CHAPTER 3

IT TURNED OUT DES 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.

By now the Jewett sisters had arrived. Mary got busy checking out the dazed operator of the grader.

Madge stared down at the skeletal remains and shook her head in wonderment. “Good gravy, it’s him. I always thought it was one of those made-up legends, like Bigfoot or trickle down economics. Tell me, are those gold wings he’s wearing?”

“Yes,” Des said.

“Then it must be him.”

“Must be who, Madge?”

Madge blinked at her. “Lance Paffin, of course. Who else could it be?”

“Would Lance Paffin be any relation to…”

“He was Bob’s big brother. A hotshot Navy flyboy and major heartthrob, I’m told. Before my time.” Madge gazed at her curiously. “I keep forgetting how new you are to this place. You’ve never heard about Lance?”

“This is what I’m saying.”

“After a big night of partying at the country club’s spring dance in, let’s see, this was way back in 1967, I think, Lance took his catboat out for a moonlight sail. His boat was found washed up on the rocks at Saybrook Point the next morning. The Coast Guard searched and searched but his body was never found. There’s a headstone in Duck River Cemetery bearing his name except…”

“Except what, Madge?”

“Well, there’s always been this legend that he didn’t wash out to sea. That something else happened to him.”

“Such as what?”

“Des, what in the heck is he doing underneath Dorset Street?”

“Kind of wondering that myself.” Des turned to the foreman and said, “I’m afraid that all work will have to be halted until further notice. This is now a crime scene.” She would have to notify Glynis of this as well. But first Des placed a direct call to her troop commander in Westbrook, a grumpy, sagging accordion of a man who absolutely hated to rub up against anything high profile, controversial or stressful. Something told her that this one was going to qualify as all three. When he answered she took a deep breath and said the words that she knew he wouldn’t want to hear. She said, “Captain Rundle, this is Master Sergeant Mitry. Sir, we’ve got something just a tiny bit unusual here.”

*   *   *

It took the vans from the medical examiner’s team forty minutes to get there from Farmington. There were five people in all—a team leader and four worker bees. The chief medical examiner arrived in a separate car to take charge of the scene personally, which was something he almost never did. His being there set off alarm bells in Des’s head. Clearly, she was experiencing a close encounter of the skunky kind.

Des was by no means idle while she waited for them to arrive. Captain Rundle sent her two more uniformed troopers to help her reroute all traffic from the area and keep the local TV news camera crews and lookie-looks away. She obtained contact information for all of the crewmen who’d witnessed the unearthing of the shallow grave. She also notified Glynis and asked her to search the town’s public works records to determine the exact date when Dorset Street had last been regraded. It took Glynis less than ten minutes to supply the answer, thanks to her recently mandated conversion of Dorset’s musty files to computer discs. The last time Dorset Street had been stripped down to the bare soil was a major regrading project that took place between the 16th and 24th of May, 1967.

Glynis delivered this information to Des in person at the site. She wanted to see it for herself. Stayed there with a stricken expression on her face, her mouth scrunched tight as she watched the medical examiner’s team carefully remove the skeletal remains on a plywood board so that no bones would be lost.

But no matter how careful they were, Des knew they’d erect a tent around the grave site and undertake a painstakingly thorough archeological dig, sifting and screening every bit of the compacted soil, digging inch by inch with their tiny tools and brushes so as to make absolutely, positively certain that no bones, personal effects or pieces of crime-scene evidence were left behind.

Meanwhile, she expected the Major Crime Squad to arrive any minute now to take charge of the criminal investigation into the death of this Navy flyer who’d been buried under Dorset Street for the past forty-seven years. Because there was no doubt that a crime had taken place. Otherwise, hello, he wouldn’t be under Dorset Street, would he? All of which meant the first selectwoman’s signature road project would have to be put on hold for days. The crew from Wilcox Paving would no doubt pack up their massive equipment and leave for another job. And God only knew when they’d come back. Glynis was not happy.

Nor was Captain Rundle. He’d listened in dread-filled silence when Des filled him in on the phone. After she’d finished laying out the highly speculative ID scenario regarding Lt. Lance Paffin he told her go about her business and await further instructions from him.

When he called her back Rundle said, “Master Sergeant, you’ll have to take charge of this one yourself for now.” He cleared his throat. “It seems that all three of our Major Crime Squads are up to their ears. They’ve got a rape homicide, a home invasion double homicide and a gang-related shooting. Those take priority over some old skeleton. It’s not as if he’s going anywhere, right?” She didn’t hear dread coming from him now. She heard fear. Her guess? He’d just gotten leaned on big time. And she had a pretty damned good idea by whom. What she didn’t know was why. He cleared his throat again. “Besides, the last thing we want to do is raise any red flags. We’ll have the FBI and NCIS crawling all over this, and we don’t want that, do we? So it’s your case for the next day or two. God knows you have the experience. I’ll keep major crimes in the loop. As soon as a team frees up you’ll hand off, got it?”

“Yes, sir.”

“As far as the media goes, just tell them we’ve found some unidentified remains that may or may not be human. You have nothing further to say. If they want more details refer them to our public information officer in Meriden.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And tell those men on the paving crew to keep their mouths shut. We don’t want them blabbing about what they saw on TV. Same goes for the EMT people.”

“Sir, the first selectwoman has just passed me some interesting information. The last time Dorset Street was regraded was back in May of 1967. That coincides with when Navy Lieutenant Paffin disappeared at sea, I’m told.”

Rundle fell silent.

Stayed silent for so long that she finally said, “Sir?…”

“Pursue this matter discreetly. I am talking kid gloves. Keep thorough documentation. And if you have any questions I want you to contact me personally. No one else. At some point later today you’ll be … just wait for further instructions, okay?”

Translation: She would not know what in the hell was going on until a certain higher-up got in personal touch with her and told her what in the hell was going on. That certain higher-up being the imposing ramrod of a deputy superintendent who everyone in the Connecticut State Police called the Deacon.

And whom she called Daddy.

*   *   *

The Cyrus Paffin House was a barn-red saltbox-style colonial that had been built in 1732, according to the quaint little historic plaque next to its front door. It had been home to generations of Paffins ever since, as had the twenty acres of prime Frederick Lane real estate that surrounded it. Frederick Lane, which forked off of the Old Boston Post Road about a mile north of the historic district, was considered one of the choicest addresses in Dorset. Some of the finest old homes in town could be found there.

Former First Selectman Bob Paffin and his wife, Delia, had spent most of their married life in the old Cyrus Paffin house. Their eldest son, Harrison, now lived there with his wife and children. Bob and Delia lived in a newer place on the same property that you didn’t know was there unless you knew it was there. Des had learned that this was typical of the Dorset blue bloods. The older the money the harder it was to find.

A pair of smooth, well-tended gravel driveways adjoined the old saltbox. One driveway led to a garage and garden shed out back. The other driveway, which was the one that Des took, snaked its way past the garage and through the woods that were behind it. From the street it appeared as if there was nothing but woods all of the way down to the banks of the Lieutenant River. Appearances were deceiving. The gravel driveway eventually reached a three-acre clearing where a snug, natural-shingled cottage with blue trim overlooked the tranquil river. Bob and Delia had designed and built the cottage for their retirement. It was very private, very peaceful, very nice.

Des parked her cruiser in the driveway and got out, hearing nothing but the chirping of the birds and the crunch of her footsteps on the gravel. She rang the doorbell. She waited.

It was Delia who answered the door, accompanied by an ancient, arthritic white toy poodle that barked at Des without much conviction.

Des tipped her hat politely. “Good morning, Delia.”

Delia responded by staring at her in clench-jawed silence. Everyone in Dorset professed to adore the former first selectman’s wife. She served on the board of directors of the Dorset Day Care Center, the Youth Services Bureau, the Welcome Wagon and a gazillion other worthy local institutions. Des often heard her referred to as a “treasure” and a “dear.” In fact, Des had never run into anyone who didn’t go out of their way to say how warm and giving Delia was. Des wouldn’t know about that. Delia Paffin had never given her anything but the big chill from the day she arrived.

“Why, Resident Trooper Mitry,” she said finally, her eyes glinting at Des from the doorway. “To what do we owe this honor?”

“I’m sorry to intrude on you folks. Just wondered if I could have a minute of your time. Bob’s time, actually.”

Delia frowned at her. “I’ll have to see if Bob’s free. Would you care to come in?”

Des stepped into the entry hall, which was furnished in a vaguely Danish-modern style and reeked of one of those pine forest-scented plug-in thingies that Des detested. Made your whole damned house smell like a highway rest stop lavatory.

“I apologize for the odor,” Delia said, managing a tight smile that did not reach all of the way to her eyes. “I’m afraid we have a choice of either deodorizer or pee-pee. Poor old Skippy can’t control himself like he used to.”

Poor old Skippy was sniffing at Des’s ankles. Smelled her cats no doubt. Des watched him, wondering if he was going to hoist his leg and let her have it.

Delia watched the dog, too, possibly hoping he would. She was a plump, apple-cheeked dowager with a head of carefully sculpted hair that was dyed a most peculiar yellowish orange. The only other time Des had seen that same exact color it was inside of a blue box of Kraft Macaroni & Cheese. Des supposed that Delia had been attractive when she was young if a man’s taste ran to the ample milkmaid type. She was not someone who’d ever been delicately proportioned. Not with those meaty wrists and hands. She was dressed in a cream-colored turtleneck sweater, dark brown slacks and pearls.

“I’ll see if I can find Bob,” she said.

“No need to search around.” Bob Paffin came strolling in from the sunroom. “I’m right here.”

Skippy let out another half-hearted bark.

“Atta boy,” Bob said to him. “You keep right on protecting the fort.”

Dorset’s recently ousted first selectman of thirty-four years was red nosed, snowy haired and weak chinned. He was a thinly built man, not particularly tall. Des guessed that Delia outweighed him by a solid thirty pounds. He had on a white button-down shirt, tan crew neck sweater and gray flannel trousers. He didn’t appear to be any happier to see Des than Delia was—for the simple reason that he wasn’t. He’d never liked anything about Des. Not her skin color. Not her gender. Not the way she went about her job. Not one thing.

“How are you, Bob?”

He answered with a shrug of his narrow shoulders. “Well enough. Haven’t the slightest idea what to do with myself all day long but that’s my problem, not yours. What can I do for you?”

“We’ve had a bit of a situation with the dig.”

“Of course you have. That’s what happens with these big government projects. They’re taxpayer-funded disasters. That’s why I always opposed them. Buzzy Shaver phoned me ten minutes ago and told me.”

“Told you what?”

“That the whole darned operation had come grinding to a halt.”

“Did he tell you why?”

“He didn’t have to. There’s always a foul-up.”

“Bob, I’m about to say something that you may find disturbing. I suggest you sit down.”

He crossed his arms in front of his chest, staring at her defiantly. “I’ll stand on my own two feet if you don’t mind.”

“As you wish. I understand that you had an older brother, Lance, a US Navy flyer who disappeared off of his sailboat in Long Island Sound one night.”

“That’s right,” Bob said grudgingly. “He took the Monster out and never came back. That was ages ago. Way back in ’67.”

“Do you remember the exact date?”

“Of course I do. It was the twentieth of May. Why?”

“According to town records, Dorset Street was in the process of being regraded the night he disappeared. In fact, that’s the last time it was regraded.”

“So?…”

“So I’m here to inform you that the paving crew just uncovered the skeletal remains of a US Navy flyer in dress blues buried in a shallow grave under Dorset Street. There’s a distinct possibility that the remains are those of your brother Lance.”

Bob Paffin gaped at her in goggle-eyed shock before his legs gave way underneath him. Des caught him by the armpits as he started to crumple to the tile floor. She hoisted him over onto a small bench next to the front door.

“How dare you?” Delia’s eyes blazed at Des angrily. “My husband has a heart condition.”

“I did urge him to sit down,” Des said as Bob slumped there, stunned.

Delia rushed into the kitchen and returned with a bottle of Courvoisier and a glass. She filled the glass and held it out to him.

He took it from her and gulped it down, shuddering slightly. Then he sat there breathing slowly in and out. “I’m … okay now. I’m fine. Just don’t do well with shock. Never have. I-I guess you’d like to talk about this.”

Des nodded. “If you’re up to it.”

He handed the empty glass to his wife and stood back up. He seemed steady enough on his feet. “Of course. Come on in.”

There was a round glass table in the sunroom where it looked as if Bob and Delia had been playing a game of gin rummy. Delia wiped the cards from the table and the three of them sat down there, Skippy settling himself at Delia’s feet.

From where she sat Des could see a long, long way up and down the Lieutenant River. “This is a lovely spot,” she observed, acutely aware that Delia hadn’t offered her coffee. A minor social slight, but Des noticed it. She was meant to. This was how disses were served in Dorset.

Bob was gazing across the table at her in disbelief. “This must be some kind of a sick joke. Are you telling us that my brother has been underneath Dorset Street this whole time?”

“I’m telling you that someone has been under Dorset Street. And absolutely no one is regarding it as a joke, sick or otherwise. The chief medical examiner has attended the site personally. And the officer’s remains are being treated with the utmost care and respect.”

“Well, do you know how he died?”

“Not yet. We won’t know until the ME conducts a thorough examination. And it may be impossible to tell after so many years.”

“But you … you think it’s Lance?”

“That’s what I’m here to find out. We need your help, Bob.”

“Of course. Anything I can do.”

“Anything,” Delia chimed in. “Anything at all.”

Des reached for her notepad and pen. “For starters, would you happen to remember how tall your brother was?”

“Lance was an honest six-footer, unlike a lot of men who claim to be but are actually five-foot-ten.”

“Do you recall if he had any distinguishing injuries?”

Bob looked at Des blankly. “What are those?”

“Did he suffer any broken bones when he was growing up?”

“He did, yes. Lance broke his collarbone sledding down Johnny Cake Hill when he was, oh, ten years old.”

“Right or left?”

“Right, I’m pretty sure. And he broke his left wrist playing basketball in high school. Some thug from Old Saybrook tripped him.”

“Did Lance wear jewelry of any kind?”

“His naval academy class ring. Never took it off. He was so proud of it. Remember, Delia?”

“I remember,” she said quietly.

“Which finger did he wear it on?”

“His right ring finger.” Bob narrowed his gaze at her. “Did you recover his ring?”

“What month of the year was Lance born?”

“July.”

“That would make his birthstone…”

“His ring had a ruby set in it.”

“And he was a member of which class?”

“The class of ’62. His class motto was the word ‘honor.’ It was engraved on the ring. And his name was engraved on the inside.”

“Did Lance wear a wristwatch?”

“Yes, he did. Our folks gave him a Rolex Submariner as a graduation present.”

“Which wrist did he wear it on?”

“His left.” Bob ran a bony hand through his white hair. “This kind of information will help you figure out whether or not it’s Lance?”

“It’ll help. Were you and Lance full brothers?”

“What on earth does that mean?”

“Did you share the same biological mother and father?”

“Of course we did,” he said indignantly. “Why wouldn’t we? He was born six years before I was. It was just we two. Mother was unable to have any more children after I was born.”

“Bob, I’m sorry for the inconvenience but a technician from the ME’s office will probably stop by later today to take a cheek swab from you.”

“What on earth for?” Delia demanded.

“If Bob and Lance were full brothers then Bob’s DNA will match that of the remains.”

The Paffins both fell into horrified silence.

“I-I just don’t understand how this is possible,” Bob said.

“That’s what we’re going to find out. I’ve been asked to get some background about the night your brother disappeared. Can you tell me about it?”

“It was the night of the spring dance at the club. A Saturday night. The twentieth of May, as I said. The spring dance was a serious event back in those days. It marked the official launch of the social calendar. That meant brand new gowns for the ladies. White dinner jackets for the gents. A full orchestra, dancing, prime rib, champagne.”

“Sounds like fun.”

“It was fun,” Delia acknowledged, thawing one, possibly two degrees. “I may be a bit biased but I believe we had a lot more fun in those days than the young people do now. Boys were boys. Girls were girls. And all of us were young and foolish.”

Out on the river a snowy egret swooped low over the water as it flew upriver, flapping its wings effortlessly.

“Lance attended the dance?”

“Yes, he did,” Bob replied.

“In his dress blues?”

Bob nodded. “He was home on leave for a couple of weeks from Vietnam. Scheduled to go back the very next morning, in fact. I attended the dance with this lovely young lady right here. I’d recently asked Delia to be my wife and she had accepted. I graduated from Brown the year prior to that. Got my real estate license and went to work in the family business.”

“You didn’t serve during the Vietnam War?”

Bob colored slightly. “Couldn’t. I have a slight heart murmur. I’ve had it my whole life. It doesn’t really give me any trouble.”

“It most certainly does,” Delia clucked at him.

“But nothing could hold Lance back. My big brother had as sharp a mind as you’ll ever come across. He got accepted to Yale and Harvard. Instead, he chose Annapolis. He wanted to serve. Lance was…” Bob broke off, gazing down at his hands. “I was always in awe of him. He was a strapping, handsome fellow who was so full of life that he lit up the room. Men were drawn to him. He was a natural leader. And the girls were helpless around him. One spin around the dance floor was all it took. My brother had star quality. I’m positive that he would have achieved great success in politics, business—any career that he chose. When he died the best of us died. Would you care to see his picture?”

“Yes, I would.”

He got up from the table and led Des into his study, a wood-paneled lair lined with bookcases. Delia followed the two of them in there. She was not about to leave Bob alone with the resident trooper. Nor was Skippy. It was carpeted in there, which meant it smelled even stronger of dog pee and Glade. There was an executive-sized walnut desk. Comfortable leather armchairs. And many, many framed photos on the wall of Bob and his big brother Lance. Bob had been a scrawny youth with a big Adam’s apple and a frightened look on his face. Lance had been muscular and quite handsome, if your taste ran to rugged Adonis types with strong jaws and confident grins. He wore his uniform so well that he looked like a damned recruiting poster. One of the pictures was of him hard at work sanding a single mast wood-hulled catboat.

“That’s the Monster,” Bob said, his gaze following hers. “She was a little honey. Lance named her after the golden retriever we had when we were kids. He loved that boat. She was a twelve-and-half-foot Herreshoff that was built back in ’39. He bought her for a song while he was in high school and restored her all by himself. Are you familiar with the Herreshoff, Des?”

“Afraid not,” she said.

“It was designed by Nathanael G. Herreshoff way back in 1914 as a training boat for young sailors in Buzzards Bay. It has a heavy keel and is stable in gusty conditions. Lance loved to sail her. That’s when he was at his happiest.” Bob’s face fell. “He took her out that night after the dance. I never saw him again.”

“Did Lance come to the dance with a date?”

“By himself. He wasn’t seeing anyone special. He joined us at our table for a while. Lance was always welcome to join us if he cared to, although he wasn’t really part of our group. We were a younger bunch. A nice little group of friends who’d all grown up together. There was Delia and me. There was my oldest and best school chum, Chase Fairchild, our first selectwoman’s father. My God, it’s been seven years now since Chase passed away. I still can’t believe he’s gone. He was fit as a fiddle. Played tennis three times a week. Then one day the doctor told him he had pancreatic cancer and in a couple of months he-he was gone. Just like that.” Bob broke off, his eyes moistening. “Chase was in a particularly giddy mood the night of the spring dance. He’d worked up the nerve to propose to Beryl Beckwith, the girl who would become Glynis’s mother. That took nerve, believe me. Beryl was the prettiest girl in town.”

“She’s still a lovely woman,” Delia pointed out. “And I swear she hasn’t gained a single ounce since college.”

“Every guy in Dorset wanted to marry Beryl,” Bob recalled. “Except for me, of course. I’d already met my dream girl.”

“Now don’t be silly,” Delia chided him. “I was never in Beryl’s league.”

“Who else belonged to this little group of yours?”

Bob lifted his weak chin slightly. “Luke Cahoon, naturally. Luke and I have been pals since we were in kindergarten.”

Okay, now it made sense. Now Des knew why she’d heard fear in Captain Rundle’s voice on the phone. Pennington Lucas Cahoon had been Southeastern Connecticut’s representative to the US Congress for the past forty years. Luke Cahoon was a fixture on the nation’s political stage—an outspoken, independent-minded blue blood whose family had called Dorset home for more than three hundred years. The Cahoons were one of the first families that had settled in Dorset. The congressman still maintained the historic white colonial that he grew up in at the top of Johnny Cake Hill Road. A caretaker looked after the place. A caretaker and Des. When she first became resident trooper it was made crystal clear to her that she was to drive by the congressman’s house every single day and check its doors and windows. Mostly, Luke Cahoon was a creature of Capitol Hill, where he claimed that he voted his conscience, not his party affiliation. Which happened to be Republican. This made him something of a relic. He was one of the only moderate social progressives who still sat on the GOP side of the aisle. Possibly the only one. But Luke Cahoon was so popular with voters of both parties that no one ever bothered to mount a serious campaign against him.

“Mind you, he was still just plain old Luke back in those days,” Bob pointed out. “Still had two more years of law school to go at Yale because he’d taken time out to serve as a US Marine in Vietnam. Luke’s a decorated war hero, as you may know. But by the time he got home from there he was so fervently against the war that he became the leader of Yale’s antiwar movement. That’s how he ended up in politics.” Bob’s face tightened. “He and Lance didn’t agree about the war at all. They argued about it constantly.”

“Did they argue about it the night of the spring dance?”

Bob nodded. “Every time they saw each other. Political passions ran high in those days, Des. People were involved. They cared. These days they don’t care as much about anything, except possibly the outcome of American Idol. It’s kind of a shame, if you ask me.”

“That was the night Luke met Noelle, wasn’t it, Bob?” Delia said.

“Yes, I believe it was. Chase and Beryl arranged it. Beryl knew Noelle from Miss Porter’s and invited her to join us. Luke had been … on his own for a while,” he explained. Or, make that, didn’t explain. “Noelle Crawford. She was a tall, slim girl with black hair and pale skin. A striking girl. The two of them ended up getting married. They had a daughter together, Katie. But the marriage didn’t take. They split up after three years. Luke never did remarry.”

“Noelle ended up with an orthopedic surgeon from Marblehead,” Delia said. “They were happy together. She’s gone now, too. A lot of old friends are.”

“And how about Mr. Shaver? Was he part of your group that night?”

“Buzzy and I have been pals our whole lives,” Bob replied, smiling faintly. “We were a couple of little stinkers together. Got into all kinds of trouble. But he didn’t mix with our group socially. Couldn’t. He had to look after his mom. She was very fragile emotionally.”

“So your group that evening consisted of three couples plus Lance?”

“That’s right.”

“It was a lovely evening,” Delia recalled in a lilting voice. “Naturally, because of what happened, it’s not an evening that any of us can look back on fondly. But we had a lot of fun. We laughed. We drank. We danced out on the terrace. A warm breeze was blowing. The Flower Moon was nearly full.”

“Lance was as high-spirited as I’d ever seen him,” Bob added wistfully. “He didn’t want his last night of freedom to end. Kept insisting we drink one more bottle of champagne, then another. It was way past midnight by the time we cleared out. Everyone else had gone home by then, including the club’s staff. And Lance still wasn’t ready to call it a night. Decided he just had to take the Monster out for a moonlight sail. One last sail before he returned to active duty. He was … what was that word he used, Delia? Stoked. He was stoked to take her out. He asked us to join him. She held four people comfortably. But no one else was in the mood.”

“Not even you?”

“If you knew me better, Des, you’d know that I get seasick in a bathtub. I never go sailing or fishing with anyone.”

“The rest of us simply wanted to go home to bed,” Delia said.

“So he took her out by himself. And we never saw him again.”

“Were you the last people to see him alive?”

“Yes, we believe so. There was no one at the yacht club at that hour.”

“And was it you who reported him missing?”

Bob nodded. “He didn’t come back. Didn’t report for duty in the morning when he was supposed to. I was shocked. But I figured, okay, maybe he fell asleep out there. He did have a lot to drink. Once he’s slept it off he’ll be back. This is Lance we’re talking about. Lance knows what he’s doing. I kept checking at the yacht club all day long to see if the Monster was back in her slip. His Mustang was in the parking lot. Unlocked, keys in the ignition. It was a white GT. Had the biggest engine they made in those days. Lance loved that car. Loved speed. When he…” Bob trailed off, swallowing. “When he didn’t come back by late afternoon I called the Coast Guard. They found the Monster smashed up on the rocks by the Saybrook Point lighthouse. No sign of Lance.”

“Did she have running lights?”

“No, she didn’t. But that never stopped Lance. Not when the moon was bright. This was a man who could land a fighter jet on the deck of an aircraft carrier.” He gazed out the window at the river for a moment, lost in his memories. “We never knew what happened—whether he lost his balance and fell overboard or what. The only thing I can tell you for certain is that I’ve never, ever forgiven myself. If I’d gone with him he’d still be alive today.”

“You don’t know that, dear,” Delia said soothingly.

“The Connecticut River was still swollen from the spring rains,” he went on. “The Coast Guard figured its current must have washed him out to sea. They combed the North Shore of Long Island and Fishers Island for days, but there was no sign of Lance. And that was that, aside from the nasty whispering, of course.”

“What kind of nasty whispering, Bob?”

“Awful stuff. Reprehensible, really. Some folks around Dorset actually believed he’d staged his own disappearance so he could get out of fulfilling his military service. That he was, in fact, sipping tall drinks on an island in the Bahamas with some gorgeous, leggy babe. Garbage. It was slanderous garbage. I said so at the time to anyone who mentioned it. Offered to punch a few noses, too. My brother considered it an honor to serve his country. Besides, he loved that damned boat. He could never, ever have wrecked her on purpose.” Bob let out a slow sigh. “Seven years later he was declared legally dead, and a tombstone bearing his name was placed in our family plot in Duck River Cemetery. That’s the whole sad story. Or at least I thought it was until you rang our doorbell. Now I don’t know a damned thing. Des, what in the name of hell would my brother’s body be doing underneath Dorset Street?”

Des paused to put on her kid gloves. “With all due respect,” she said carefully, “I get the impression that there’s some sort of a legend surrounding Lance’s death. And not the one you just mentioned.”

‘They’re called legends for a reason,” Delia informed her icily. “Because they’re baloney.”

“Baloney,” Bob echoed angrily.

“Again, with all due respect, if you folks can shed any new light on this situation it would be greatly appreciated. If, say, something happened that you failed to mention to the authorities at the time—for whatever reason. We sure could use the help now.”

Bob and Delia Paffin both stared at her in stunned disbelief. Outside, a squadron of geese flew low over the house, honking loudly. After that it fell silent in the study.

“Let’s speak plainly here, Des,” Bob said, struggling to maintain his composure. “I know that you and I haven’t always seen eye to eye on certain matters. And maybe some of that has been my fault. I’m kind of set in my ways. The voters in town might even go so far as to say I’m an old fool. Fifty-one percent of them would anyhow. But I want you to promise me something. Will you do that for me?”

“If I can, Bob.”

“I want you to find out what in the hell really happened to my brother.”

Des shoved her heavy horn-rimmed glasses up her nose and said, “Count on it.”