Mitch gauged the distance with his eyes. “More like twelve feet.”
She shook her head. “Looks like ten to me.”
“Twelve. Want me to pace it off?”
“Not necessary.”
“It’ll only take a sec. Are you sure?”
“Quite sure.” She turned back to Buzzy. “You’re elderly and a bit on the shaky side. I’m young and fast on the draw. I also have way more firepower than you do. This is a SIG-Sauer P229 .40 caliber semiautomatic weapon that I’m carrying. Since I happen to be the one who’s armed you’ll shoot me first. I’m betting my life it won’t be a kill shot. I doubt you’ll even hit me at all from where you’re sitting. Even if you do I’ll still shoot that Ruger right out of your hand and that will be the end of it. So do yourself a favor and drop it, Mr. Shaver, okay? Drop your damned gun now!”
CHAPTER 15
“TIME OUT, WHAT IF his first shot hits me?”
“It won’t,” Des assured Mitch, her eyes never leaving Buzzy’s raised gun. “I’m the one who’s armed, remember?”
“Yeah, but he might aim at you and hit me instead. He’s old and shaky, remember?”
“Mitch, that’s not going to happen,” she said, really, really hoping her voice sounded steady and calm. Because she wasn’t feeling steady or calm. She was genuinely terrified that this wheezing wretch of an old man was going to shoot the man she loved.
“But how can you be so sure?” Mitch’s own voice sounding a bit thick. He’d downed, what, three doubles in less than thirty minutes? Not like him at all. He was trying to numb his grief. And yet, somehow, he was still managing to fit all of the pieces together in a way that made an amazing amount of sense. Des didn’t know how he did it. Whether it was because of the thousands of movie plots he had tucked away in his size-genius brain or if he was just remarkably intuitive. But her wow man had a gift, no getting around it.
“I do this for a living, okay?” she said to him patiently. “And I need for you to shut up a second. And Mr. Shaver, I need for you to give it up. There is no way you’re going to take out both of us before I blow a big hole through your gun hand.”
“You’ll have to kill me, too, Buzzy,” Glynis warned him. “I won’t watch you murder two people and keep quiet. I’m an officer of the court. I’ve taken an oath to uphold the law, and I will. So will Congressman Cahoon.” On Luke Cahoon’s rather startled look she said, “Won’t you, Congressman?”
Luke Cahoon gazed at Dorset’s first selectwoman reflectively. “I don’t believe I want to find out the answer to that question. Buzzy, mind if I have a drink of your rotgut?”
“Now it’s turning into a party,” Mitch exclaimed happily.
“Help yourself, Luke.” Buzzy fished another shot glass from the bottom desk drawer with his left hand, his right still clutching the Ruger. “And pour me one while you’re at it.”
Luke Cahoon filled both shot glasses and held Buzzy’s out to him. When Buzzy reached for it the congressman snatched the Ruger from his other hand.
“Luke, what are you doing?”
“The right thing.” He held it out to Des by its short barrel. “The sane thing.”
She took it from him, pocketing it. “Thank you, Congressman.”
“Don’t thank me,” he said coldly. “I didn’t do it for you.”
Buzzy glowered at Luke, his chest rising and falling with great difficulty. Every breath he took sounded like a wet, torn bellows.
“We’ve gotten off of the subject here,” Glynis stated firmly, her eyes locking on to Beryl’s. “You were there that night, Mother. All of you were there. And you can’t keep this a secret any longer. So why don’t you just tell us what really happened to Lance?”
The old friends maintained their guilty silence. Wouldn’t so much as look at each other.
Until Buzzy finally spoke up. “You want to know what really happened?” he blustered. “Fine, I’ll tell you. When I heard that he’d dared to show his face at the club I let the smug bastard have it, okay? Because he did not belong around decent people. Not after what he’d done to Frances. He killed her. So I killed him.” Buzzy held his wrists out to Des. “Get your handcuffs out. It’s me who you want. I killed Lance. And I’m not sorry. I’ve never been sorry.”
Des considered his confession carefully. “How did you hear that Lance had dared to show his face at the club? I was told that you didn’t attend the dance. Had to stay home with your mother.”
Buzzy peered at her balefully. “I knew a kid who bussed tables there. He called me from the kitchen and told me, okay? What happened to Frances, that was something Mother never got over. Frances was a treasure. And that bastard, he wiped his feet on her. I-I got in my car and drove over there. Told Lance to step out into the parking lot. When we got outside I told him he had no business associating with decent people and to get the hell out of Dorset. Go fly his jet planes. Fly one into the side of a mountain somewhere for all I cared. The bastard just laughed at me and called me a name I won’t repeat in front of ladies. So I punched him. Caught him off guard, I guess. He tumbled over backwards and cracked his skull against that spiked fence that was around the garden. One minute he was standing there laughing at me. The next minute he was lying there dead.” Buzzy drank down his shot glass full of rye. “The other fellows wanted to call the police. But if we’d done that then the girls would have gotten dragged into it simply for being there. I didn’t want their reputations to suffer because of that bastard. It was bad enough that Frances gave up her own life for him. Luke was sympathetic to that.”
“And Bob, too?” Des glanced over at Dorset’s former first selectman. “He helped you cover up his own brother’s death as an act of, what, chivalry?”
“Absolutely,” Buzzy replied.
Des glanced over at Delia Paffin and Beryl Fairchild, whose eyes remained fastened on the floor. Then she turned to Mitch and said, “I’m not buying this, are you?”
“Not so much. But I’ve had quite a bit to drink.”
“I haven’t.”
“It’s the truth, damn it,” Buzzy insisted. “We sent Delia, Beryl and Noelle home, then stuffed Lance in the trunk of his Mustang and drove him to Dorset Street. The town was planning to repave it on Monday. I figured if we dug a hole and covered him over no one would ever know what happened.”
“And what about shipwrecking the Monster?” Des asked him.
“My idea, too,” he answered quickly, wetting his lower lip with a dart of his grayish tongue. “It was an entirely believable way for a hot dog like Lance to go. And with the Connecticut River’s current it was also believable that his body wouldn’t turn up. Luke and I took the Monster out. Chase followed us in the little runabout that the Fairchilds kept at the yacht club. Bob stayed behind on lookout, but no one happened by. First thing Monday morning public works repaved Dorset Street and as far as the world was concerned Lance disappeared at sea.”
“What did you do with Lance’s wallet?”
“We dumped it overboard.”
“Yet you didn’t remove his class ring or his Rolex. Why not?”
“Because that would have been disrespectful.”
Des turned to Mitch and said, “I’m still not buying this, are you?”
“Not so much. But I’ve had quite a bit to drink.”
“I haven’t.”
“When I got back here from the cemetery,” Buzzy went on, “I was planning to use this pistol on myself. Finish the job I didn’t have the nerve to do yesterday at my shack. But I couldn’t get Beryl to leave. She’s very determined, in her own quiet way.” Again, he held his wrists out to Des. “You’ve got me. Take me away.”
“Very well, Mr. Shaver.” Des reached ever so slowly for the handcuffs on her Sam Browne belt. “If that’s how you want it.”
“Wait, Buzzy, I can’t let you do this!” Bob Paffin blurted out.
“Shut up,” Buzzy growled at him.
“But it’s not right!”
“I agree
with Bob on this, Buzzy,” Luke Cahoon said. “It’s not right.”
“I’m the one who you want,” Bob confessed, his voice quavering. “I punched Lance. We got into a dumb fight about kid stuff. Stupid kid stuff. He was teasing me about the way I used to stammer when I was a little boy. Started calling me B-B-Bombo again. That’s what he used to call me. Little B-B-Bombo. God, I hated that nickname. And Lance knew it. So he kept taunting me, just like he did when we were boys. He could be very cruel.”
“And yet you idolized him,” Des pointed out.
“Idolized him?” Bob let out a humorless laugh. “Not a chance. I hated him. My brother was a vicious bully. He tormented me beyond belief when I was little. I was afraid of small spaces, and Lance knew that. When I was seven he locked me in a storage cupboard down in the basement and wouldn’t let me out for hours. I sobbed and sobbed and eventually peed all over myself. He laughed. He thought it was hilarious. When I was ten he wrapped me up with masking tape and locked me in my closet for half of the night while he and a neighbor girl had sex in his bedroom. I peed all over myself then, too.”
“I’m beginning to sense a recurring theme here,” Mitch observed.
“Humiliation,” Bob said bitterly. “You know what I used to call him? ‘The King.’ We all did, with sneers on our faces, because he thought the simple, basic rules of human decency, the ones that the rest of us live by, didn’t apply to him. That night of the spring dance he pushed me too far. And I-I finally fought back. And you know the rest.” He held his wrists out to her. “You know everything now.”
Des let out a sigh of regret. “Well, I tried. I was really hoping to spare you folks the indignity, but I’m afraid we’ll have to take all of you in for questioning when the Major Crime Squad gets here.” She started counting heads. “I do believe we’re going to need two cars.”
“But why?” Bob protested. “I’ve just told you what happened.”
“And I know that you’re lying,” Des said. “Here’s what I think. I think you good folks made up a story about what happened that warm spring night and you’ve stuck to it like the good, loyal friends you are—right down to the smallest detail like ‘stoked.’ How many times did I hear you say Lance was ‘stoked’ for a sail? But you never had a plan for what you’d do when Lance’s body was finally found, did you? All you could hope to do was run out the clock. Chase Fairchild got lucky. He didn’t have to face this day. Nor did the congressman’s ex-wife, Noelle. But the rest of you are still here. And now you have to deal with it. It’s taken forty-seven years but the truth has finally caught up with you.”
“We’ve made a difference,” Luke Cahoon pointed out. “Led useful lives. There’s justice in that. And justice in what happened to him. Lance Paffin was a predator who didn’t deserve to live.”
“So, what, you folks executed him?”
“I punched him,” Bob repeated insistently. “I punched him and he hit his head on the fence.”
She glanced over at Mitch. “I’m still not buying it, are you?”
“Not so much.”
“What are you thinking?”
“That Lance’s wicked, wicked way with women got him killed. It’s a pretty long list of women. Longer than we realized. Young Henry just added a new name to it.”
“Really? Do tell.”
“It seems that back in ’62, when the gang was still in high school, Lance had a torrid fling with one of their mothers—a shmokin’ blonde who was in her early forties at the time. Young Henry stumbled upon the two of them together by the club pool one morning, stark naked. He never told a soul about it. He was afraid that the pretty blonde would get him fired. Babette Fairchild was in a position to get him fired. Her husband, Chase’s father, was president of the country club at the time.”
Glynis whirled and gaped at her mother in horror. “Lance Paffin slept with Nana Baba?”
Beryl didn’t answer her. Just stood there in mortified silence.
“Chase must have found out. I can’t imagine Lance didn’t boast about it,” Mitch said. “How could he resist? He nailed the guy coming and going.”
“What is that supposed to mean?” Glynis demanded.
“It means,” Beryl said, “that I had to arrange a special trip to Barbados during my senior year at Wellesley because of Lance.”
“He got you pregnant?”
Beryl lowered her gaze, coloring slightly. “Yes.”
“Did father know?”
“Of course he knew,” Mitch said. “Your father hated Lance Paffin.”
Beryl stiffened. “How dare you accuse a man who’s not here to defend himself. My husband was honorable and decent.”
“I didn’t say he wasn’t. Just that he had a really good reason for wanting Lance dead. Same as Congressman Cahoon and Mr. Shaver and Lance’s kid brother, Bob, who has conveniently neglected to mention that Lance also had his way with Delia.”
“That’s a damned lie!” Bob said indignantly.
“Nope, it’s the damned truth. It’s also the golden sombrero. All of you guys hated him for what he did to your women.” Mitch helped himself to some more of Buzzy Shaver’s Old Overholt. “How am I doing, Master Sergeant? Still okay?”
“More than okay.”
He tilted his head at her curiously. “You sound surprised.”
“Never. I’m in awe. Is there more?”
“A teeny-tiny bit more.” He looked over at Delia Paffin, who stood there in grim silence next to Bob. She’d started to shake, as if the earth were quaking under her feet.
Mitch stared at her, his gaze steady and unblinking. Des had never seen her man’s eyes bore into anyone quite so intensely before.
Delia gazed back at him, then looked away. Or tried to. Her own eyes kept returning to him, as if she were powerless to stop them. “Why do you keep looking at me that way?” she demanded.
“How did it feel?”
“How did what feel?”
“Getting caught that way.”
“Young man, I have no idea what you are talking about,” she answered contemptuously. “Do you?”
“Yeah, I do. I most certainly do. I’m told that you had quite a frisky reputation back in your day, Mrs. Paffin. No disrespect intended. Believe me, I sowed plenty of wild oats myself. Well, no, I didn’t. Mostly, I sat by myself in darkened movie houses eating pastrami sandwiches and kosher dill pickles. Never got laid. But that’s a whole other plot. Your nickname around Dorset was Easy Deezy. Everybody knew it. Everybody except for your beloved Bob.”
“Now you j-just hold on there!” Bob sputtered at him angrily.
“I repeat, how did it feel when Bob caught the two of you together that night? You were on one of those teak benches in Old Henry’s garden, weren’t you? That’s why you got so snarly with me yesterday when I asked you about them. Sure, you and Lance were tucked into a nice, quiet corner of the rose garden getting busy when your beloved Bob caught you in the act. He found out. That’s what really happened, isn’t it?”
The newsroom fell silent again, aside from the rain that was coming down hard on the roof.
“Yes, that’s what really happened,” Bob conceded in a heavy voice. “I caught them there together. And instead of apologizing to me Lance bragged about how Delia couldn’t get enough of him. A tramp. That’s what he called her, among other things, while she was sitting right there before us.” He looked at Des pleadingly. “I was hoping to keep her name out of this. You can understand that, can’t you? But everything else I just told you is true. I ordered him to stand up on his two feet like a man. When he did I popped him one and he hit his head on that fence. You know the rest. That’s it. That’s the whole—”
“Stop this, Bob!” Delia cried out suddenly. “For God’s sake, please stop, will you?”
Bob placed a bony hand on her shoulder. “Let me handle it. Everything’s going to be fine.”
“No, everything’s not going to be fine! I can’t stand it any longer!” Delia began to sob. Huge, wrenc
hing sobs. Her chest was heaving. Tears streamed down her chubby cheeks. “I won’t let you do this. I won’t! My God, Buzzy, you actually killed Bart—a sweet young boy who had his whole life ahead of him. How am I supposed to look at myself in the mirror? Tell me how!”
Buzzy didn’t tell her anything. Just sat there in defeated silence.
“You’re upset, dear,” Bob said soothingly. “We’re all upset. It’s been a rough couple of days. But you need to calm down.”
“Bob’s right, Delia,” Luke Cahoon said. “You don’t want to say anything to these people that you’ll regret, do you?”
“Let her speak,” Beryl said to them in a firm voice.
Bob blinked at her, startled. “Excuse me?”
“Delia has been carrying this around for too long,” she told him. “So have I. And I will not stand here and silently countenance the murder of that young man.”
Glynis reached over and held her mother’s hand tightly in hers.
Delia found a tissue in her purse and dabbed at her eyes, sniffling. “Will someone please give me a drink?”
“Don’t mind if I do.” Mitch fetched her the shot glass of Old Overholt that Buzzy had filled for the congressman.
Delia drank it down, shuddering. “I’m the one who killed Lance.” Her voice was low and flat now. She had no more emotion left inside of her. “Not Bob. Not Buzzy. It was me. The four of them took care of his body to protect me. In our day the men were supposed to look out for us. And they looked out for me.
“I’d bought a new gown for the dance,” she recalled. “And I’d been starving myself for a week so I’d fit into it. The champagne went right to my head. And we drank buckets of it. Lance had to go back to that awful war in the morning. He didn’t want the night to end. None of us did. We were all so giddy. God knows I certainly was. It was such a wonderful night.”
The Coal Black Asphalt Tomb Page 18