Three Can Keep a Secret (6 page)

Willy Kunkle killed the engine and observed his home, located defensively at the top of a horseshoe-shaped street in West Brattleboro. His neighborhood hadn't suffered from the flooding, being situated on a slope above the otherwise devastated Whetstone Brook valley. There had been at most a damp cellar on the block or an old tree toppled because of overly saturated soil. But Willy's house had suffered nothing, in part because of his own preparedness.

And not in advance of just this storm. It wasn't Willy's style to yield to a single threat. To him, there was nothing but peril all around
—
and all the time
—
which was why his house had been chosen for its strategic location, why his property's trees and shrubs allowed for clear sight lines down both streets, why he had two sump pumps in the basement and a backup generator, and why his locks and doors and windows were all high security-rated.

The coming of Irene had been no more for Willy Kunkle than a confirmation of his everyday fears, and his survival of her passing mere proof that you can never be too cautious or too prepared.

But it wasn't the condition of the house that he was contemplating. His thoughts were on its occupants, as Sam had left the office early to relieve Louise from her babysitting.

Sam had been steady from the start of their union, seeing beyond his paranoia to identify the love he held for her and now their daughter. For him, predictably, that had only added to his worries. Sam gave so much with her forbearance, her patience, and her generosity. When was that going to run out? When was she, like everyone else in his life
—
including him
—
going to realize that he was a lost cause?

Willy watched his large right hand, resting on the bottom of the steering wheel
—
powerful, capable, a veritable weapon to so many who'd suffered from its strength. But what did it represent? A surrogate for its useless left companion perpetually stuffed into his pants pocket; a reminder that he was a cripple in fact and in function. The arm had been destroyed by a bullet years ago, taken in the line of duty, and despite the handicap, Willy
—
with Joe's urging and to everyone's amazement
—
had battled back to requalify as a fully certified police officer. He'd done as well over time combating alcoholism, Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, depression, a broken marriage, and die social isolation caused by a complete lack of diplomacy.

He closed the hand into a fist, acknowledging none of those victories. What he believed instead was that someday he'd wear out his welcome with the very family he'd traveled so far and worked so hard to create.

As if activated by his thoughts, the front door of the house opened and Sammie stepped out with Emma in her arms. Smiling a little sadly, she crossed the lawn as Willy rolled down his window, and handed the little girl in to him, murmuring, "Here you go, sweetie. I think Daddy needs a hug."

Willy looked into his partner's eyes as he took the child to his chest and cradled her there, his earlier concerns struggling against the warmth and sincerity he saw in Sam's face.

"How did you know?" he asked, kissing his daughter's feather-fine hair.

"We watch each other's back," she answered simply, and opened his door. "Come on in."

Willy swung out with surprising grace, given his handicap and his bundle, closed the car door with a foot, and fell in behind Sam on the way to the house.

"Hear from the boss yet?" he asked as the baby snuggled into his neck.

"Yup. He and Les spent hours making like moles and came up with a single footprint. They're thinking Barber made it out alive, if minus one shoe."

Willy took that at face value, knowing the rest would come later and in more detail. "What about her? Barber?" he asked next, referring to the assignment they'd been left by Joe. "You find out anything?"

Sam held open the front door to let him by, stroking his shoulder as he passed. "Not much yet. I wanted to clear off some other stuff on my desk first. I found out she worked for the state about forty years ago, and that she was the same Carolyn Barber Joe was talking about
—
the Governor-for-a-Day. He was also right about that being a one-shot wonder, never repeated. My gut tells me I'll get more from talking with people than digging through files. Right now, she just looks like she was a clerk or a secretary or something almost invisible. How 'bout you?"

Willy had taken on what he was calling the "box of rocks" from the cemetery near Newfane. He turned into the living room and carefully slid into the rocking chair by the window, seeing that Emma had nodded off.

"Herb Rozanski," he said in a soothing voice as Sam sat on the arm of the nearby sofa. "Only son of Bud and Dreama Rozanski. Brother of Eileen Rozanski Ranslow. Died twenty-seven years ago at the age of eighteen of an industrial accident at the family's logging and lumber operation. The accident was witnessed by the father, the body checked out by the authorities, and all the paperwork signed, sealed, and delivered."

Sammie smiled at the domestic scene and the tone of Willy's voice. "They must've really loved those rocks," she said.

Willy laughed gently. "Yeah. Well, you got that right. Guess I'll be doing a little up-close-and-personal interviewing, too."

Lester Spinney settled into the corner of one of the Waterbury fire department's empty back offices and extracted his smartphone. Joe and he had ended up here to conclude the HazMat aspect of their day
—
returning the equipment and filing a report with the police chief about the state of the tunnels. The police department had been evacuated, forcing the chief to catch his meetings wherever he could for the time being, including in his cruiser.

None of which was Lester's concern. He was more than content to leave that conversation to his boss, and to instead reach out quickly for home. Lester's was the unit's lightest heart
—
a family man, a Springfield resident, born and bred, married to the same woman he'd first met in community college. Stayovers like the one he'd just spent at Allard's house were not his idea of a good time. He preferred going home every night.

"You out there, babe?" he texted.

"Hi," came the near-instant response from his wife, Sue, a nurse at Springfield Hospital.

"What ya doin'?" he typed. His daughter, Wendy, had tried to educate him on the protocols and practices of proper text-speak, but he and Sue preferred their own version.

"Good timing," she wrote back. "Babysitting a pt. in ICU. U?"

"Waterbury. Just went thru the tunnels here. Creepy."

"Dangerous?" was the immediate reply.

"Nope. HazMat suits. Town a mess. Missed U last nite."

"U2."

"Dave do OK on test?
"

"
Thinks so."

Spinney heard Joe calling out for him from somewhere in the building. "Gotta go, honey. Luv U."

He was reading "Luv U2" when Joe poked his head through the open doorway and smiled. "Tell her I said hi."

Les laughed and dutifully followed orders, reading aloud to Joe, "Tell him to give you back to me in one piece."

"I promise," Joe said, and crooked his finger. "I found a girl who knows a guy who knew our missing person
—
a nurse at the hospital. Maybe she'll tell us Carolyn's couch surfing in her living room."

Gail Zigman stepped into the small back office on the top floor of the Pavilion building in Montpelier, located beside the statehouse, and closed the door behind her. Vermont governors were paid a little over $150,000 per year; were issued a security detail, complete with vehicle; and had a staff. They were also the chief executive, with all the attending perks. On the other hand, they still headed up one of the least populated states in the Union, which translated into Gail's living in her own condo just outside Montpelier, although having access to an admittedly spacious combination office/apartment in this building, and another ceremonial office in the statehouse, equipped with a chandelier. There was no governor's mansion, no stretch limo, no executive helicopter, and no palace guard to snap her a salute when she showed up for work every morning. Vermonters had other expectations of their leaders than their appearing like foreign potentates or overindulged chiefs of industry. Not surprisingly, Gail had also quickly discovered, governors had virtually no privacy and little time to themselves. Which explained why she was standing here with her back to the door. After six months of agreeing to everyone's requests of her to do what they wanted and to be where they directed, she'd finally demanded ninety minutes of complete solitude, every afternoon. It was impractical, and honored only about 30 percent of the time, but it beat what had preceded it. And she cherished every minute.

She wasn't getting that now, however
—
not with the post-Irene mess demanding that she be in all places at all times. But when she'd announced five minutes ago that she was going to grab a little time for herself, her staffs reaction hadn't been stunned disbelief.

The downtime wasn't so she could watch TV, do crosswords, or read a book. In general, it was to help her address the private daily duties that she set herself, for herself, outside the demands of her job, her constituents, and her omnipresent staffers.

This time, for example, it was to call Susan Raffner.

Politicians
—
even small state ones
—
are surrounded by a hierarchy of friends. Some are heartfelt associations, others practical, still others obligatory and occasionally onerous, as with party chairmen, committee heads, key lobbyists, and the like, with whom one is pretty much stuck whether one likes them or not.

For Gail, Susan Raffner was something else entirely—a fellow resident of Brattleboro, a friend and advisor for decades, a sounding board, an ally, a defender, and a fellow feminist of the old school, Raffner had early seen in her friend the potential that Gail had achieved in the last election.
When Gail had first toyed with becoming a selectman, Raffner had been by her side, giving advice, fielding problems, and handling many of the logistical headaches, especially as the stakes had grown along with Gail's successes. Beyond that, when Gail had been raped
—
and Joe almost killed
—
Susan had been beyond supportive, offering counsel and challenge during Gail's struggle for balance.

Unusually
—
if typically for this woman
—
Raffner's only request in exchange for all of this had not been a cabinet appointment or the leadership of some agency. It had been to request an endorsement from Gail in Susan's run for one of the two Windham County state senate seats.

And it had worked, if controversially.
Winning as a Democrat hadn't been much of a reach in Vermont's southeast corner; but Gail's stirring of the pot by backing Susan against the Democratic incumbent had caused a real hornet's swarm.
The man in question had been popular, if only mildly competent, and had been serving for sixteen years before Candidate Zigman had vouched for Susan on the stump. The two women broke the rules and outraged their own party bosses, and created an effective if inaccurate image of Raffner's stunned opponent as a chauvinist, do-nothing male who was probably harboring malicious intentions toward women, children, farmers, gun owners, and the American Way. The poor bastard never knew what hit him, and on election night, Gail and Susan had briefly retreated amid the hoopla to raise a private glass to their dual success.

It wasn't just the victory they were toasting. On various levels, they were angry women, fed up with the status quo, tired of waiting for change, and happy with the turmoil they'd stirred up. The fallout afterwards would be predictable, of course, and was already starting. Both women winning by popular landslides while thumbing their noses at the Old Guard
—
including Vermont's Washington delegation, nicknamed the DC-Three
—
had prompted a chorus of angry muttering from the back rooms that guaranteed an untold number of future headaches for each of them. But in the short term, as for so many idealists preceding them, that hadn't mattered. They were flush with success, and presumed that the spirit that had carried them here would sustain them while in office.

It was a miscalculation common to many a dreamer.

In the meantime, Gail now had her best friend in the senate. However, she'd also lost her closest advisor as a result, and Susan had already twice taken opposing views to a couple of the new governor's pet projects, but such was the rigor of their mutual honesty that details like that mattered little. In an ironic homage to much of the politics predating modern extremism, they embodied the older tradition suggesting that close friends could be politically opposed while still finding enlightenment in each other's insight.

As with right now. Gail pulled out her cell phone and dialed the number she knew better than her parents'.

"Nice interview
on
VPR
," Susan answered without preamble. "I might not have gone on so much about that funding issue. Uncle Sam always sounds more generous on the heels of a disaster than he does a year later when the checks need to be written."

Gail knew better than to be sidetracked by someone else's issue. It was a lesson that Susan herself had taught her early on. Instead, she ignored the comment and got straight to the reason for her call. "Stretching back into Vermont political history," she asked her friend, "what can you tell me about Carolyn Barber? Governor-for-a-Day a long time ago?"

Raffner didn't mind and didn't hesitate. "Wow
—
that's a name from the past. Like bringing up the Black Dahlia in Los Angeles."

Gail raised her eyebrows at the obscure reference, but stayed silent, knowing Susan's process.

"One of the most famous unsolved murder cases in U.S. history," came the follow-up. "And relevant how?"

"Okay
—
a stretch, I'll grant you. But just like you had no clue about the Black Dahlia, most Vermonters have never heard of Carolyn Barber. At the time, it was seen as a publicity strategy run amok, since most of the coverage made fun of it. But there were rumors that some kind of deal was responsible."

Gail frowned at the phone. "A deal? What was the point? Did money change hands?"

But here, Susan proved less helpful. "Not that I know of. Barber was a nobody, and as far as I know, nothing happened as a result except for the bad press. Of course, I wasn't there, and it wasn't like it was news even a month later. I only know about it because I love this stuff, and I went to school with a girl named Carole Barber
—
no relation, I think
—
and it stuck in my head."

Gail considered what she might be missing. Susan interrupted her thoughts. "Why do you want to know about her?"

She opened her mouth to pass on Joe's news from the state hospital, but then shut it again, reconsidering. She had lived for years in Joe's company, often serving as his sounding board on complicated cases. Discretion had become ingrained over time, and she felt its tug upon her now, if for no discernible reason. "Her name came up in conversation," she answered truthfully enough. "It didn't mean anything to me, but it sounded odd. I just wondered if you knew anything."

"I can dig into it, if you want," Susan volunteered. "You are the governor, after all."

Gail laughed. "Right
—
like you have nothing better to do. I wouldn't even put my own staff on this."

They chatted about other matters for a few minutes, mostly the flooding and its impact and implications. There was little else being discussed anywhere in the state, and probably wouldn't be for some time.

Nevertheless, once the call ended, Gail remained thoughtful about what had stimulated it. She still wanted to know how a governor
—
even a bogus one
—
could have ended up in a mental facility, and then gone missing.

As for Susan Raffner, she wasn't the least misled by her friend's dismissal of Carolyn Barber's importance. As she pocketed her phone and set out for her next meeting, she made a mental note to dig into Barber's moment of fame
—
and why the chief executive had thought it worthy of special inquiry.

Willy negotiated the washed-out road gingerly, pausing occasionally to figure out where to point the SUV next, sometimes opting for the field alongside.

"Might be faster if we walk," Sammie suggested, clinging to the handhold by the doorframe.

"Might be," Willy agreed, to her surprise, "but I like having the radio nearby."

She raised her eyebrows at him. "You expecting trouble?"

"I'm expecting a half-wit Li'l Abner," he countered. "We don't show up in some official-looking vehicle, he'll shoot our asses off for sure. Probably will anyhow."

Willy had been born and bred in New York City
—
a place that he'd clearly left only in body. "It's a rural state," she instructed him defensively. "Not a backward one."

He laughed and jutted his chin straight ahead to indicate the road. "Right
—
clearly."

"That's the flood, you moron," she remonstrated.

"It is
now,
" he suggested. "You ask me, it was no better before."

The large vehicle gave a lurch and there was a grinding, scraping sound from underneath that made them both wince. They'd borrowed it from the Brattleboro police, and while Willy clearly didn't care about its condition later, Sammie was less sure about how they'd gotten hold of it in the first place.

"You sure you got the chief to sign this over?" she asked, settling herself more securely after the jostling.

"It's gotta be over the next hill," Willy avoided answering, adding unexpectedly, "You call Louise?"

Sam cut him a look. "You know I did."

"Emma okay?"

A sarcastic comeback offered itself, but not about this. Emma was sacred ground for them, if for divergent reasons. While each was a wounded survivor of childhood, their own child represented a different type of hope. To Sammie, Emma was a reward to be cherished and protected; to Willy, she was more like the cross between a miracle and a mirage
—
the latter image being one that could wake him up in a cold sweat and make him visit her bedroom just to confirm her existence.

Instead, therefore, Sam merely said, "She's great," and changed the subject. "What's the name again? Rozanski?"

"That's what's on the headstone," he told her. "Herbert Rozanski. But this woodchuck empire belongs to somebody named Jeff MacQuarrie
—
Jeffrey, according to the records; Jeff on the phone. He's supposedly a relative."

"You talked to him?" she asked, startled.

"Kind of. I didn't really say who I was, and he didn't do much more than grunt. You know . . ."

She did. When you went to interview someone who might have something interesting to say, you didn't want to show more cards than you had to.

"What did you say?" she asked.

"Just that we'd found the grave exposed and needed to know about next of kin for legal reasons. I told him I had a form to fill out
—
made it sound boring as hell."

"He's related how?"

Willy gave a shrug as they edged over the top of the rise and finally saw a farmhouse ahead, nestled against the forest behind it like a newborn tucked up against its mother.

"Beats me," he said. "That's why we're here."

The road was slightly better on the other side, so they closed in on the house in a couple of minutes. Nevertheless, they paused in the dooryard with the engine running, respecting the rural protocol of giving homeowners time to take notice
—
and to call in any near-feral dogs that might be prowling about.

But it didn't apply here. The peeling front door to the battered house yawned open, and a large bearded man stepped out and waved to them.

"Gee," Sammie muttered as she slid out of the SUV. "Not a blood-dripping sickle in sight. Bummer."

"Next time
,"
Willy assured her.

They approached, still watching the terrain before them, if this time for chunks of wood, randomly scattered tools and farm equipment, and assorted other lumps and clumps that had acquired a thin skin of earth and weeds over the years.

"You Jeff?" Willy asked, drawing near.

The man nodded. "Yup."

He stepped free of the threshold, leaving the door open, took two steps forward, and waited for them, the sun to his back. There was no shaking of hands or other formalities. Jeff simply waited, his hands hanging loosely, for his guests to speak their piece.

"Jeffrey MacQuarrie?" Willy repeated. "Just for the record."

MacQuarrie acknowledged with a single, silent tuck of his chin, his eyes steadily on Willy's.

"We're from the Vermont Bureau of Investigation," Sam announced, showing her credentials, which MacQuarrie ignored, his gaze unshifting. "We're here about the grave of Herbert Rozanski," she finished.

"So I heard," was MacQuarrie's response.

"From me?" Willy asked, who'd neither introduced himself nor shown his badge. "Or someone else?"

"Both."

"What did they tell you?"

"The water opened up the grave." MacQuarrie's voice was deep and friendly in tone, although his body language remained neutral.

"That all?"

"Pretty much."

"They tell you what they found inside?" Sammie asked bluntly. "Yup."

"What do you make of that?"

The hint of a smile lurked within the heavy beard, and MacQuarrie's eyes narrowed with humor. "The grave was missing something?"

Sam laughed while Willy grunted, "Very funny."

MacQuarrie tilted his head to one side. "You gotta admit."

"Okay, okay," Willy conceded. He looked around at the disheveled front yard. A rusty pickup was parked nearby, and he walked over to it to sit on the lowered tailgate, using the trailing edge of the truck bed as a backrest. The move also allowed him to shift from where the sun had been hitting him in the face
—
a position he wasn't convinced that MacQuarrie, presumably a seasoned hunter, hadn't calculated.

"Now that we got the country hick bullshit out of the way
,"
he told their host, "you want to tell us how you connect to Herb Rozanski?"

"You found me," MacQuarrie told him. "Don't you know?"

Willy just stared at him.

"Cousins," MacQuarrie yielded as Sam crossed over to join Willy, at the opposite end of the tailgate. MacQuarrie followed suit by settling onto a large, leveled-off tree stump whose scars attested to its use as a wood-splitting station.

"My mother was Herb's father's sister," he explained.

"Herb's father being Bud Rozanski," Willy suggested.

"And his mom being Dreama. They died, so I got the place."

"Just like that?" Willy asked. "They didn't have other kids?"

"A couple more," Jeff said.

Willy chuckled and shook his head. "You must really like us."

In the silence following, Jeff shifted his attention from one to the other of them. "Pardon?"

"The 'yup-nope' treatment," Willy expanded. "We actually get overtime for sitting around listening to this crap. I can do it all day."

Jeff MacQuarrie appeared to consider that. "Another son named Nate, and a daughter
—
Eileen Ranslow," he stated, thereby announcing his choice to be more communicative. "Nate pretty much took off. Eileen got married and never liked living here anyhow. We all talked it over when Bud was about to pass. I was starting a family, and Bud didn't see just letting the place go; Eileen was cool about it, and Dreama was long dead. So, I got it."

"For future reference," Willy said, "we'll need a list of relatives, complete with contact information and how they fit into the family tree. You good with that?"

MacQuarrie nodded.

"Okay," Willy kept talking. "Tell us about Herb. And don't hold back."

The bearded man smiled again. "Not much
to
tell. Bud was the eldest. My mom was the youngest; about twelve years apart, and Mom had her kids later in life
—
just the opposite of Bud. So, Nate, Herb, Eileen, and me didn't mess much. I was a kid when Herb died. All I know was that he got caught up in some equipment and was killed. Used to happen all the time, back when."

Willy waved his hand around vaguely. "Here?"

Jeff pointed into the distance. "They had a lumber mill set up in an old barn, out that way. A big shed, really. 'Bout ten years ago, I had the fire department come out and burn it down as a training exercise. Wasn't much left to it. Bud had sold all the equipment long before, and Mother Nature had done the rest." He contemplated his comments briefly before adding, "Anyhow, that's about it. Like I said, Herb got tangled up somehow. It ran off a truck PTO, with open pulleys and leather belts running every which way, and no guards or safeties on the saw blades. I seen pictures
—
crazy dangerous. One wrong move . . ." His voice trailed off, as if surprised by its own sound.

"He was working the mill alone?" Sammie asked, speaking almost for the first time.

Jeff shrugged. "You wouldn't think so, but I don't know. It got to Bud pretty bad, I can tell you that. But he was a stoical man. Dreama? Family stories have it that it killed her. I guess Herb was like her favorite, or something. She died soon afterwards, people said of a broken heart."

"So why did they bury a box of rocks?" Willy asked.

MacQuarrie spread his hands. "I didn't know they had
—
not till old Irene brought it up to light. That's what the Bible says, right? About the cleansing power of water?"

Willy pushed out his lower lip thoughtfully, not having the slightest clue about MacQuarrie's allusion. "You a big churchgoer?"

The other man laughed gently. "Not hardly. My wife would like me to be. I just stick to weddings and funerals."

Sam read Willy's body language and hopped off the truck bed. "Okay, Jeff, could we get that family tree off you?"

MacQuarrie rose more awkwardly and led the way back toward the house. "More like a shrub. I got most of it stuck to the fridge, near the phone," he said.

"What about people who might have a better memory about when Herb died?" Sam asked. Willy was already wandering around the yard, as if exploring the more obscure piles of junk.

"Oh, sure," MacQuarrie said without looking back. "I mean, it may've been almost thirty years ago, but people remember. Shit, it's all they got to do. I figure every screwup I've ever pulled, from childhood on, is like carved in stone with some of the people around here. It's crazy."

"You think there're any other coffins filled with rocks?" Willy asked from twenty feet away, having not indicated he'd even been listening.

MacQuarrie let out a deep laugh and faced Willy with his arms spread wide
—
the innocent bear, incarnate. "Hell," he said. "Could be. I wouldn't put it past one or two of them. But you're the police, eh?"