Three Can Keep a Secret (19 page)

Willy closed the door of his car and looked up at the address number opposite. He was in Burlington's North End, on a block of nondescript, largely windowless buildings
—
warehouses and small wholesalers clinging to solvency like shipwreck survivors to flotsam.

He checked the location against the scrap of paper in his hand, crossed the street, and cautiously twisted the knob of the unmarked door in the cinder block wall before him.

He entered a shabby, poorly lighted office with three desks, two of them piled high with old catalogs and computer printouts. Seated before the third was a slender man, before the screen of a dusty, battle-scarred computer monitor covered with columned figures.

He turned at Willy's appearance, his face registering surprise. "Whoa," he said. "I'm sorry. We're not really open. I mean, not to the public. This isn't a business
—
not retail, anyway."

"Herb Rozanski?" Willy asked.

The man froze and the color drained from his face.

"I'm sorry?" he asked in a whisper.

"It's not what you call yourself now
—
Jon Fox; very Hollywood, by the way
—
but you're Herb Rozanski." Willy extracted his badge and displayed it.

The man swallowed hard. "Not actually. No, I'm not."

"You changed it legally. I get it," Willy said conversationally. "I might've done the same. Are we alone here?"

Rozanski pushed away from his desk and stood up, his right arm hanging limply by his side. "Yes. I'm the bookkeeper. The owner, he ... he doesn't come by much."

Willy pointed at the arm, smiling slightly. "Saw blade. Mine was a bullet. But neither was an accident." He patted his left shoulder. "We're sort of mirror images." He waved casually at Rozanski and urged, "Sit, sit. I'm not here to upset your applecart, Herb. Eileen says hi, by the way."

"Eileen? You spoke to her?"

"Yup," Willy confirmed, pulling another chair over and settling down, thereby encouraging Herb to do the same. "How do you think I found you?"

"She told you?" He was stunned.

Willy crossed his legs. "What do you think? That you're John Dillinger? You're a dead man. Nobody's looking for you. Probably nobody cared when you disappeared. You've been living a paranoid fantasy for decades now, looking over your shoulder for no good reason."

Herb's mouth tightened. "What do you want?"

"Don't blame Eileen," Willy continued, ignoring the question. "She's never told anybody else, and not just because they didn't ask. She's good people, and except for Nate, you're all she has left." Willy smiled. "And Nate's a basket case. Living in the woods for over twenty years hasn't done him any good at all."

Herb stared at him. "You talked to Nate?"

"That's how I convinced Eileen to open up about you
—
took me a home visit and two follow-up phone calls to get her there. She's very protective of you. I would've talked to Bud and Dreama, too, if they'd been available. You probably don't know this, Herb, what with all the fuss and bother over Irene, but your coffin came up full of rocks. After all this time, you're officially out of the closet, so to speak.
"

"
What?"

"Storm water eroded the cemetery, exposed the coffin you were supposed to be in. Imagine how people felt."

Herb stared at him, speechless.

Willy grunted. "You're right. They didn't feel anything."

"Why're you here?" Herb asked, reacting to Willy's tone.

Willy gave him a hard look. "Good question. What've you done since you limped off into the wilderness?"

"What do you care?"

Willy's relaxed posture didn't change. "Don't give me 'tude, bro. I've wasted a lot of time hunting you down. This is when it better count for something."

Rozanski scowled. "What?"

"Tell me what you've been up to."

Herb was visibly thrown off. "I don't know. I moved here, to melt into someone else, mostly. I did odd jobs
—
whatever I could with one arm. Then I found this place."

"That's it? No family? No love life? What do you do when you're off the clock?"

Herb took in his murky surroundings. "I don't . . ."

"Hey," Willy suggested. "Gay guys can have a life, in this town, especially."

Herb refocused on him. "You know that?"

"Isn't that why Nate tossed you onto the saw blade?"

He hesitated before answering. "In part."

"The other part being what you and Nate each wanted out of your piece-of-shit old man."

"He took care of me," Herb said stubbornly.

"Tell me how," Willy challenged him.

"That whole thing with the empty coffin; throwing Nate out; taking me to Doc Racque to be patched up."

"And then throwing you out, too, because he couldn't live with the embarrassment of his own screwup."

"What screwup? He wasn't the one who cut me up."

"Wasn't he?" Willy asked. "Didn't he force the two of you to compete for his attention, whatever that was worth? Didn't he peg you as gay, maybe even before you did, and start driving that wedge between you and Nate? He fucked you up, good and proper, and then tossed the two of you out so he could play the martyr. Your fight with Nate was like manna from heaven. There was no reason for Bud to fake your death, except that it let him cut bait and forget about you
and
your brother.
"

"
No."

"Your mom knew it," Willy persisted. "That's what killed her. Your father was a narcissistic bully, Herb
—
his way or the highway. And when he was faced with his own failures, he just slammed the door on them. You and Nate and Eileen, too, to a lesser degree
—
you were all three told to just figure it out on your own. Only Nate went into the woods to live like a hermit, but isn't that what you all did, in the end?"

Tears were running down Herb's cheeks. He rubbed them away with the heel of his one hand. "Why're you doing this?" he asked.

" 'Cause I'm pissed off, is why," Willy said, leaning forward and grabbing Herb's hand in his own and holding it up between them. " 'Cause of this and what it represents. You think you're the only one with a sob story? Stand in line."

Herb pulled away and glared at him.
"That's
what this is? Suck-it-up time? What a crock. You swagger in here with your crippled arm and brag about how quote-unquote people like us should just shrug off the past and get on with it? 'Gay guys can have a life'? What the fuck do you know about being gay? You clearly aren't."

It was a watershed moment for Willy
—
who knew too well that he was in the midst of transition. The old Willy would have kept the battle going, challenging this man for each foot of advantage. But that's not why he was here
—
not in whole. Part of him was angry and frustrated. But not at Herb Rozanski.

Willy sat back, relieved by Rozanski's outburst. He stated quietly, "No, I'm not. I've got other labels. I suppose everybody does, somehow or another, real or made up. I have a boss who can figure out shit like that. But me, I just get mad, and I get alone, and then I turn into a black hole."

To Herb's credit, he smiled, and said, "I know the feeling."

Willy nodded and stood up, moving toward the door. He opened it partway before looking back. "Jon Fox? Reach out to Eileen. She misses you. You could get to know her kids. And what the hell? Maybe Nate, too. He's changed, and could really stand some help. I always thought other people were around to mess me up. I was totally Don't make the same mistake."

Joe looked up at the knock on the doorframe. The interview room was open, allowing him to see a slim, attractive, gray-haired woman, probably in her seventies, standing tentatively on the threshold.

"Hi," he said, rising and coming around the table.

"I was told that someone wanted to talk to me about Gorden," the woman said.

Joe escorted her to the chair facing his. "Yes. Thanks so much for coming. My name is Joe Gunther. I'm a policeman. Are you Nancy Kelley?"

"Yes, that's right," she said, sitting down as he returned to his seat. He'd been handling Sammie's scheduled interviews for several hours by now, making this number four. It had not been a productive evening so far, whittling down his expectations.

"Again," Joe began, "I appreciate your being here. I know it's not what you had planned
—
"

"Oh, no," she interrupted happily. "You people are all the talk. I'm delighted to be included."

"Great," he said without enthusiasm. "Well, then, as you probably already know, we're looking into Gorden Marshall's death
—"

"Was he really murdered?" she cut in again.

Joe held up his hand. "Let's not jump the gun. First things, first."

She laughed. "Ah. You didn't answer. That means yes."

Joe smiled indulgently. "Very good. You've been watching your TV shows. Actually, we don't know that for a fact. It may turn out he died of natural causes. That's why all the interviews."

She looked slightly disappointed. "Oh."

Joe opened his notepad to a fresh page and cued his voice recorder. "I tape all these conversations so that there's no confusion later on," he explained. "Do I have your permission to do so now?"

"Of course," she said. "This is quite exciting."

"Outstanding," he muttered, quickly reviewing a few notes from Sammie's overview file. "Do you prefer to be called Mrs.
Kelley, or Nancy?"

"You can call me Nancy."

"And you swear under penalty of law that everything you'll be telling me today will be the truth to the best of your knowledge?"

"Oh, yes."

"Great. I understand that you are the widow of Jeremy Kelley, is that correct?"

"Yes. Jerry and I were married for fifty-one years."

Joe smiled. "Congratulations. Sounds like you two had a good time."

"It had its moments," she said cheerfully.

He looked up from the page he'd been writing on, caught by the phrase. Her face appeared as upbeat and slightly vague as before, but he sensed a look in her eyes that suggested he might have finally ended up with someone with a tale to tell.

"Mr. Kelley was a colleague of Marshall's, back in the day. Is that correct?"

She nodded. "Oh, yes, thick as thieves."

"He was also a state senator?"

"Not at first, but he became one. He was a representative for four terms before he ran for the senate seat. Won on his first try. He was always very proud of that."

"I can imagine. Is that when he and Marshall got together?"

"After Jerry won the senate? No, no.

They'd been working together before then. It wasn't like it is now, with everyone staying in their own corners, calling each other names."

"They socialized?" Joe asked conversationally. "I'd heard about that."

"Oh, yes." She smiled.

"Dinners at each other's houses; things like that?" he pressed, knowing very well that the socializing was often of a rougher nature, and often exclusive of spouses.

She hesitated. "Well, not so much that. They were mostly away from home. You have to remember, before 1965
—
when the Supreme Court changed everything
—
it was 'one town, one rep,' regardless of population density. That made for two hundred forty-six representatives, most of them far from home, and that was before the interstate came in, too, so travel was much more involved."

Joe didn't interrupt, waiting to ask instead, "And where were you at this time? You married Senator Kelley right about then, if I have the dates right. That must've made you a little nervous as a young bride."

Her cheeks darkened a hint. "Jerry was a good man."

"I didn't say he wasn't. He was also a man. How did you two meet up?"

It was an obvious enough question, if borderline insulting, but she seemed at a sudden loss for words.

"Where was your hometown?" he asked, hoping that might help.

It did seem easier to answer. "Berlin," she said, with the Vermonter's emphasis on the first syllable.

"A stone's throw from Montpelier," Joe observed, leaving the implication hanging. By now, his interest in Nancy Kelley had sharpened. It was clear to him that she was being coy and evasive at the same time. Why, he wanted to find out.

"Yes," she acknowledged.

"You grew up in Berlin?" he asked pleasantly.

She seemed surprised. "Why, yes. I did."

"Sort of a shame what's happened to it over the years, with all the development," he said. "The hospital first and then the mall. Not that much left of what used to be a small town."

She was surprised. "You know Berlin?"

"Sure."

She frowned and glanced down, adding. "There's nothing left, if you ask me. Everything is new and modern and ugly."

"Well," he philosophized, "being right next to the capital made that pretty much inevitable, don't you think?
"

"
I suppose."

"And," he added with a friendly smile, "I bet as a teenager, you found Montpelier hard to resist, no? You and your girlfriends?"

She laughed, if a bit sadly. "You could say that."

He made an educated guess. "And that's where you got your first job?"

The humor spread across her face. "My goodness. You are good. How did you know that?"

He waved away the compliment. "Lucky. But that was the funny thing about those days. State government grew like crazy just before that big change in the '60s, when the Democrats began taking over. Did you get one of those government jobs?"

"I did," she admitted. "It was very exciting. There was such energy. Everything was changing, after all those years of . . . well, nothing, really. It was like the whole state suddenly found a heartbeat."

"I like that," he praised her. "What a great image. It must've been intoxicating."

"It was," she agreed.

"Did you make new friends? I mean, it's not like a country girl going to New York or anything, but it still must've been like entering a new world. I'm guessing you moved to Montpelier to live, too?"

She laughed again. "I did. I had a tiny apartment with two other girls."

He joined her encouragingly, "Isn't that great? I know the town pretty well. What was the address?"

Without hesitation, she recited it with a child's reflex, including the apartment number.

He didn't give her the chance to ponder her openness. "Right, right. A short walk to downtown. Not so easy when the snow flies, I bet, but not too bad. It's amazing how little those neighborhoods have changed. Chances are, your place is still housing young people who work for the state. What was your job, by the way?"

She fell into his conversational pattern. "I was a legislative secretary in the statehouse."

"No kidding? Wow. That's right where the action was. Well, it makes perfect sense now how you met your future husband. You practically worked together."

"Hardly," she corrected him. "We girls were invisible. We called ourselves the Boiler Room, just typing all day
—
endless piles of paperwork."

Joe sympathized. "That's tough. Builds up energy for after hours, though
—
for everyone, from what I was told. Montpelier was party central. I was living over the mountain back then, and still, I heard stories. People working all day and playing all night."

Her eyes glistening, she admitted, "We had some lively times."

"I heard rumors," he said, "of places just outside town where legislators and lobbyists and bureaucrats and everybody else would all go to drink and have a good time, regardless of their politics or how they'd treated each other on the floor."

"Those were no rumors," she said, looking coquettish. "That's what I meant when I said things had really changed."

Joe nodded in agreement and made his first effort to bring her into the here and now. "I gather several of the folks from those happier days are here at The Woods now."

"A few," she said.

"Like Gorden Marshall?" he asked.

"Well, yes. Of course, among others."

"How are things between you all, given the passage of time, and how things used to be?"

Her forehead wrinkled. "You mean, who killed him?"

He smiled. "We don't know that anyone killed him, Nancy. But since you bring it up, was there anyone who had a bone to pick with him?"

"He wasn't a nice man," she said candidly. "He never was. Still, if someone had wanted to do him harm, it seems to me they would have acted long before now. It's not like he had any power anymore."

"I heard he had something to do with the founding of this place," Joe told her.

She looked at him blankly. "I didn't know that."

"Did you have much to do with him?"

"No," she said. "After Jerry died, I almost never spoke to him."

Joe again scanned the fact sheet that Sam had prepared.

"Did you ever know Carolyn Barber?" he asked.

She paled abruptly and seemed ready to fall back into her chair, her other hand reaching to her forehead.

"Are you okay?" he asked, half rising. "Can I get you anything?"

"No, no. Please. Stay seated. It's nothing. It just surprised me. I mean that name
—
"

"Barber's?" he asked.

She seemed to be trying to gather her wits, and with some degree of calculation.

"It's just been so many years," she finally uttered.

He frowned at the unlikely explanation.
The BO
L featuring Carolyn's disappeara
nce had gotten good coverage in the news, even with the ramped-up competition from Irene.

"Carolyn's gone missing," he explained. "It's been in the news. She was a resident at the state hospital and wandered away during the flooding. I'm surprised you didn't hear about it."

Kelley looked confused
—
but more, he thought again, by what she should say, rather than by what he was telling her.

"I don't read the news
—
or listen to it," she said. "It's too depressing. Carolyn's gone?"

Joe wasn't buying it. "Yeah," he confirmed. "Like a leaf in the wind. Did you know she was at the state hospital, in Waterbury?"

"Poor soul," she said sadly.

He moved along. "The reason I asked about Carolyn is because I ran across a mention that she was named Governor-for-a-Day, a long time ago, back when Marshall was at the peak of his power. No one seems to remember the details behind it. Supposedly, it was some weird publicity stunt."

Nancy Kelley had transformed completely. Her shoulders were hunched, her hands clasped in her lap, her head bowed, and her eyes downcast.

"It was more than that," she said
—
so quietly, he wondered if the recorder had picked it up. Instinctively, he moved it closer to her.

"Tell me about it," he urged.

She looked up almost shyly, her age-creased face suddenly etched with anguish. "Why do you want to know?"

Joe took a stab at correctly interpreting her body language. "I want to see if I can help her. I think she's in trouble. Did you know her well?"

She nodded without comment, and admitted, "She was one of my roommates."

"In Montpelier?" he asked, amazed by his good luck.

"Yes."

"This is great news. We've been searching all over for her, hoping she was okay. Have you heard from her?"

She looked up at him as if responding to an electrical shock. "Me? Why would she call me?"

Joe tilted his head ambiguously. "I don't know. Why not? You were friends once. It's not that strange."

Her ready denial spoke of her rising anxiety. "No. I haven't spoken to her in over half a century."

"Ever since she was committed?" he pursued.

"I knew nothing about that," Kelley said with a catch to her voice. "Last I saw her, she'd
been
heartbroken, but she was happy."

"In my experience," Joe quickly followed up, "it takes someone else to break your heart."

A silence stretched between them, and Joe realized that Kelley was quietly crying, her tears striking the backs of her hands, which remained unmoving in her lap, still tightly interlinked.

"Tell me, Nancy," he urged her. "What happened?"

"She got pregnant," was the answer.

"Do you know by whom?" he asked after another long silence.

He could see only the top of her gray head as she said, "No. She never said. And then she went away."

"Did she have the baby?"

"I don't know."

Joe thought for a couple of seconds. "But you were roommates," he commented. "You must have known who she was dating at the time. Girls talk about that kind of thing, don't they?"

Her crying worsened, to the point where she began wiping her eyes and nose on her sleeve. Joe looked around, saw where Sam had placed a napkin on the counter behind him, beside an empty coffee cup, and brought it to Kelley, kneeling beside her chair in the process.

He rubbed her frail shoulder as she put the napkin to use. "Tell me what happened," he repeated.

"She was raped," she whispered.

"Who did it?" he asked.

Her whole body shuddered. "She said there were too many to know."

Her weeping was uncontrollable by now. Under normal circumstances, given her age and the fact that he had nothing on her legally, Joe would have suggested bringing the conversation to an end.

But he wasn't so inclined. The absence of Carolyn Barber had been gnawing at him since he'd found her single footprint in Irene's muddy track. He'd had a foreboding then, similar to discovering that a small child had wandered off into a life-threatening environment. The complete absence of Carolyn Barber ever since had seemed proof of her demise, and hearing what Kelley had just told him only drove the sensation home
—
along with the dread that her end had not come accidentally. Now he had to consider that her killer might have been after her for a very long time.

Of course, he was sure of none of it, except that the only lead he'd found was sitting beside him right now.

He continued to rub Kelley's shoulder as he asked, "She was raped by several men at once?"