Archer Mayor - Scent of Evil

“He had a drinking problem once, didn’t he?”

“That’s what I mean. He’s a good worker, though.”

“Yeah. I was just remembering I recommended him to Tony.”

“We all did, Joe. He’s a good man.”

I let out a sigh. “I guess that’s the problem with a case like this. You think if you get the pin back into the grenade fast enough, maybe the damn thing won’t go off.”

“Well, I seriously doubt John Woll is your pin. Besides, he wouldn’t be stupid enough to transport and dump a body while he was on patrol.”

“I know, I know. It was just a coincidence I wanted to check out.”

Billy stood up and stretched. “Well, I think I’ll cross the hall and check on the troops.”

I stayed in my chair. “Sure. And thanks.”

Billy disappeared into the gloom beyond his door with the confidence of a man who knew his way through a minefield by heart.

At nine o’clock that evening, Klesczewski, Patrolman Jerry Mayhew, and I met up with Patrol Sergeant Al Santos at 55 Marlboro Avenue, the residence of Charles J. Jardine. Santos had been on guard at Jardine’s house ever since I’d sent him to find out whether the dead man whose photo we had was the Jardine listed in the phone book. Forty-five minutes after Santos had radioed in that a neighbor had confirmed the identity, we’d secured a signed search warrant.

It was a modest house, very neat and tidy, one-and-a-half stories tall with two peaked dormers and a similarly designed small roof over the front door. The trim and clapboards were painted different shades of gray-blue, offsetting one another nicely. The small square lawn had been mowed and edged. The houses up and down the wide street were comparable in size and appearance-a symmetry Levittown had made famous forty years before-although Jardine’s was remarkably immaculate.

A little-known grid of six short, intersecting streets surrounded by two cemeteries, a wooded ravine, and the Brattleboro Union High School, this section of Brattleboro looked airlifted from a quiet Midwestern suburb. It was located on perhaps the highest point of land around, on the southern edge of town, which added to its air of serenity. There was a sense of space here, unlike in the rest of Brattleboro, where most of the homes had a pushed together look, the way a child hurriedly gathers his blocks together in a haphazard jumble on a bunched-up blanket.

Santos pulled a key from his pocket. “Neighbor had it-in case of an emergency. Apparently Jardine lived alone.”

I looked beyond Santos to the house next door. A man in a baseball cap and shorts-and nothing else-was hovering on his front porch, shifting his weight from one foot to the other as if he’d been denying nature’s call in fear of missing our arrival. My glance got him going like a starter’s gun. He bustled through the screen door, came down his porch steps, and crossed over to us, his sunburned belly jiggling with every step. Absurd at it was, I envied him his attire. Despite the hour, it was still suffocatingly hot, and my pants and shirt clung to me like an unwelcome embrace.

“So what happened to Charlie?” The man smiled awkwardly and removed his hat, as if to reveal his honesty.

“I’m Lieutenant Gunther. Are you his neighbor?”

“Ned Beaumont-I lent this officer the key.” He stuck out his hand. I could tell before I shook it what a spongy, unpleasant experience it would be.

I unobtrusively wiped my hand on the seat of my pants. I noticed he did the same with his. “Thanks, Mr. Beaumont. I’m afraid we can’t say much right now-too early yet.”

“Was he murdered? Was he the guy they talked about on the radio? I can’t believe it.”

I liked Beaumont’s open face. His attitude, like his gut, was without guile. This was big news on the block, and he had been the supplier of Jardine’s key-a position of some importance to him. I saw no harm in catering to that and hoped for some fringe benefits. “He may have been. We don’t know for sure, and we’re hoping to keep his name out of the limelight for as long as possible.”

“Oh, sure; mum’s the word. Wow. Murdered. Who did it?”

“We don’t know that either. Where did he work, Mr. Beaumont?”

“ABC Investments. He was one of the partners.”

I’d never heard of the firm; it sounded custom-named for a first listing in the Yellow Pages . “Did you know him well?”

“Not too well-just as a neighbor, you know? This was his parents’ house; they’re dead now. They were the ones who gave me the key, a long time ago, you know how neighbors do sometimes. He seemed like a real nice guy… How was he murdered?”

“An autopsy’s being done on him right now so we can find out. When was the last time you saw him?”

Beaumont looked thoughtful, absentmindedly rubbing his stomach. “I guess it was yesterday morning. We go to work about the same time.”

“Did you notice any activity at the house last night-lights, music, his car in the driveway?”

Beaumont smiled ruefully, perhaps with a touch of envy. “Charlie was a bachelor. Him not being home at night wasn’t all that unusual.”

“So nothing all night long?”

He glanced at the house. “Just the way it looks now.”

“What was he like as a neighbor?”

Again, the thoughtful stomach-rubbing. “Nice. He was quiet, no loud parties or anything. He minded his own business; wasn’t too outgoing, if you know what I mean. It wasn’t that he kept to himself so much-he’d say hi when we saw each other and ask about the family, but he never had us over and never accepted our invites for a barbecue or whatever. But he was nice about it. I figured he just liked his privacy.”

“Did you ever see any of his friends?”

Beaumont leered slightly. “Sometimes he’d have a lady friend over. He had real good taste.”

“Did you know any of them by name?”

“Oh, he never introduced them. I would just happen to notice now and then, through the window or when I was in the yard.”

“When was the last time he had a guest, that you know of?”

“Oh, I don’t know. A week, maybe.”

“A woman?”

“Yeah. Sometimes men would come by too, by the way.”

“What did this woman look like?”

“Blonde-short hair… I guess they call it a page-boy. She was real cute. Not much up here,” he patted his own fleshy chest, “but good-looking. She’d been by a few times before.”

“You’ve never seen her anywhere else?”

“Nope, and I’d remember her-it was real blonde hair, almost silvery.”

He looked at Jardine’s house again and shook his head. “I can’t believe he’s dead.”

I figured I wasn’t going to learn too much more here, and I knew I could find Beaumont again if I needed him. Also, Santos had opened the door by now, and Klesczewski was standing impatiently on the threshold. I stuck my hand out for another soft, warm, damp handshake. “I want to thank you for your help, Mr. Beaumont, and we appreciate your discretion. I’ll keep in touch.”

He opened his mouth to say something but obviously thought better of it at the last moment. Instead, he backed away a few steps, gave us a half wave as Ron closed the door behind me, and muttered, “Anytime-mum’s the word.”

The inside of Jardine’s house was surprisingly cool, and in the brief moment of quiet before we set to work, I could hear the muted hum of air-conditioning.

Santos noticed the same thing. “He must’ve been doin’ all right to leave the AC on when he was at work.” Santos was a transplant from Queens and had a thick New York accent-a detail that had startled more than one flatlander who’d had their vehicle stopped by him on the road.

“Could be a timer. Or maybe he thought he was coming right back,” I muttered. Just because Beaumont hadn’t seen Jardine at home since the previous morning didn’t make it fact.