The Marble Mask (27 page)

I pulled the Special Service Force roster book we’d borrowed from Dick Kearley from under the papers before me and slid it across to her. “That’s a list of the people Antoine served with in the war. Inside is a printout of known surviving Canadian taxpayers from the RCMP. But it was an American/Canadian brigade, and the Mounties admitted their records might be iffy. Still, it’ll give you something to compare against anyone you might find in the town clerk’s archives. Later, we can try the Pentagon for what they have, too.”

I looked around the room and saw her disappointment reflected in most of the faces there. “I know this isn’t fun—geriatrics, ancient history, and dusty files—but somebody on the other side thinks we’re getting close, which means the ball’s back in motion. We’ve got to do the homework.”

I placed my hands on the table and rose. “Okay. While you and Tom are doing that, the rest of us will find out who Picard had lunch with—assuming that’s what happened. Maybe one will help the other. We’re looking for a missing link here, and we know it exists ’cause I wouldn’t’ve been shot at otherwise, right?”

· · ·

It was mid afternoon by the time I entered the Deeryard Restaurant. A couple of people were sitting by the stained-glass windows drinking coffee over immaculate tablecloths, but otherwise the place was in the dark and peaceful chasm between lunch and dinner, its staff either prepping the bar for the evening onslaught, discreetly vacuuming the carpet far away from the clientele, or creating muted chaos from beyond the leather-padded kitchen doors.

I stood stock-still in the middle of the room, adjusting to the tasteful gloom, when an artificially cultured voice asked, “May I help you, sir?”

I discerned the emerging form of a man in a jacket and tie, looking much like a television anchorman in his perfection.

“I hope so.” I pulled out my badge. “I’m Joe Gunther, Vermont Bureau of Investigation.”

The man’s tone changed from fake cultured to instant nasty, which made me think he might be as unpleasant a colleague as he was obsequious a host. “We passed inspection two months ago with flying colors. What son of a bitch complained this time?”

I pocketed the badge with a sigh, wondering if I shouldn’t drop the whole VBI intro. “I’m not a restaurant inspector. I’m a cop working a homicide. What’s your name?”

The man at least paid me the compliment of looking astonished. “Oh. I’m sorry. I thought… Johnny Philbin.”

He seemed torn over whether a handshake was appropriate. I let him dangle his wrist in the air uncertainly.

“You work lunches or are you dinner only?” I asked him.

The hand dropped. “Both.”

I mentioned the date Gaston Picard had received his parking ticket. “How ’bout then?”

“Yeah, I think so… I mean, yeah, I was here.”

“You take reservations for lunch?”

“We take them. They aren’t necessary. Dinner only.”

I pulled a photograph of Picard from my pocket, provided earlier by the Sûreté, and repeated a question I’d tried unsuccessfully at two other places on the block. “This is important. Take your time. Tell me if you remember seeing this man that day.”

He barely glanced at it. I prepared myself to be disappointed. “Sure.”

“You saw him?”

“Yeah. He had lunch with Mike Sawyer,” he said without expression, as if sharing common knowledge.

“Who is…?” I asked nevertheless.

“He’s a famous guy around here. Ran the first really classy restaurant in the valley—Michael Sawyer’s it was called. Old guy, but nice, and knows his food business. Gives you hell if you mess up, overtips if you do it right.”

I waggled the photograph I was still holding in my hand. “This one a regular, too?”

Philbin shook his head. “Never saw him before. I just recognized him because of Sawyer. When Mike comes to eat, I pay attention.” He smiled with an oily self-satisfaction. “Makes it worth my while.”

My earlier dislike of the man returned. “During your hovering to be of service, did you hear what they were talking about?”

He slid both hands into his trouser pockets and shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t know if I’m supposed to talk about that. Isn’t there some kind of right-to-privacy thing there?”

I stared at him a moment, wondering if he was trying to be cute, angling for some money, or just plain stupid. “There’s your right to remain silent when I arrest you for impeding an investigation.”

The hands came back out. “Jesus Christ. You don’t have to get so touchy. They talked about a lot of bullshit—the old days, their health. The same kind of crap all these old farts talk about.”

“How about their waiter? Who was he?”

He surprised me by suddenly looking uncomfortable. “I was.”

I understood immediately. “Screwed the real waiter for the tip. Where’s Sawyer live?”

Philbin was anxious to get this over. “Edson Hill area.” He gave me the precise address. “It’s where a lot of bigwigs live.”

“He get there just because of the restaurant?”

“Why don’t you ask him?”

· · ·

I went to Edson Hill with Gary Smith. He called the homes there “starter castles” and shared a few past tales of their owners’ eccentric behavior. His take on them was like that of an indulgent father who didn’t mind a little mischief from his children. It was one of the interesting things about Stowe that I’d already noticed—that the simmering anger some towns felt for the occasional wealthy resident had been diluted by compromise here, either because there were so many millionaires, or perhaps because Stowe had made its peace with what it had become.

That thought prompted me to test Gary on a topic closer to home. “What do you think about VBI, now that we’ve been working together awhile?”

He was still looking out the passenger window at the parade of huge houses, most of them new, many of them reflecting in their architecture the stone and woods that defined the entire region.

“I’m still not sure why they dreamed you up, what with VSP already in place, but it hasn’t bugged me any.”

“We haven’t been too pushy?”

“Our PD wouldn’t have ended up with this case anyhow, and you guys have been good to work with, ’cept maybe Kunkle. He’s a little much.”

“But if you were asked, we’d get a passing grade?” I persisted, knowing such a conversation would be taking place at higher levels, if it hadn’t already.

“Nobody gives a shit what I think, and we’re probably stuck with you people anyhow, so who cares?”

He relented after I made no comment and turned toward me.

“Look, I know you didn’t create this thing, and I don’t much care why you joined up, although it’s obviously working for you. But maybe that’s what does bug me about it. I’ve done okay in this department. I got a good chief, we get our fair share of action, and I’ve had some pretty interesting assignments. With VBI coming on, that’ll probably all change. We won’t need detectives in-house, and I’ll be back to pulling over speeders.”

“Not necessarily,” I argued. “We only handle major crimes—cases you’d hand over anyhow, just like you said. Your department will still need plainclothes officers. The only difference’ll be that if you ever want to move up, you won’t have to wait for the chief to leave—you can apply to join us and get career options you can’t even dream of now unless you join the state police and virtually start all over again.”

He shrugged, unconvinced. “If that’s true, then every hotshot in the state’ll be lining up to join and I won’t have a chance.” He pointed to a log-built home on our right—well-appointed but low-key. “That’s it.”

I swung up the driveway, distressed if not surprised by his answer. Cops were often bureaucratic fatalists, resigned to any and all change doing them dirt in the long run—and convinced that there was nothing they could do about it. The Gary Smiths of this world would have to be led to any new realities, not pep-talked to them—prior disappointments and a natural conservatism dictated that.

Mike Sawyer stepped out onto his wraparound porch before we got out of the car. He was as bald as an egg, thin, small, and straight-backed, immaculately dressed in very expensive slacks and a thick cardigan sweater. Had he been wearing a white cap, I would have thought myself about to board a yacht.

“Mr. Sawyer?” I called out from where I’d parked.

“Who are you?” he asked without preamble.

“We’re police officers,” I said, keeping it simple. “We were wondering if we could ask you some questions.”

He didn’t move from looking down at us, his hands on the wooden railing before him. “About what?”

I made a gesture of slapping my sides with my arms. “Kind of cold out here. Mind if we come in?”

He obviously did but luckily was old and well mannered enough not to say so. He indicated a set of broad steps to his right and motioned us to join him. We shook hands formally, exchanged names, and he ushered us stiffly across the threshold.

We entered a heavy-beamed living room with a pile of brightly burning logs in the fireplace and some classical music playing in the background.

“This is very nice,” I said.

“It’s functional. What do you want?”

I faced him, noticing for the first time just how old he was. Sawyer’s clothes were so luxuriously thick and well tailored that from a distance they’d given him a youthful, fashionable flair. But up close I saw how his neck and head protruded from them like a turtle’s from its shell—bare, wrinkled, withered, and frail.

“Would you like to sit down?” I asked.

“No. I’d like an answer.”

I remembered how the unpleasant maître d’ had described Sawyer as a tough guy with demanding expectations.

“We’d like to ask you about Gaston Picard.”

His expression remained the same. “What about him?”

“You met him several days ago over lunch. We were wondering what you talked about.”

“I doubt that’s any of your business.”

I began to reassess the turtle analogy. “It is, actually. We’re conducting a murder investigation.”

“Good for you. Do you have a warrant?”

“Do we need one?”

He smiled thinly. “My question comes first, and yours just gave me the answer. If at some point you feel you do need a warrant—and can get it—then maybe we’ll continue this little chat.”

That was our exit line, except for my unwillingness to take it. “I get your point, and you’re perfectly within your rights, but can I ask you a couple of general things? They’re more history questions than anything else.”

He looked at me curiously for the first time. “History questions?”

I moved into that small opening. “Yeah. I heard you used to run the best restaurant in town—Michael Sawyer’s.”

“That’s common knowledge.”

“So I just found out. When was that in operation?”

“Sixty-four to eighty-nine.”

That was a letdown. “What did you do before then?”

“I ran other restaurants.”

“In Stowe?”

“Yes, and elsewhere.”

“When did you open your first one in Stowe?” I asked, sensing I was slowly getting where I wanted to go.

Sawyer moved over to the front door and opened it. The sudden cold air matched the change in his tone. “I don’t recall—old-timer’s disease,” he said, tapping his very sound head with his fingertip. “Make sure you bring some paperwork next time you come.”

· · ·

“That was useful,” Gary said once we were heading back down the hillside.

“I thought so,” I admitted.

He gave me a scornful look. “How?”

“Because he threw us out just as I was getting to when Jean Deschamps was killed. We’ll have to hassle the town clerk some more to get the records, but I’ll bet money that man was around Stowe in the mid-forties, which makes him the first solid connection we’ve got between the whole Sherbrooke bunch and Stowe besides Jean’s frozen body.”

Gary Smith smiled. “You think he’s the one who kept the body on ice?”

“He’s a good candidate. They didn’t build home freezers then like they do today. You’re too young to know that, but when I was a kid, I remember the wonder of step-in freezers the size of bedrooms. The first one I ever saw was in a restaurant.”

WE’D ALL BUT TAKEN OVER THE STOWE TOWN
clerk’s office, much to her distress, and exacerbated matters by staying on past closing, an affront to procedure that had taken several phone calls to make acceptable.

Now we were sitting around a large wooden table—Tom and Sammie still comparing the Special Service Force roster with Stowe residents of the time, and Gary Smith and I poring over unwieldy bound volumes of voting, tax, and real estate records that had gradually spread across every available flat surface. Working the computer data banks in Waterbury, Paul Spraiger was trying to find out what he could about Michael Sawyer before he’d come to Stowe. Willy, as usual, was off doing something he hadn’t deigned to share with the rest of us.

Gary finally leaned back in his chair, reached toward the ceiling with both hands in a stretch, and laconically announced, “Think I got it.”

“What?” I asked as the other two glanced up.

He tapped the book before him with his finger. “Says here Sawyer bought a residence on the edge of town in ’46, turned it into a restaurant the same year—something called the Snow Bank—and held it until…” he paused while he pulled another open book toward him and consulted its pages, “1951. That’s when he sold out and opened another place nearer downtown named Mike’s, which he held onto till Michael Sawyer’s opened in ’64, like he told us.”

“Fancier and fancier each time,” Sammie commented.

“I guess,” Gary agreed. “Doesn’t go into those kinds of details here.”

“He must’ve been doing pretty well to create the first restaurant out of a remodeled house and then go upwardly mobile just five years later, especially since Stowe hadn’t hit the big time yet,” I said.

“Could be Sawyer was as good as they say he was and just caught the wave of the future,” Sammie suggested.

I chewed that over for a few seconds. “Maybe. I just can’t shake the feeling of a whole lot of birds suddenly landing in the same tree. Picard, Sawyer, Deschamps—”