Archer Mayor - Three Can Keep a Secret

“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?”

Bonnie Swift lived in the Waitsfield-Warren area, about fourteen miles south of Waterbury-if also, some argued, on a whole different planet. There, they’d be speaking economically, although the geography was tellingly different as well. But where Waterbury was dominated by the state office complex and the Winooski River, Waitsfield-Warren was best known for the Sugarbush ski resort-among the state’s largest-and the far more picturesquely labeled Mad River, which had clearly lived up to its name on Sunday.

Lester Spinney’s attention was more given to the neighborhood’s economic reputation. “This is where they tow your car away if it’s last year’s model, isn’t it?” he commented, observing a large spread, anchored by a mansion standing regally at the back of a manicured if soggy field.

Joe laughed, negotiating a tight curve between traffic cones. Also unlike Waterbury, this was mountainous terrain, which in parts had made traveling the washed-out roads even tougher. “That’s Manchester. Get your prejudices right.”

“Right,” Lester said, jerking a thumb at the big house. “Makes me a believer.”

“That’s more like Warren than Waitsfield,” Joe said. “Back in the old days, which for me stretches pretty far, Waitsfield was for the regular crowd, and Warren was where the rich skiers hung out. Things have changed, though.” He slowed to a crawl to show his badge to a flagman, “Especially now.

“We get through?” he asked. It was another blessedly beautiful, dry summer day.

The flagman spoke into his portable radio and eventually waved them past. “Stick far to the right. You goin’ beyond Waitsfield proper?”

“Nope.”

“You should be okay, then. They’re still not sure about the covered bridge in town.”

Spinney shook his head. “What d’ya want to bet even the rich guys don’t have flood insurance?”

Joe slowed down before cutting onto a side road and heading uphill. Immediately, the road was in perfect condition. “I heard the water reached seven feet above flood level in spots, including parts of Waitsfield.”

They continued for another half mile, gaining height, before seeing a mailbox labeled SWIFT on the left. Joe took the dirt driveway, rutted and narrow, and drove them another five hundred feet to the parking lot of a well-kept double-wide trailer with another of Vermont’s ubiquitous, partially rusted-out, older Subaru station wagons out front.

“Ah,” said Spinney, swinging his long legs out of their four-wheel-drive SUV. “This is more what I’m used to.”

A woman appeared on the deck at the top of a short flight of wooden steps. “Are you the ones who called?” she asked.

The two men pulled out their IDs as they climbed. Joe spoke for them. “I’m Joe Gunther. This is Lester Spinney. Really appreciate your agreeing to meet with us.”

She gave him a rueful expression. “Bonnie Swift-and it’s not like I have much to do right now.”

They reached the top and shook hands. “No, I guess not,” Joe said. “What is the latest about the hospital?”

“Too early to say,” she told him, heading toward a picnic table that was set up at the far end of the deck. “Right now, we’re just hearing rumors and waiting around, none of which is doing anybody any good. You want some iced tea or coffee or something?”

They demurred and took places at the wooden table overlooking the parking area and the woods beyond. There was a shrouded gas grill off to one side. Joe imagined this spot saw more than a few pleasant weekend gatherings.

“You lived here for long?” he asked, stretching his legs and pulling out a pad to take notes if necessary.

“Fourteen years,” she said. “Brad owned the property before we married-he works on the road crew and does jobs on the side. We lived closer to town for about five years, and then took the plunge, moving this monster in. That was a neat trick, coming up the drive. I thought the whole damn thing was going to end up at the bottom of the mountain. But Brad and his pals know what they’re doing.” She laughed. “They just scare the bejesus out of you while they’re doing it.”