Three Can Keep a Secret

by Mayor, Archer

  He was impressed. “I think I’ve come to the right person,” he told her boss. “Thanks so much.”

  “How can I help you?” Elizabeth asked as the director walked away.

  Joe repeated his earlier question, adding, “The reason I ask is that I’m hoping you helped an elderly woman a while back, who clearly had no idea what the Internet was, or probably even how to operate a computer.”

  Elizabeth looked astonished. “Wow. You really are a G-man. How did you know that? That’s like a perfect description.”

  Joe allowed himself a moment’s elation. Once in a while, he thought, things actually could come together.

  “Did she give a name?” he asked.

  There, Elizabeth was less helpful, however. “No, and we usually don’t ask. It goes with the whole confidentiality thing. She was really nice, though.”

  “What did she want to know?”

  Elizabeth rose from her desk and walked over to one of the computer stations. “She had heard about computers. Just never operated one. And while her typing was wicked rusty, I could tell she’d been trained. She put her hands on the keyboard like an old pro, sort of instinctively.”

  “Did she mention who she was looking for?”

  She shook her head. “I asked her, in order to demonstrate how Google works, or one of the other search engines we use, but she was clearly not willing to talk about it, and I didn’t push.”

  “Right,” he murmured. “The confidentiality thing.”

  “You got it. So, after about twenty minutes of instruction, I let her be, and she hammered away right here for an hour or so. Never asked for any more help, either, which is unusual.”

  “She take notes or print anything out?” Joe asked.

  “Oh yeah,” Elizabeth recalled. “I forgot. She asked for a pad, so I guess she did take notes.”

  Joe glanced at the blank computer screen, addressing it as he spoke to her. “I don’t suppose this has something like a history file or something—that would tell me what she looked up.”

  Elizabeth laughed outright. “Oh. Big no-no in the librarian world. If it did have such a record, you’d have to get a search warrant or something before I’d open it for you, but I can spare you the effort anyhow—I wipe the memories clean at closing, every day. There’s nothing to look for.”

  Joe nodded appreciatively. “I can see why your director spoke so highly of you. Can you tell me what this lady looked like, at least?”

  She considered that before responding, “Sure. Small—under five-five—and kind of thin and wiry. White hair, nice eyes—blue—and really strong hands. She shook mine when she left, and I was really surprised. I thought her clothes were funny, though,” she threw in as an afterthought.

  “How—funny?”

  “Like they were the wrong size—bought for someone taller and bigger.”

  Joe nodded, all suspicions confirmed. “And maybe a bit old-fashioned?”

  Again, Elizabeth’s face showed her delight. “Yeah. Exactly.”

  “How did she seem mentally?” Joe asked.

  She reflected, as was her habit, it seemed, before answering, “Not a hundred percent. And it wasn’t just being old. I get a lot of that around here, so I’m used to it. But there was something else. I didn’t get to talk with her much, like I said, but I sensed something off, somehow.”

  “Had you ever seen her before?” he asked suddenly.

  “Nope. ’Fraid not.”

  “Did she make any reference to anyone local? Or say where she was staying?”

  “Just that she was from out of town, not a library member, and wondered if it was okay to use the computers, which of course it was.”

  “Anything you can add I might’ve missed?”

  But she shook her head again. “I’m not super good at stuff like that. I stood next to her, so I got the height and general shape, and the eye color, but other than that, she just looked like an old lady. No horns or beard or anything.”

  Joe laughed, startled. “Right. I’ll keep that in mind.”

  * * *

  He was back on the road, heading southeast, his head full of what he’d learned at the Shelburne library, and of how it interconnected with his other recent discoveries. This part of a case—in the lucky situations where it applied—was like the adrenaline rush he’d once felt as a teenage athlete, with the winning goal within his grasp. Earlier frustrations or fatigue seemed to vaporize, replaced by a sense of certainty so sure, it almost overwhelmed any realistically remaining doubt.

  And yet, a small part of him felt hollow and oddly aching—a compartment in his brain not normally alive at a time like this. But he felt it nevertheless, and yielded to its need of a little nurturing.

  Overriding his own sense of caution—yet again—he pulled out his cell phone while still driving.

  “Hello?” came the hesitant response. “Joe? Is everything okay?”

  He wasn’t used to Beverly sounding tentative. “Sure. I catch you at a bad time?” he asked.

  Her voice lightened immediately. “No. Not at all. I was just thrown off—the private line combined with the odd background noise. I guess it worried me for a moment.”

  “I’m on the road,” he explained. “Just wanted to say hi. Absolutely nothing else.”

  He heard the warmth in her response. “Joe, there never needs to be anything else. I love it that you gave in to impulse. You are okay, though?”

  He smiled, that compartment in his brain back in balance. “I am way better than okay, Beverly. Thank you.”

  * * *

  Les and Sam were parked across the street from Aaron Whitledge’s address in Montpelier, with a good view of the very windows that Dolores Oetjen had described, overlooking the downtown bustle. They had gone upstairs upon arrival and pounded on his door—along with those of several of his neighbors—but not surprisingly, everyone was out, presumably at work. In a town like Vermont’s state capital—the smallest such entity in the United States—employment was high, most often related to either insurance or government.

  Unfortunately, at this point, they still didn’t know who wrote Aaron Whitledge’s paycheck. Les had called in for a Spillman computer check, and found little beside a couple of old speeding tickets, and they hadn’t heard back from the fusion center, which generally produced a more comprehensive portrait of any citizen, but took longer to deliver.

  But it was late in the day, past most people’s working hours, and they were hoping they’d get lucky with a man who might prefer to return home before heading out to dinner or the party circuit.

  Sam’s cell phone buzzed, displaying a picture of Emma on its screen. She retrieved it from the dashboard and read the caller’s name before raising her eyebrows at her partner.

  “Hey, boss,” she answered, putting the phone on speaker.

  “What’s your location?” Joe asked in a tinny voice.

  “Downtown Mount-Peculiar. We think we located the guy who phoned Travis and maybe hired him. We’re sitting on his apartment right now.”

  “I’m a few minutes out,” he told her. “I’ll hook up with you there. What’s the address?”

  Sam gave it to him and asked, “How ’bout you? Been busy?”

  “Yeah—if I have this right, Carolyn Barber is alive and well, driving her sister’s old car and wearing her borrowed clothes. And I’m starting to get the distinct sensation—based mostly on my gut—that she’s reeaally angry.”

  Sam stared sightlessly out the window ahead of her. “Are you saying what I think you are?”

  “Well,” he said. “It’s a process of elimination, combined with human nature, but of the people we know who’ve been murdered so far—Marshall and Friel and Barb Barber—all of them have Carolyn in common, and all of them did her dirt, except maybe Friel.”

  “Barb?” Sam asked, surprised. “I thought they just didn’t get along.”

  “You could say that,” Joe agreed. “I found Carolyn’s commitment papers earlier today, si
gned by her sister nine months after Carolyn announced to her roommate that she was pregnant.”

  “Ouch,” Sammie said, instinctively thinking of her own child.

  “What happened to the baby?” she asked.

  “I have no idea, but I’d love to get my hands on Barb’s financial records for that time, to see if Carolyn’s commitment coincided with any money changing hands.”

  “Damn,” Lester said. “That’s harsh.”

  “Maybe,” Joe agreed. “But why else would she have done it? If the father was a bigwig, with a reputation to protect, there would have been good reason to make such a deal, especially with no love lost between the sisters in the first place.”

  “But why didn’t Carolyn say anything?” Sam protested.

  “From everything we’ve heard,” Joe said, “Carolyn was a walking zombie when she was at the hospital, which is definitely not the description I got from the Shelburne librarian I just interviewed. Could be that Carolyn was kept artificially demented all these years. That would take a pharmacologist or someone to say with any credibility, but I can imagine a woman in that situation—madder than hell but locked in suspended animation—really blowing a gasket if she somehow got lucky enough to break free.”

  “How did she locate Marshall and get a key to his apartment?” Lester challenged him.

  “I think she found him through the Internet,” Joe replied. “And as far as access goes, we found out Nancy Kelley and she knew each other. Could be Carolyn got hold of somebody else at The Woods and finagled a way to get a key. Either that or Kelley’s holding back. We can squeeze her later and maybe find out.”

  To the silence he received from his colleagues, he added, “I don’t have all the answers, guys, and I’m not sure I’m right about any of it. It just fits. Finding that baby’s birth certificate wouldn’t hurt, though.”

  Lester had been looking out the side window at the entrance to Whitledge’s building, and now interrupted, “Oh, oh. Folks? Hate to break this up, but our mark just came home.”

  “You go ahead,” Joe told them. “I won’t be long.”

  As it turned out, they all met Aaron Whitledge at about the same time. Checking his mailbox in the lobby, he was joined by a downstairs neighbor, and escorted her to her door on the second floor, loitering to chat as Les and Sam kept out of sight.

  The two cops were therefore still introducing themselves at Whitledge’s apartment on the top floor when Joe came climbing up the stairs to join them.

  Whitledge—young, slim, well dressed, and haughty in expression—looked surprised at Joe’s arrival.

  “Three of you?” he said. “What is this?”

  “Maybe the most important conversation of your life,” Joe said as he stepped onto the landing, despite not fully knowing who this man was.

  Sam, however, picked up on the line. “Invite us in, Mr. Whitledge, so we can read you your future.”

  Whitledge demurred, placing his hand protectively against the doorjamb. “Do I need a lawyer?”

  “Not as far as we’re concerned,” Sam continued, taking the lead. “It depends entirely on you.”

  She left it at that, allowing a telling silence to settle. Whitledge looked from one of them to the other and finally dropped his arm and backed up, still holding his mail in the other hand.

  “Might as well find out what the hell’s going on,” he said, half to himself.

  They were in a large room—with Oetjen’s big front windows—that served as living room and kitchen, combined. It was airy, nicely appointed, but not pretentious, although Sammie wondered how Oetjen could ever have taken her boyfriend for an embarrassed file clerk. These were clearly richer digs than that.

  Whitledge dumped his mail on a coffee table and nodded toward some armchairs and a sofa. “Sit,” he said, choosing a chair for himself. Joe considered the body language and interpreted a man working very hard to appear unconcerned.

  Sam apparently came to the same conclusion and walked over to stand close to their host, forcing him to look awkwardly up at her.

  “Just for the record, you are Aaron Whitledge?”

  He shifted slightly in his seat. “Yes.”

  Lester and Joe, also still standing, spread out to either side of her, a couple of paces back.

  “And you are romantically involved with Dolores Oetjen?” she continued.

  His voice betrayed his confusion. “Yes.”

  “Who is your employer, Mr. Whitledge?”

  “Sheldon Scott and Company.”

  Joe kept silent, although startled by the name coming up twice in the same afternoon.

  “What do they do?” Sam asked.

  “We’re a lobbying firm.”

  “And your job description there?”

  He hesitated for a fraction of a second. “I’m a sort of gofer. A special projects guy.”

  “What kinds of projects are those?”

  Joe could tell the younger man was still inside his comfort zone. “They vary in scope and complexity. Sometimes, it’s research; other times, it’s just acting as a glorified messenger boy. It’s like the title indicates—a jack of all trades.”

  “That’s interesting, Jack,” Sam challenged him dismissively. “But even more interesting is that you seem to have no curiosity about my bringing up your girlfriend. Don’t you like her?”

  Whitledge crossed his arms and legs. “Sure I do. Sweet kid.”

  “Who happens to be your exact age, correct?”

  “Okay,” he said uncomfortably.

  “But still no ‘Oh, is she all right?’ Or, ‘Did anything happen to poor Dolores?’” Sam pressed. “What’s wrong, Mr. Whitledge? There something about her you don’t want us to know?”

  “No,” he protested loudly, and used that to struggle to his feet, trying to avoid bumping into Sam in the process. He spoke as he moved toward one of the windows, where she immediately followed him. “What’re you saying? Did something happen to her?”

  Sammie again crowded his personal space. “Not a thing, Aaron. Did you do something to her?”

  “Of course not. You were the one saying that. I don’t understand this. What have I done?”

  “We actually know what you’ve done, Aaron, and how you set up that sweet kid, as you call her, to take the fall for it. Who do you report to directly, Aaron?”

  Joe answered that. “We know that, too. It’s the boss himself.”

  Whitledge’s quick flicker of the eyes betrayed his fear. “I answer to whoever gives me the assignment.”

  “Which in this case was Sheldon Scott,” Joe persisted.

  “Was it your idea or Scott’s to use Dolores’s phone?” Lester asked, adding to the chorus.

  Whitledge opened his mouth and then shut it again.

  “Who is Travis Reynolds?” Sam demanded, closing in so that their bodies were almost touching.

  Whitledge pressed his back against the window frame. “Who?”

  “The man you called at ten forty-three on the night you made sure Dolores got good and drunk and was passed out in her bed. That Travis Reynolds.”

  “I don’t know who you’re talking about.” But the voice was sulky now, having lost its edge.

  “The man you ordered to enter Gorden Marshall’s apartment,” Joe reminded him.

  “The same Gorden Marshall,” Sam picked up, “who was murdered the day before.”

  “Did you order that done, too?” Lester asked. “Or did you do it yourself, as a special project?”

  Whitledge’s mouth dropped open. “What? Hell no. What’re you talking about?”

  “We’re talking about who all this leads back to, Aa-ron,” Sam said loudly, drawing out his name.

  “You actually think you’re the only one who knows how to stab someone in the back?” Joe asked. “You haven’t figured out that Sheldon Scott was doing this sort of thing before you were even born?”

  “That’s where he’s put you, Aaron,” Sam picked up. “You’re the meat on the end of the h
ook, custom-made to satisfy our appetite. How do you think we found you?”

  Joe approached in turn, speaking in a softer, paternal tone, “Now’s your chance to wake up and make it stop. Tell us the truth. You have your whole life ahead of you. Or your whole life to throw away.”

  “And I’ll guarantee you one thing,” Sam threw in. “Sheldon Scott won’t give a rat’s ass what happens to you, so be careful about thinking how any loyalty will be repaid.”

  Whitledge made to speak, but Joe cut him off. “Aaron. You’ve probably seen on TV where the cops and the suspects sound like they’re playing verbal chess. That’s not what’s going on here. We’re not make-believe. We’re conducting a murder investigation. You’re our primary suspect because of the phone call you made to Travis. You either tell us who wound you up and pointed you in the right direction, or we call it quits, throw the book at you, and go home.” He put his face an inch away from Whitledge’s and slowly asked, “Do you understand what I just said?”

  The young man swallowed and nodded. “Yes, sir.”

  Joe stayed where he was. “Did you kill Gorden Marshall?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Did you call Travis Reynolds from Dolores’s phone?”

  Aaron paused just long enough for Sam to snarl, “Careful.”

  “Yes,” he admitted.

  “And on whose orders did you make that call?” Joe asked.

  “Mr. Scott’s,” Aaron said softly.

  Joe and Sam stepped back. She caught Whitledge by the elbow and brought him back to his chair. Only this time, they all joined him, suddenly looking like a group of friends—where everyone but Aaron was wearing a gun.

  “Okay,” Joe said, his voice still supportive and coaxing. “Take us from the top. When did Scott first contact you about all this?”

  “I don’t remember the day exactly,” Aaron readily replied, looking relieved. “But it was after Marshall died.” He sat forward abruptly to add, “And I didn’t know anything about any murder. I was told he’d died, of old age or something—I don’t know.”

  “That’s fine. Keep going,” Joe urged him.