Three Can Keep a Secret

CHAPTER NINE

After their interview with William Friel, Joe and Lester decided to stay in Burlington overnight instead of heading back to Brattleboro. This, as it turned out, was a good thing, given what Sammie Martens had to say the following morning. Earlier, Joe had asked her to check on the whereabouts and activities of ex-State Senator Gorden Marshall-the unhappy politician who’d been photographed beside Carolyn Barber on her big day.

“Good news, bad news, boss,” Sam reported on the phone.

“I hate that,” he said, wiping the last of the shaving cream from his face and entering the motel’s bedroom. Lester was doing push-ups next to the far bed, in front of the flat-screen TV. He paused to quickly hit the MUTE button on CNN.

“All right,” she continued, ignoring him. “The good news is that I found Gorden Marshall. He’s parked at a place called The Woods of Windsor. It’s one of those over-the-top old folks’ homes where, in exchange for a small fortune, you get three squares a day, a pull alarm beside the toilet, and a one-way ticket to the terminal ward so your kids never have to worry about you when you go ga-ga.”

“Ouch,” Joe responded, sitting on the edge of his bed. “Do we have issues with this?”

“We do not,” she said, adding, “At least, not personally. There are a few things about it, though, that bother me in principle. I think it has something to do with the money involved, but I haven’t given it enough thought to know for sure.”

Joe laughed. “Geez, Sam-that’s very philosophical of you. You already wondering what Emma might be thinking when you and Willy get too old to use that toilet?”

“That’s gross.”

“That’s life, kiddo. What’s the bad news?”

“He’s dead.”

It had the right effect. Joe hesitated, reworking the conversation in his head. “Marshall’s dead?”

“As the proverbial doornail. Last night.”

Joe turned the phone aside to tell Spinney, “Sam says Gorden Marshall died last night.”

Lester turned off the TV. “No way.”

“How?” Joe asked Sammie, putting his cell on speakerphone.

“Natural causes, according to the facility. I called as soon as I read about it during my records search on the guy, and whoever it was in administration at The Woods told me that their medical director was signing it off as a natural.”

“The hell he is,” Joe blurted out.

This time, it was Sam who paused before asking, “Who was Marshall, anyhow? You didn’t go into detail last night. I mean, I know the political part.…”

“That’s about it so far,” Joe admitted. “We found him posing in a photograph next to Carolyn Barber when she was made Governor-for-a-Day. It was just a lead I wanted to follow.” He reconsidered that and added, “Or it was before this piece of unlikely coincidence. Where’s the body right now?”

“Probably at the funeral home. Maybe still at The Woods of Windsor. It was dumb luck that I stumbled over this. I was running all state databases, as usual with missing persons, and there he was in the death registry. I couldn’t believe it. If the Internet used ink, it wouldn’t have even been dry.”

Joe was gesturing to Lester to start packing. “Sam,” he said, “call them back, and the local police. Tell them to freeze everything till we get there. And call the SA-that’s Roger Carbine for that county-and tell him that I’ll be calling him for a big favor and will phone him from the road, right after you let me know you’ve chased him down. We got to get Gorden Marshall an autopsy, but I want to look at him first.”

Sam knew better than to prolong the conversation. Any and all discussion about this could wait until later, especially if some family member was impatiently hoping to get Mr. Marshall cremated.

“You got it,” she said, and gave him the address for The Woods.

* * *

As might befit a place of self-proclaimed high standards, The Woods of Windsor was located near Woodstock, Vermont-one of the few towns in the state wealthy enough to have had its downtown utility lines buried and its streetlamps replaced with wannabe nineteenth-century gaslights.

The Woods itself appeared as a vast country estate, with rolling green lawns, a central pond complete with two fountains, and a driveway more deserving of a castle than a retirement home.

Not that The Woods of Windsor described itself as such. While Lester had driven here, Joe had struggled using the younger man’s smartphone to check out the place and get a feel for what he was about to encounter. By the time motion sickness had gotten the upper hand, he’d become all but convinced that The Woods would be an ample reward for his having lived all these years-if only he had the 400,000 nonrefundable bucks it took to secure a small two-bedroom apartment there.

“Jesus,” he’d said, returning Lester’s phone. “It’s God’s waiting room and J.P. Morgan’s in one package.”

Now, as they passed through the main entrance, feeling a little diminished for not being in a horse-drawn coach, they experienced firsthand the aura of what true money could buy.

They parked, entered the lobby, tactfully introduced themselves to the white-haired receptionist, and were immediately pointed to an unmarked door, halfway down the hall. As they approached it, the door swung open to reveal a tight-faced, balding man in a suit and glasses, with a harried, unpleasant expression.

“You the police?” he asked without preamble, ushering them inside and quickly closing the door behind them, as if to contain a bad smell.

Joe and Lester displayed their credentials as Joe asked, “And you are?”

“I’m Mr. Whitby, assistant to the director. What seems to be the problem? You’re here about Mr. Marshall, aren’t you?”

The cops exchanged glances, instinctively disliking this lemonish man.

“We are,” Joe confirmed. “Is the body still here?”

“It is, thanks to you,” Whitby said testily, “and my phone’s been ringing as a result ever since. What you’ve done has pissed people off.”

“We’ll probably want all their names,” Joe told him levelly. “So if you could keep a log from now on, we’d appreciate it.”

Whitby’s face closed down even more, which didn’t seem possible. “I don’t know about that. I don’t know about any of this. I haven’t been told what’s going on here. As far as I know, one of our tenants passed away of natural causes,” he emphasized pointedly, “and now you people are crawling all over the place as if we’d had a terrorist attack.”

“We just got here,” Lester reminded him.

“I think he means the local police,” Joe suggested, asking Whitby, “Where are they? We probably ought to coordinate with them.”

“They’re causing a stir, guarding the apartment,” Whitby sneered, “as if it would fly off or something. I hope you realize what this could do to a place like this.” He snapped his fingers. “One wrong move, one small piece of bad publicity, and we’ve had it-people’ll be out of here like rats leaving a ship.”

“I’ve got it, George,” said a soothing female voice from behind, entering via the hallway door. “Thanks for your help. Sorry I was late.”

A woman with no-nonsense eyes and practical, short gray hair rounded to the front of them, waited for George Whitby to disentangle himself and fade away, and then extended her hand in greeting. “Hannah Eastridge,” she began. “I’m the director. I apologize for not greeting you personally. Your colleague called, of course, as has the state’s attorney, and the local police have sealed off the apartment, as you heard. I hope that we’ve set everything up to your satisfaction.”

Joe had no clue what she meant by that, but he already liked her style, especially compared to her colleague. He was also pleased by her mention of the SA. Roger Carbine had evidently made an effort to smooth the way, even without knowing much about their interest in Mr. Marshall. Joe made a mental note to send the man a gift of thanks. However, all he said was, “Whitby also told us that Marshall’s still here. We appreciate that, and thank you for your cooperation. I do apologize if we’ve ruffled any feathers.”

“Of course,” she said, and gestured to them to follow her down a short corridor to her office, where she waved them into guest chairs and offered them coffee, which they each turned down.

“You have to understand that communities like ours run as much on rumor and gossip as on cash,” she explained. “And bad news travels the fastest of all. I know you may not be willing to tell me what’s going on, but I was told that Mr. Marshall’s death was completely natural. That’s what my medical director told me when he was about to sign the death certificate.”

“It may be,” Joe admitted. “But there are circumstances beyond his death that caught our interest, along with the SA’s. It happens sometimes that the usual protocols have to be tweaked a bit. I didn’t realize we’d cause such a ruckus.”

Hannah Eastridge shooed that away with her hand. “Oh, George. He was exaggerating slightly. Death at The Woods is sadly an almost weekly disturbance. So, the appearance of the police this time will guarantee some extra chatter over dinner tonight.”

She settled down behind her modest desk in an office remarkable mostly for its small size and self-effacement. “That having been said,” she continued, “I can’t deny that my cell phone has come alive since the first squad car pulled up, and I’ve already heard back from a family member of Mr. Marshall’s.”

A large white cat suddenly appeared on the desk between them like a magic trick, startling the cops and making Eastridge laugh as she reached out to pull the animal toward her.

“I am sorry,” she said. “Meet Echo, the true boss of the operation. She’s only allowed free rein in this suite of offices, but she rules the roost.”

They exchanged a few comments about Echo before Lester asked politely, “Who was Marshall’s family member that you mentioned?”

“His daughter,” Eastridge said. “Michelle Mahoney, who also has power of attorney. She’s it, when it comes to relatives. She was automatically informed of her father’s passing, soon after he was found. She lives in Connecticut and is making travel plans. When she called back, I told her pretty much what you just said, that sometimes the police get involved for vaguely related reasons, and occasionally order an autopsy. I stressed that there’s usually nothing to it. Purely procedural, is how I phrased it. I also mentioned to her that since this is all so vague, the police might want to access her father’s apartment, and would that be all right? For the record, she told me you could if need be, but she wanted to be informed if anything was removed.”

“Thank you,” Joe said. “That was exactly right. You are clearly a practiced hand at this.”

“Twenty-eight years in the business,” she stated, absentmindedly stroking the happy cat. “Thirteen of them right here.”

“And Gorden Marshall? How long was he here?”

“Eight years,” she answered quickly.

“Just him?”

“Yes. He arrived as a widower, which is not the norm, since the women generally outlive the men, and to be blunt, he was never in great shape.”

“How was he discovered?” Joe asked. “I take it he lived alone.”

“He did,” she replied. “But he also had an early breakfast routine with some buddies. He didn’t show up, they made a phone call he didn’t answer, and they sounded the alarm.”

“How was he as a tenant?” Joe asked. “Or whatever you call them.”

“We prefer ‘resident,’” she instructed him. “And he could be a bear. The Woods of Windsor is pretty high on the social ladder, as you probably noticed. It attracts some leadership personalities.”

Joe smiled. “Very diplomatic.”

“That’s the first thing you learn here.”

“He was a politician?” Joe asked disingenuously. “Agent Spinney and I were called in pretty abruptly, so we didn’t get a chance to dig into his past.”

“A Vermont senator,” Eastridge replied. “Although I got the sense that it was more than that.”

“A mover and a shaker?” Lester asked.

“That’s what I was led to believe,” she agreed, “although I never knew the details. I understood that he was the epitome of the glad-handing good ol’ boy. He certainly handled himself like that. He joined a bunch of committees early on and tended to make more of his responsibilities than perhaps they deserved.”

“In other words, a real jerk,” Lester said flatly.

Eastridge burst out laughing, making Echo look up at her. “I hope I can trust you not to get me in trouble, but of course you’re right.”

Joe was smiling when he suggested, “Sounds like he could’ve been pretty unpopular.”

But she raised her eyebrows in surprise. “It does, doesn’t it? But with this group, things are often not what they appear. We’ve got more ex-CEOs and company presidents and retired chairmen than this county has horses, which is saying something. The type A’s among our residents tend to consider someone like Gorden Marshall as one of their own. For you or me, they can be pretty unpleasant, but in context, he was no nastier than a competitive tennis player on the pro tour. Half the time, what I might write off as pure orneriness is seen here as game playing. Just strolling the hallways, I witness as much combative psychology as I’ve heard they have in the Marines.”

“Sounds charming,” Joe said softly.

She leaned forward slightly in her chair, finally making Echo jump from her lap in search of quieter quarters. “That’s the interesting part. It mostly is. I’m no glutton for punishment. I get paid well, but if the job didn’t have its perks, I’d leave. I don’t come from the same world they do-the real extremists, I’m talking about-but because of my title, they pretty much treat me as an equal. All the stuff I’ve been telling you is what I see, not what I suffer at their hands. And the truth is, they can also be generous, supportive, and incredibly helpful at times-most of the time, in fact, if you know how to handle them.”

She stood up and moved to the door. “Speaking of which, I’ve got to head off to one of the forty or so committee meetings I regularly attend. I’ve arranged for someone-not George”-she smiled-“to take you to see Mr. Marshall’s body and then to the apartment, if you’re so inclined.”

They joined her at the door, where they shook hands once more.

Hannah Eastridge held on to Joe’s hand for a split second longer, in order to say, “So we’re clear, the people I just told you about represent twenty-five percent of our population-the equivalent of maybe one percent out there in the real world. That means seventy-five percent of The Woods of Windsor is made up of rich people-true enough-but who’re pretty regular, too. This is a nice place, filled with overwhelmingly decent people. Some of them just have too much time on their hands.”

“Okay,” Joe said, touching her shoulder to emphasize that he did get the point. “We’ll keep that in mind. Thanks again for your help.”

She gave him a rueful smile. “It goes with the territory.”

* * *

Gorden Marshall was currently residing as far away from the rest of the facility as geography and architecture would allow. Eastridge’s guide took Joe and Lester on an impressive hike through the complex’s nether reaches until they arrived at last at a large refrigerated room to the rear of the terminal care unit-and one door shy of the loading dock.

“Kind of says it all, don’t it?” Spinney said appreciatively, looking around. “The high-end, industrial-housing version of ashes to ashes.”

Joe didn’t challenge him there, and headed to the one shrouded occupant of the room, now adorning a steel gurney and draped with a white sheet. On the way, he thanked their Sherpa and promised to find their own way back-although how, he wasn’t exactly sure.

He peeled off the sheet and folded it neatly, revealing a white-haired, oddly angry-looking man dressed in a pair of pajamas.

“Whoa,” Lester said, drawing near. “Not a man to piss off, even now. Want me to poke him with a stick first?”

Joe shook his head, but with a slight smile. “Who wound you up this morning?”

Lester didn’t answer, bending over to better scrutinize Marshall’s face. “He doesn’t look all that different from how he did in the old newspaper photo. Just older.”

Joe agreed. He reached for a convenient dispenser of latex gloves and sheathed his hands in electric blue rubber. Lester did likewise, in case Joe needed help.

“What’re we looking for?” he asked, positioning himself on the other side of the gurney.

Joe barely murmured, “Don’t know yet,” as he unbuttoned the pajama jacket.

It was cold in the room, but the body had obviously begun cooling before being moved here. The limbs and jaw were stiff, the anterior part of the body pale and its posterior mottled with pooled and congealed blood. Joe pressed his thumb firmly into a section of dark red skin and saw no blanching, indicating that livor mortis had already set in. On TV, fictional pathologists were always setting the time of death as if it were stamped on the body’s forehead. Joe and Lester knew better. Time of death was an elusive standard, camouflaged by the whims of temperature and circumstance, among others, and best established by someone reliable having seen the person die. Nevertheless, estimates could be reasonably assumed, as Joe demonstrated by saying, “Well, he didn’t die ten minutes ago.”

Lester glanced at his watch, taking a more serious stab at it. “Last night sometime? The pj’s suggest after he went to bed. If we find his sheets messed up when we check his apartment, that would support it.”

“He could’ve been a Hugh Hefner fan,” Joe said distractedly, his face inches above the body and his hands running along the man’s arms, checking for defects or abnormalities. He studied the fingernails for any signs of a struggle. Lester started doing the same thing from his side.

Slowly, they proceeded from scalp to toes, sometimes comparing notes, scrutinizing the body’s anatomy inch by inch and then flipping it over carefully to do the same along the discolored dorsal side.

Finally, not having found anything out of place, they returned Marshall to his original position, and Joe moved to his face. There, he delicately lifted up an eyelid.

“Any petechial hemorrhaging?” Lester asked, inquiring after the tiny blood bursts that often accompanied strangulation or asphyxia.

Joe shook his head. “Nope. It’s not always there, though.”

His fingers felt at the lips, barely working to pry them open. But they were frozen shut, by rigor and the bonding effect of dried saliva, and he desisted immediately, muttering, “I’ll let the ME mess with that.”

“We’re definitely going for an autopsy?”

Joe looked up. “The guy dies just as we’re about to interview him? I don’t care if he was diagnosed with triple cancer. That’s a coincidence I want looked at. Besides, after what it took to convince Roger Carbine, I’m not about to back down now. He was already wary of messing with a famous ex-politician, complete with a doc standing by, ready to sign a death certificate.”

There was a knock at the door, and a uniformed police officer with sergeant’s stripes walked in, looking irritated. “There you are. We heard you hit the premises an hour ago.”

Joe walked up to him, stripping off his gloves and extending a hand in greeting, which the other man had to accept.

“I am so sorry, Sergeant-” Joe quickly checked the man’s name tag. “-Carrier. That was unprofessional and uncalled for. Got carried away when I heard the body was still here.” He stepped aside to introduce Lester. “This is Lester Spinney. I get like a dog with a bone. The apartment okay, by the way?”

Carrier was unimpressed by the apology. His mouth curled as he said, “Wouldn’t know. Your colleague on the phone made it pretty clear there was no search warrant yet and we were to bar the door and not mess up the playground. You might tell her to brush up on her manners if you expect any help in the future.”

Joe could feel Spinney tensing beside him. For all Lester’s joking around, he was a loyalist, and perfectly ready to defend the unit’s honor.

“We’re flying on instinct here,” Joe tried mollifying Carrier. “Not on hard evidence. But consider the odds: We’re running an interview on the far side of the state, this guy’s name comes up-out of the blue-and I immediately get notified that he’s dead. I don’t know about you, but I had to check it out. We’re all working on so little sleep by now-just like you guys-that we’re getting a little punchy. No offense intended.”

Joe paused for half a breath and asked, “How bad did Irene hammer you?”

Carrier paused, caught off guard. “Bad enough-like everybody, I guess.”

“Yeah. We’re based out of the Brattleboro-Wilmington area,” Joe said.

The reference to Wilmington softened the sergeant’s demeanor, even though Joe hadn’t actually been to the town.

“Shit,” Carrier said sympathetically. “What’s left of it?”

“Not much,” Joe stated vaguely. “They pretty much got clocked. The whole downtown.”

“Yeah. I saw the footage on YouTube. Amazing.”

Joe took advantage to pat Carrier’s upper arm lightly, as a peace gesture. “Anyhow, I do apologize. None of us needed a death investigation, and you sure as hell didn’t need us getting under your skin.”

Carrier took the hint and moved on, casting a glance at the exposed body. “You find anything?”

Joe raised an eyebrow. “Wish I knew. We’ll send him up for a closer look, but nothing obvious so far. You want to help me with the apartment? I’ll get a team up here later, but I’d love to take a quick look-see. We got permission from the next of kin.”

Carrier hardly jumped with joy, but he did give a grudging nod. “I suppose. Sure.”