The Coal Black Asphalt Tomb: A Berger and Mitry Mystery (Berger and Mitry Mysteries) (4 page)

“Hearing about what?”

Now it was Bitsy’s turn to stare into the fire. “It isn’t talked about.”

“
What
isn’t?” Des demanded. “With all due respect, ladies, you’re both talking in riddles. I have no idea what you’re getting at. And even if I did there’s absolutely nothing I can do at this point. The town has already advanced Wilcox Paving a nonrefundable deposit. The crew will be arriving at the staging area in less than ten hours. I can’t help you.”

Helen bit her lip in anguish. “You have to, Des. Please stop it.”

“I can’t, Helen.”

The old secretary lowered her eyes, crestfallen. “Of course not. I understand. Well, that’s that. I’ve said what I needed to say. I told myself I had to do that much or I wouldn’t be able to sleep tonight. Just remember that I warned you, okay?” She finished off her Scotch and got to her feet. “We’ve taken up enough of their time, Bitsy. They need to eat their dinner and do all of the other wonderful things that young couples do on a raw evening when there’s a fire going and a bottle of wine open.” And with that Helen marched out the door and was gone.

“Sorry for dumping this on you,” Bitsy said. “But she’s an old friend and she was so insistent. Thank you. Both of you.” And then she scurried out the door after Helen.

Mitch headed into the kitchen to turn the burners back on under the skillet and pasta water. “What on earth was
that
?” he demanded. “Wait, wait, my bad. This one’s in your wheelhouse. You should go first.”

“Thanks, don’t mind if I do.” Des joined him in the kitchen, wine glass in hand. “What on earth was
that
?”

“If I didn’t know better I’d say Helen’s no longer getting an adequate blood supply to her brain.”

“But we do know better. Helen’s a practical, hard-nosed woman who’s been a trusted legal secretary to the Fairchilds for her entire adult life. Cuckoo she’s not, agreed?”

“Agreed. That was one genuinely frightened woman. Whatever Helen’s freaked out about is real. And it sounds like she’s been sitting on it for a long, long time.” He stirred the pancetta and onion as it began to sizzle again. “What are you going to do?”

“There’s nothing I can do. I don’t have the authority to halt the dig at the very last minute. Only Glynis can do that. It would cost the town a boatload of money and there’s absolutely no way she’ll agree to do it based on a cryptic warning from her own damned secretary who, for reasons known only to Helen, won’t speak directly to Glynis about it.” Des shook her head. “What does Helen think I can do? Why did she even come here?”

“She told you—so she could sleep tonight.”

“Well, I’m glad. That makes one of us.”

The pasta water came back to a boil. Mitch dumped the linguine in, stirred it and set the timer. Then he started chopping the parsley.

“Mitch, I have a very stupid question for you.”

“It’s your lucky night. I happen to specialize in very stupid answers.”

“Have you seen this movie before?”

He thought it over before he nodded his head.

“So tell me.”

“Tell you what, Des?”

“What’s Helen so afraid of? What’s down there?”

“It’s not a what,” he said quietly. “It’s a who.”

C
HAPTER
3

I
T TURNED OUT
D
ES
was wrong. There was no road dust at all. Just a whole lot of damp, compacted soil that reeked of creosote. The oily smell hung heavy in the air. After a while she swore it had seeped into her skin.

The morning was clear and frosty. It was supposed to climb into the upper forties by the afternoon. No rain in the forecast today. A mere 30 percent chance of a few showers tomorrow, which was about as good as a forecast could get this time of year in southern New England.

Work began two hours before daylight. That was when the Wilcox Paving crew came rumbling into town like an invading army, with a convoy of flatbeds, dump trucks and water trucks. There were at least a dozen men on the crew, not counting the foreman and flagmen. Their staging area was the parking lot of the A&P on Big Branch Road, which was the only space big enough for them to off-load their immense equipment from the flatbeds. Des was there to greet them as they rolled in. They were a quiet, highly efficient bunch. The husky young foreman had everything under control. Mostly, Des stood there chugalugging coffee and trying to wake up. She hadn’t slept well. Not after Helen Weidler’s tangled-up-in-weird warning.

At 5:15
AM
the first selectwoman made a personal appearance at the staging area—in the flesh
and
in costume. Glynis wore an orange safety vest over her charcoal gray pantsuit, a pair of tan work boots and a shiny white hard hat.

“Welcome to Dorset, gentlemen!” she said excitedly as she tromped around shaking hands with each and every crewman. “Good morning, Des! This is going to be a great day, isn’t it?”

“Yes, it is. What’s up with the hard hat?”

Glynis furrowed her brow. “Why, think it’s too much?”

“No, no. It’s always good to be prepared. But what are you preparing for?”

“I’m thinking it will mollify the angry soccer moms if I stand out in front of Center School myself. If they want to bitch about the traffic they can bitch at me, not you.”

“Well, I’m all for that. Just please do me one small favor, will you?”

“Sure, Des. What is it?”

“Don’t get run over. My troop commander would never forgive me.”

The mandatory parking ban on Dorset Street was scheduled to go into effect at 6
AM
. Des got in her cruiser and made a circuit of the historic district to make sure that each and every resident had complied. If they hadn’t, their vehicle would be towed immediately to the impound lot in Westbrook.

But things looked good, she observed, as she swung slowly through the district in the predawn darkness. The barricades and safety cones were in place. And the parked cars were gone. It was all good.

Make that
almost
all good.

At the corner of Dorset Street and Appleby Lane there was still one car parked at the curb in front of the public library. It was a black Volvo 850 station wagon, a well-worn model from the late nineties. It was a popular car around Dorset, where people held on to their cars for a long, long time. There were still dozens of black 850s around. She had no idea whose this one was until she ran the plate—and discovered to her great displeasure that it belonged to Buzzy Shaver, editor and publisher of
The Gazette
and the road project’s most vociferous opponent. Des wasn’t sure if this was Buzzy’s idea of a one-vehicle protest or what. But his car wasn’t parked anywhere near the office of
The Gazette
, which had been headquartered a mile down Dorset Street since 1926. And the old curmudgeon’s house was situated at least a half mile down Appleby Lane from the library. She could think of no reason why his car was parked here.

Other than to mess up the first selectwoman’s pet project, that is.

Des reached for her cell and woke him up. Or it sure sounded that way.

“Wha’…” he demanded hoarsely.

“Mr. Shaver, this is Resident Trooper Mitry. You need to move your vehicle immediately.”

Buzzy Shaver’s response was a nasty, phlegmy coughing fit that went on for quite some time. After that all she heard was wheezing.

“Mr. Shaver, are you still there?”

“Of course I am,” he growled. “But why are you bothering me at this ungodly hour?”

“Because you are currently in violation of a mandatory parking ban. If you don’t move your vehicle at once I will have it towed at your expense.”

He wheezed at her some more before he said, “Our
fee
-male first selectman put you up to this, didn’t she?”

“The clock’s ticking, Mr. Shaver. Would you like me to come get you or can you make it here on foot?”

“Don’t talk down to me, young lady,” he blustered, slamming the phone down.

It took him ten minutes to make his way down Appleby Lane on foot, gasping and wheezing. He’d thrown on a buffalo plaid wool shirt, baggy slacks and an old pair of Bass Weejun loafers. Buzzy Shaver was a lifelong bachelor well into his seventies and not exactly any woman’s idea of eye candy. He had a loose, pendulous lower lip and a mouth full of rotting yellow teeth. His face sagged into a diverse community of jowls, wattles and dewlaps, and his bald head was mottled with liver spots. His shoulders were soft and round, and the man had almost no neck. Des thought he looked like a turtle. An angry turtle.

“I don’t see why you had to make such a fuss,” he grumbled at her. His eyes were bloodshot, and his breath was foul enough to make her knees buckle.

“That makes us even, Mr. Shaver. I don’t see why you chose to ignore a mandatory parking ban.”

“Young lady, I don’t particularly care for your tone of voice.”

“And I don’t particularly care for you holding up progress this way.”

“I’m doing nothing of the sort.”

“Really? Then why isn’t your car parked in your garage?”

“That,” he replied, “is none of your damned business.”

“You made it my business, Mr. Shaver. I’m authorized to tow it and stick you with the bill. I extended you a courtesy by phoning you. Now show me some courtesy in return or so help me I will write you out a ticket, understand?”

“All right, all right. Don’t get your panties in a twist.”

“I’m sorry,
what
did you just say to me?”

Buzzy Shaver got into his Volvo and started it up. “Here’s a piece of advice,” he offered as he rolled down the window. “You’ll get along a lot better in Dorset if you do something about your hostile attitude.”

Des smiled at him through her gritted teeth. “Thank you for sharing that with me, Mr. Shaver. I’m so appreciative.”

And so proud of her self control. She did not—repeat, not—discharge her firearm into the old man’s car as he drove away.

After that, things proceeded quite smoothly. The mammoth asphalt grinder left the staging area on schedule and at precisely 6
AM
began eating its way through one of Dorset Street’s two lanes and conveying the chewed up pavement to the dump trucks that trailed along behind it. The entire historic district did shake, rattle and roll. But all that was left in the grinder’s wake was bare soil and that aroma of creosote. The road grader that followed the grinder smoothed the dirt with its huge blade, then a water truck wetted it down and a roller readied it for repaving. The operation was choreographed for maximum efficiency. Not a moment was wasted.

No question, the morning school traffic was a nightmare to funnel in and out with only a single lane open. But Des had the assistance of another state trooper in uniform and two Wilcox Paving flagmen. And the first selectwoman’s own buoyant presence out there in her orange safety reflector and hard hat did keep Dorset’s busy moms from freaking out over being stuck in standstill traffic.

By the time the morning rush hour was over the big asphalt grinder had already gobbled its way past Town Hall. Glynis took off her road-crew costume and resumed normal activities in her office. Des got in her cruiser, circled her way around the historic district and pulled onto the shoulder of McCurdy Road next to the barricade they’d set up there. By now the grinder was nearing the Congregational Church. Just past the church, where Dorset Street made a sharp left at McCurdy, the grinder was supposed to swing around and begin chewing its way back up the other side of Dorset Street.

That never happened.

It had just eaten up the pavement in front of the church when all hell broke loose by the road grader that was trailing along behind. Des could hear crewmen hollering and whooping as the grader came to an abrupt halt and then backed up. The caravan stopped. The operators jumped out of their heavy machines and convened in the middle of the road. One of the flagmen waved his arms frantically at Des. She hopped out and hurried toward them.

What she saw when she got there had to qualify as the weirdest sight she’d encountered in her entire career.

The grader’s blade had exposed a shallow grave right there in the middle of the road, underneath the pavement. A human body in full US Navy dress blues was buried there. Had been for a long, long time. The remains were skeletal. Some strands of mouse-colored hair still clung to the skull. The wool material of the dress uniform was rotted but recognizable. So were the two stripes on the shoulders and sleeves as well as the corroded gold-plated pin on the dead lieutenant’s chest. Des, who’d graduated from West Point, recognized it as a gold wings pin. Its wearer had been a Navy flyer.

“Not something you see every day,” the husky young foreman said to her hoarsely.

“No, it is not.” Now Des noticed that the grader’s operator was sprawled on the ground in front of his machine, bleeding from the forehead. He looked dazed. “What happened to your man?”

“He fainted and hit his head,” the flagman told her.

Des immediately placed a call to Madge and Mary Jewett, the no-nonsense fifty-something sisters who ran Dorset’s volunteer EMT service. Then she asked the trooper who was helping with traffic flow to secure the perimeter and keep absolutely everyone away from the grave—particularly the tall young blond guy who’d just moseyed over from
The Gazette
and was trying to take pictures. She darted back to her cruiser for her own Nikon D80 so she could zoom in for a better look at the body without touching it or compromising the gravesite.

The lieutenant’s shirt, tie, shoes and socks had decomposed, she observed as she snapped pics. His toe bones were exposed. Around the bone of his left wrist he wore a wristwatch that appeared to be a stainless steel Rolex Submariner. Its band of stainless steel links was intact. Around the bones of his right ring finger he wore a ring. Mighty bulky one. Mighty dirty, too. But Des thought it looked like a service academy class ring. It had a reddish birthstone set in the middle of it. Possibly a ruby. Hard to say for sure. She saw nothing else that might offer a hint to the lieutenant’s identity. And it was not, repeat not, her job to search his remains for identification.