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Thursday, September 16
The morning dawned gray and drizzly, the type most people hated. But Adam liked the views of the White and Connecticut Rivers with the fog rising between the banks. Made him think of early mornings as a boy when his father took him fishing.
He headed west along US 4 and knew he was near his target when he came to a stop behind a line of cars approaching the bridge in front. He could practically hear the locals rolling their eyes about the tourists gawking at the sight from the bridge. Fortunately, the rain had stopped.
He wasn’t a hundred percent sure why he was here instead of calling more antique stores, but his hunch told him Beverly Laborde was at the heart of this Forsythe mess. And if she was interested in that Lady of Chartres statue, then he was interested in that statue.
He wasn’t sure what it looked like or where to hunt for such a thing, but Kornelson’s cryptic verses referred to a place sacred to the Natick Indians. Add to that mentions of a deep chasm, and Quechee Gorge filled that bill. If crazy old Mr. Kornelson had decided to bury or hide that silver statue for whatever reason, Quechee was a possible place, but where? The environs looked vastly different back in Kornelson’s day.
The gift shop wasn’t a likely hiding spot, but he hadn’t had breakfast. He grabbed some coffee and a Snickers bar and had no sooner stuffed the change in his pockets when he literally bumped into Beverly Laborde.
“Fancy meeting you here, Detective Dutton.”
Adam was so busy admiring the way her tight jeans set off her legs that he barely avoided spilling coffee on her surprisingly sensible hiking boots. “Taking in the local sights, Miss Laborde? Or are you more interested in sacred Natick Indian stories?”
She linked one arm through his and led him over to a picnic table and chairs. It wasn’t until they sat down that he noticed her empty hands. “Did you want some coffee?”
“Had some at the resort. Is that your breakfast?” She pointed to his candy bar.
“Portable bachelor chow.” He grinned.
She folded her arms across her chest in reply. “You should do that more often.”
“What, eat bachelor chow?”
“Smile. It sets off your eyes nicely.”
“You seem obsessed with my eyes.”
“Windows into the soul.”
“What are they telling you about my soul? Small-town police detective, whose idea of culture is a spinning rod and twister-tail lure?”
“A strong, honest man who’s seen his share of pain and suffering. A man who tilts at windmills even when he knows there are giants he can’t slay.”
“Are you sure you didn’t get a philosophy degree from Dartmouth?”
“I learned all I need to know about human nature from my grandmother.”
“The antiquer?”
“Antique store owner. She loved it with a passion. Until someone in the Northeastern Antiquities League shut down her business seven years ago due to obscure legalities buried in the state business code. She had to sell everything for a pittance and died not long after.”
Adam squinted at her. “Sounds like a good reason to hold a grudge against the likes of shady NAL member Reggie Forsythe. Or his father, for that matter.”
She looked away, toward a group of tourists. “First you spout Natick Indian lore and now the Forsythe family saga—you’ve been a busy little detective bee, haven’t you, Adam Dutton? Seeing as how you’re in busy-mode, and I’m willing to bet a large sum we have the same objective in mind, why don’t we go exploring together? Never know what kind of buried treasure we might stumble over.”
“I don’t know about that. What did you have in mind?”
She pulled a folded paper out of her pocket. “This area was once the site of the A.G. Dewey wool mill. It was active around Kornelson’s death in 1901 and didn’t become a state park until 1962. Remains of both mill and dam are at the head of the gorge.”
She showed him a copy of an old photo of the mill on the piece of paper. “Did you know Dewey wool was used to make baseball uniforms for the Red Sox?”
“You weren’t kidding when you said you love history.” He smiled again. Despite his best efforts, he was having a hard time not smiling around Beverly Laborde. And that wouldn’t do. He forced a more professional expression on his face and considered his options. Should he join her or not? The chief wanted him to keep an eye on this woman, and this was certainly one way to do it.
They headed along a trail to the crystal-blue Dewey’s Mill Pond, ringed by tall grasses and red pines, where it tumbled over a small dike forming falls that cascaded into the river below. With the trees at maximum “Crayola,” with vibrant reds, oranges, and yellows, the area was colored like a typical Vermont tourism postcard.
Despite her sensible hiking boots, she tripped over a log at one point, and he grabbed her arm to steady her. Okay, so he wouldn’t have done that for a male suspect, but it wouldn’t help anything to have his only suspect in the hospital, would it?
Laborde had a rather nice smile, too, as she expressed her gratitude. “Looks like we’re at the old Dewey’s Mill site. Too bad they didn’t restore it and keep it as a museum.”
It hadn’t taken long to get there, but one look around the place made Dutton feel it was a wasted trip. He’d been here years ago and forgot how empty the place was. Not much in the way of ruins at all. And most of what was here was built long after Kornelson’s era.
“If this is your treasure hiding place, Miss Laborde, then it vanished when they tore down the mill. Or it’s buried in the middle of six hundred acres and lost for posterity.”
She appeared neither surprised nor concerned by his gloomy assessment. He faced her square-on. “You knew there wasn’t anything to find. You’ve already been here, haven’t you?”
“Last night after sunset.”
He ignored the fact—for the moment—that she’d broken a few regulations by entering the park after hours. “Then why the wild goose chase today?”
“I wanted to get to know you better.” She smiled at him over her shoulder as she turned to head back the way they’d come. Adam didn’t know whether to arrest her for wasting his time or ask her out on a date.
Reminding himself he was potentially following an expert con artist, he shrugged off his un-detective-like thoughts and concentrated on her as a suspect. When they reached the parking lot, he leaned up against the driver’s side door to her car, blocking her entry. “I’ve got a businessman who, as far as the law knows, is a legitimate antiques dealer with a complaint about being scammed. The only suspect we have so far is you. And I’m not willing to play the role of small-town hick detective who’s just part of your goddamn Fox and Geese game.”
She stood very still and gazed toward the perilous drop from the bridge to the bottom of the gorge. “I’d never take you for a fool, Adam.” She reached over and gently brushed off a leaf that was clinging to his shirt. “Besides, I find you more foxy than goose.”
With a wink, she walked around to the passenger side of her car, opened it, and slid over to the driver’s seat. He moved away from the car, and she rolled down the window as if to add something. But then she waved, started up the engine, and drove off.
Beverly was here last night in the dark after hours looking for the statue? What did she use, a flashlight and a metal detector? Or did she have some “magic” statue-divining rod? That woman was seriously obsessed. What would a long-ago piece of plunder from a Rangers raid have to do with a Paul Revere bowl? Other than the fact they were both silver.
Adam climbed into his Subaru and slammed the door. How did she know he’d be here today unless she followed him? Was it merely a case of “keep your friends close and enemies closer?” Or was she purposely trying to get under his skin and sabotage his investigation? Either way, he was disgusted with himself right now. And he had a good idea the chief would concur—right before busting Adam back down to beat cop.
When his stomach rumbled, he decided bachelor chow wasn’t going to cut it this morning. He’d have to scrounge up some emergency rations. It had been too long since he’d hit up the Crossroads Cafe and its fist-sized bacon cheddar muffins and homemade chorizo hash. Maybe they’d have a low-salt donut for Jinks. He peeled the car out of the parking lot, scanning for vehicles that might be following him. He wasn’t about to let Laborde get the jump on him again.
