How so?”

  “You don’t think we can walk and chew gum at the same time. The media might get distracted, but we won’t. We will find out what really happened to Lance Paffin on that warm spring night back in 1967.”

  Buzzy had nothing to say to that. Just stared at the muzzle of the Remington, his toes still trembling on the trigger.

  “I understand you and Beryl Fairchild are an item these days.”

  “Just old friends. She makes me dinner two, three nights a week because I’m no good at cooking. Rents us a movie to watch on TV. Sometimes I fall asleep on her sofa while she’s doing the dishes. She doesn’t like to wake me because people our age have a lot of trouble falling asleep. So I get home late some nights and I—”

  “You park your car on Dorset Street so your neighbors won’t gossip.”

  “This is Beryl Fairchild we’re talking about, not some barmaid at the Monkey Farm Café. She feels sorry for me,” he said morosely. “Always has. I never had much luck with girls. They’d take one look at this face and run for the hills. Mostly, I took care of Mother. Not that I could please the old bitch. Nothing I did was good enough. And, God, the one time I did bring a girl home it was pick-pick-pick the minute Mother laid eyes on her. Pick-pick-pick. Because she was afraid she’d lose me. I was all she had, you know, a-after…” He let out a strangled sob. “… after Frances died. Frances slit her wrists because of that bastard. Mother was never the same. Life was never the same.” He flexed his toes on the trigger, wincing. They’d cramped up on him from the awkward way he was holding them. By now Des was fairly certain she could snatch the Remington away from him. But she didn’t want to take that chance. Not if she could avoid it. Especially when he was feeling chatty. “Everyone loved Frances. She believed in people. Believed that all of us are good inside. Lance wasn’t good inside. He was pure bastard. Had to go after her. Had to have her. It was Luke who she loved. And Luke loved her. They belonged together. But no woman one was off-limits as far as Lance was concerned.”

  “Mr. Shaver, what do you know about his death?”

  Buzzy peered up at her, his eyes narrowing. “The same thing everybody else knows. He took the Monster out and never came back.”

  “Were you surprised that we found those remains under Dorset Street?”

  “I’ve been around for a long time. Nothing surprises me anymore.”

  “And nothing goes on in Dorset that you don’t know about. So tell me, what really happened that night?”

  He took another swig of Old Overholt. “I have no idea.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “Then don’t believe me. I don’t care. Because I’ll never tell. You can put me in front of grand jury or a goddamned firing squad and I’ll never tell. None of us will.”

  “Who is us?”

  Buzzy glanced at her sharply before his gaze returned to the muzzle of the Remington. “I’ll die before I tell.”

  “Suit yourself. But not on my watch. I can’t let you shoot yourself.”

  “I’ve been sitting here like this for over an hour,” he confessed. “Can’t do it. Can’t pull the trigger. You were right a-about…” He broke off, coughing. A hacking, painful cough. “I don’t have the guts to do it.”

  “It doesn’t take guts to kill yourself. It takes guts to stay alive.”

  “Wouldn’t know about that. I just know I was glad as hell to see you walk through that door. You probably think all of this is pretty funny, don’t you?”

  “I don’t think any of this is funny, Mr. Shaver.” With one swift move she reached down and snatched the Remington from its perch on the chair. “Why don’t you put your shoes and socks on? We’ll row our way back, okay?”

  “Are you going to arrest me?” Buzzy asked her defeatedly.

  Des shook her head. “I’m going to call the Jewett sisters. They’ll come pick you up.”

  “I’m not going to tell you anything about that night,” he warned her. “You can’t make me.”

  “I’ve got a thermos of hot coffee in my cruiser. We’ll have some coffee while
we wait for the girls and you don’t have to say a thing. Have we got ourselves a deal?”

  “Why not?” Buzzy Shaver grumbled in response. “Why the hell not?”

  CHAPTER 6

  THE DORSET COUNTRY CLUB sat high atop a hill on McCurdy Road. Considering just how hard it was to become a member—letters of recommendation from no less than three active members were required—the club really wasn’t much to look at. The golf course was narrow, featureless and decidedly inferior to the course at the decidedly less exclusive Black Hall River Club in neighboring East Dorset. There were two tennis courts that no one ever seemed to use. A swimming pool that was still covered over for the winter. And the circa-1957 vinyl-sided clubhouse was drably furnished with mismatched plaid sofas and worn, threadbare carpeting.

  It was a few minutes after two o’clock when Mitch strolled in with Bitsy, as her guest. The dining room was done serving lunch. A half-dozen dignified retirees were digesting their meal in the reading room with their eyes closed and their mouths open. There was no bar. Instead, the club had a storage cupboard with lockers where members could keep their private stock under lock and key. The club’s thriftier members were notorious for buying bottom-shelf A&P store-brand Scotch and transferring the contents to the bottle from a high-end single-malt.

  They found Beryl Fairchild and Delia Paffin alone in the sunny card room, talking quietly over a hand of gin rummy. The two ladies acted startled when Mitch and Bitsy walked in, as if they’d just been caught doing something naughty.

  Beryl mustered a welcoming smile. “Why, Bitsy, how nice to see you. You’re looking well, dear.”

  “As are you,” Bitsy said brightly. “But you always do. Some day you’ll have to tell me your secret.”

  Beryl Fairchild was a slender, silver-haired swan of a lady who exuded poise and elegance. Her posture was perfect. Her complexion was smooth. Her features were finely sculpted. She had good, high cheekbones and a wide mouth with a fetching Tierney-esque overbite, as in the actress Gene, not the actor Lawrence. Her eyes were a lovely shade of blue. But they were not the gleaming eyes of a woman who was happily engaged in life’s joyous pursuits. They were the eyes of a full-time practicing widow who had seen life and love leave her behind. Beryl was wearing a pale yellow cashmere sweater and tailored gray slacks. A raspberry-colored silk scarf was knotted artfully around her throat to hide whatever age lines were there.

  Delia Paffin, aka Easy Deezy, was a hefty, rosy-cheeked woman who, for reasons known only to her, chose to dye her hair the color of Tang. Mitch had encountered the former first selectman’s wife several times at cocktail parties and gallery openings. He’d found her to be beady eyed, calculating and nasty. Otherwise he liked her a lot.

  “Do you know Mitch Berger?” Bitsy asked Beryl.

  “I know of you, of course,” Beryl said, extending her slim hand to him.

  He gave it a gentle squeeze. “Likewise, Mrs. Fairchild.”

  “Please, make it Beryl.”

  Delia did not offer him her own boiled ham of a hand. Merely glared at him as if he’d just tracked something nasty onto her pristine white living room carpet.

  “I’m giving Mitch our grand tour,” Bitsy informed them. “He’s thinking about joining.”

  “There’s a considerable waiting list,” Delia cautioned him, her voice distinctly chilly.

  “Not a problem,” he assured her. “I’m a patient man.”

  “Won’t you two sit with us for minute?” Beryl asked.

  “Why, thanks, that would be lovely,” Bitsy burbled as they sat down at the card table with them. “You know, I’ve always liked this room the best. It’s newer than the rest of the club, Mitch.”

  “Was it added on?”

  “In a manner of speaking,” Beryl said. “The original card room burned to the ground back in ’92. It was a smaller room and didn’t have nearly as many windows looking out at Old Henry’s garden. Old Henry was our head groundskeeper here for nearly fifty years. His garden has always been our pride and joy. His boy, Young Henry, still does a wonderful job with it. Not that there’s much to see right now.”

  Mostly what Mitch saw were the thorny stubs of many, many rose bushes set in tidy rows.

  “You must come back and see it when it’s in full bloom, Mitch,” she added. “It’s really quite remarkable.”

  “Did it have to be replanted after the fire?”

  “It did indeed.” Beryl gazed out at it. “Between the firemen and the workmen it got thoroughly trampled. It’s an entirely different garden now.”

  “How so?”

  “Why do you wish to know?” Delia demanded, her jaw clenching.

  “I’m interested in gardens.” Mitch noticed two gently aged wooden benches artfully positioned amidst the rose bushes. “Those are great benches. Are they teak? I was thinking about buying one. Do they last a long time?”

  “Yes, they’re teak.” Now Delia was outright bristling. “Do you always ask so many questions?”

  “I’m afraid so. That’s how I learn things.”

  “They last for generations if you take good care of them,” Beryl responded politely. “Which Young Henry does. He tucks them away every winter, gives them a good scrub. And in answer to your other question, the garden was enlarged after the fire so as to accommodate more beds. Young Henry is also a good deal less formal than his father was.”

  “The old garden was much more traditional,” Delia allowed. “And properly enclosed, unlike now.”

  “I see,” Mitch said, even though he didn’t. Young Henry’s garden not only looked plenty formal but was fully enclosed by a neatly manicured waist-high boxwood hedge.

  “He’s very clever when it comes to making sure something’s in bloom all season long,” Beryl went on. “Peonies, foxgloves, hollyhocks, what have you. That way there’s always sure to be a lovely backdrop for wedding photos. Many, many weddings have taken place in Old Henry’s garden over the years. Delia and Bob were married out there.”

  “By Reverend Marsh,” Delia recalled with a nod of her orange head. “On a sunny day in June of 1969. The 14th, thanks to your dear father-in-law.”

  “Chase’s father was club president back in those days,” Beryl explained. “When Delia and Bob decided on a date it turned out that another couple had already reserved the garden for their own wedding. Mr. Fairchild persuaded them to choose a different date so as to accommodate Delia and Bob. Chase was Bob’s best man, and I was Delia’s maid of honor.” A wistful smile crossed her lips. “We were married here ourselves a few months later.”

  Delia’s beady eyes narrowed at him. “Bob and I had a visit from your ‘friend’ this morning. I don’t suppose you know anything about that.”

  “I know everything about it. So does Bitsy.” On Delia’s look of dismay Mitch added, “But not because of anything the resident trooper told us.”

  Bitsy nodded. “It’s true. We got dragged in all on our own.”

  Delia let out a sigh. “It’s been such a shock. Imagine, Lance underneath Dorset Street this whole time.”

  “How did Bob take the news?” Bitsy asked her.

  “Not well. He fainted. Bob’s never had a strong constitution, you know. And then he got extremely agitated when an unappetizing young fellow from the medical examiner’s office showed up to take … what did he call it? A cheek swab? Bob got so upset that I gave him a mild tranquilizer and put him to bed. He’s napping now. Or he should be.” She glanced at her watch. “I ought to get home to him. I just had to get out of the house for a few minutes.”

  “Of course you did,” Beryl said soothingly.

  “Bob idolized Lance, you see. Lance was his hero. And he died so young that he never had a chance to disillusion Bob.”

  “Why would he disillusion him?” Mitch asked.

  “Because the Lances Paffins of the world always do. Bob only knew him as his vibrant and charismatic big brother. He never had to watch Lance become just another balding, middle-aged fellow with a bee
r gut who complains day and night about his enlarged prostate. Lance never … he never committed the cardinal sin of becoming ordinary,” Delia explained, choosing her words carefully.

  Mitch wondered if she’d been that careful when she used to shuck her panties in the back seat of Lance’s Mustang GT. A giggly pushover, Sheila had called her.

  “It occurs to me that I’m being a terrible hostess,” Beryl interjected. “May I offer either of you coffee?”

  “I’d love a cup,” Bitsy said.

  “Me, too. But you’d better make mine decaf, please.”

  “I really should get home to Bob,” Delia said.

  Beryl said, “Do give him my best. And call me if you need anything.”

  The two of them exchanged air kisses before Delia left. Beryl went into the small kitchen that adjoined the card room. She returned a moment later with two cups and sat back down, calm and composed. Mitch couldn’t imagine her as anything but calm and composed.

  He took a sip of his decaf and discovered that it didn’t taste even remotely like coffee. He took another sip, frowning suspiciously. “Am I losing my mind or is this Postum?”

  “Why no,” Beryl responded hurriedly. “No, it’s not.”

  He grinned at her. “Yes, it is. And you’re a terrible liar. I haven’t had a cup of this since my grandmother died. She used to love it.” Postum was an instant coffee substitute made from roasted grain. Easier on the stomach supposedly. “But I thought Kraft Foods stopped making it.”

  “Back in 2008,” Beryl confirmed. “Our club manager in those days believed in bulk purchasing. He was very clever that way. Since quite a few of us happened to enjoy it he purchased numerous cartons of it. We still have several tucked safely away. We have to keep them under lock and key or someone will steal them. Unopened jars of Postum fetch quite a sum on eBay, I’m told. Apparently, the Seventh-day Adventists pay top dollar for them. Was your grandmother a Seventh-day Adventist?”

  “Sadie Mandelbaum? No, not exactly.”

  Beryl squinted at him ever so slightly before she turned to Bitsy and said, “Have you lost weight? You’re looking thin.”