The Lavender Lane Lothario, page 11
Des watched Leland get redder and redder as he sat there in tight-lipped silence. She wondered whether he was the type to get an ulcer, snarl at his fiancée, or do something more extreme. Like, say, burn his father’s pride and joy to the ground.
Yolie removed her suede jacket and draped it over the back of her chair. She wore a sleeveless knit top underneath it—the better to show off her hugely muscled arms, which were an extremely intimidating sight when she folded them on the table before her. Her mammoth left bicep was inked with a tattoo of a heart and the initials AC inside of it. “Mr. Gant, I’m told that you were attending a Lions Club meeting at the Clam House last evening when the fire broke out.”
“That’s right,” Sherm said, staring at Yolie’s flexed pythons. “So was Gaylord. He got the call about it and told me. The two of us took off right away, but The Pit was already gone by the time we got there.”
“How long did it take you to drive there?”
“Ten minutes, maybe.”
“When was the last time you’d been down there?”
“Yesterday morning.” Sherm shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “I met Hubie there to go over some things.”
“And got into an altercation with him, I understand.”
“It was nothing.”
“That shiner you’re wearing don’t look like nothing.”
“It’s not easy to run a business here, especially when you’re only open a few months out of the year. Hubie just wouldn’t see my side of things. Not just me. Lots of men tangled with him. He was a full-time pain in the neck.” Sherm ran a hand over his unshaven face. “But I had nothing personal against him.”
“Really? I thought it was personal in your case. And fires are kind of your thing, too, I understand.”
Sherm shifted around in his chair again. “Don’t know what you mean.”
“Torching property is a Gant family tradition going back to when Hubie Swope’s grandmother, Aurora Bing, was still alive, isn’t it? Her house, her barn…”
“You’re talking about something my grandfather’s cousins were accused of doing seventy-five goddamned years ago. And they were never charged because there was no proof. That stuff’s ancient history.”
“Is it?” Yolie glared across the table at him. “The night before last you attempted to deface her tomb and urinate on it.”
“It wasn’t personal,” Sherm said stubbornly.
“Man whips out his johnson, it sure sounds personal to me.”
“Look, this is Dorset. Family is important here. It’s who you are. Hubie knew that. Didn’t mean the two of us couldn’t get along.” Sherm stuck his chin out at Yolie before he added, “People who’ve been raised different might not understand.”
She bristled. “You saying I’m a stray animal who got left at the pound or something?”
In fact, Yolie had no idea who her father was and could barely remember her dead crack whore of a mother. It was her Aunt Celia who’d raised her, hence the AC tattoo.
“No, I just mean…” Sherm reached for his coffee cup and took a sip, his hand shaking. “Family’s everything here. That’s why I’ve kept up The Pit, and why Leland will run it after I retire.”
“Wake up, Mr. Gant!” Yolie roared at him. “The Pit’s gone.”
“We’ll rebuild.”
“Is that so?”
“Damned straight. My insurance company will come through.”
Chuck Ranberg of Middlebury Mutual had nothing to say about that. Just sat there, the sunlight gleaming on his glossy black hair, his face a blank.
“According to Mr. Ranberg,” Yolie said, “you withdrew three thousand dollars in cash from the bank yesterday.”
Leland seemed genuinely startled to hear this, Des noticed. It came as news to him. Either that or he was one hell of an actor.
“Practically every cent I had,” Sherm conceded grudgingly.
“Why did you withdraw it?”
“Because he wanted the money in cash. That’s how he does business.”
“Who are we talking about?”
“A guy I know.”
“Does this guy happen to be a freelance torch artist?”
“No way. Not a chance. But … I was afraid you might get the wrong idea. That’s why I wanted to, you know, come forward and explain.”
“Explain away. We’re all ears.”
“Hubie had a problem with my stove’s venting system, okay? That money was for the commercial-grade exhaust fan he wanted me to put in. See, I know a guy in Bridgeport who deals in restaurant supplies.”
“He runs a supply house?”
“No, he’s more of an independent operator.”
“Meaning, what, his supplies fell off of the back of a truck?”
“I wouldn’t know. I’m a small businessman. The guy who the politicians say they care about but don’t. Nobody does. You folks don’t. You’re all sitting here looking down your noses at me while you collect your nice fat salaries and health benefits and pension plans. You have no idea what it’s like to fend for yourself. So I cut a few corners sometimes. So what? You think the fat cats don’t? Besides, I don’t even know the guy that well. He’s a friend of a friend.”
“Does this friend of a friend have a name?”
Sherm hesitated. “I wouldn’t want to get him into trouble.”
“We can be very tactful. Besides, you’re the one who’s staring at trouble if you don’t get out in front of this, believe me.”
“It’s Sid, okay? His name’s Sid.”
“What’s his last name?”
“I don’t know.”
“You have a phone number for Mr. Sid I-Don’t-Know?”
Sherm pulled his cell out of the back pocket of his pants, checked it, and gave her the number.
Yolie jotted it down. “When did your transaction with Sid take place?”
“It didn’t. I was supposed to meet him at ten o’clock this morning at the I-95 rest stop in Milford. He was going to wait for me in the McDonald’s there, and then we’d go out to the parking lot to take a look at what he had.”
“Sounds like it did fall off the back of a truck,” Latham cracked.
“But there was no point in going through with it,” Sherm said. “What with the fire and all.”
“And what happened to the money?” Yolie asked him.
“I still have it.”
“Where?”
“Right here in my jacket pocket. Want to see it?”
“I can’t speak for anyone else,” Yolie said. “But I’d love to.”
Sherm’s denim jacket was draped over the back of his chair. He pulled a fat letter-sized envelope from an inside pocket and tossed it on the conference table.
Yolie removed the hundred-dollar bills that were stuffed inside, fanning them out. “How do we know this is the same money that you took out of the bank yesterday?”
“Because I don’t have any other money,” Sherm blustered at her. “I already told you that. Use your head. And stop talking to me like I’m some kind of a criminal, will you? I’m the victim here.”
“Hubie Swope might disagree with you on that.”
“Right, he’s dead. And I’m sorry. But it’s my business that burned to the ground. I got bills piling up everywhere. Tenants who want this. Tenants who want that. And now my biggest source of revenue is gone. How do I make it through the summer, huh? Tell me. I’d really like to know.”
“You have my heartfelt sympathy, Mr. Gant,” Chuck Ranberg said with well-lubricated reassurance. “And I want you to know that Middlebury Mutual won’t let you down. You’re dealing with a company that makes good on its promises. That’s what we do, and we’ve been doing it for a hundred and fifty-seven years.”
“What a boatload of crap,” Sherm shot back at him. “You’ll be looking to weasel your way out of paying me my money any way you can. That’ll be your idea of a good day’s work. Hell, they’ll probably give you a bonus. I don’t know how people like you can live with yourselves.”
“We’re not here to talk about me, Mr. Gant,” Ranberg said, his voice hardening.
Sherm’s bloodshot eyes flickered balefully around the table at them. “You’ve already made up your minds about me, haven’t you? But I didn’t kill Hubie. I didn’t torch The Pit. I didn’t do any of it. I’m an innocent man, you hear me? I’m innocent!”
* * *
Maple Lane was a teeny tiny road off of Dorset Street that dead-ended at the Lieutenant River after no more than a hundred yards. There were only four places on the lane. Rut Peck’s old farmhouse sat on one corner directly across Dorset Street from the firehouse. The former grain and feed store, which was now law offices, sat on the other corner. Behind Rut’s house, facing the river, was Nan Sidell’s cottage, and across the lane from her place was Ray Smith’s riverfront cottage. Both Nan and Ray vehemently opposed Gaylord Holland’s plan to squeeze two new homes onto two narrow slivers of land between their houses and the river.
Des parked her cruiser at the river’s edge next to Gaylord’s Range Rover. A pickup belonging to Sanitation Solutions, based in Farmington, was also parked there. She and Yolie got out. The Lieutenant River was incredibly tranquil on this bright, cool spring morning. The water lapped gently against its banks. Ospreys circled slowly above their platform nests out in the marsh. A great blue heron took flight low over the water, its huge wings making a creaking noise that sounded as if it belonged back in prehistoric times.
Toni was still closeted in Des’s office at Town Hall scouring Hubie’s laptop and phone. Latham had put Zimmer to work trying to track down Sherm Gant’s alleged kitchen supply dealer, Sid, so as to find out if a) Sid actually existed and b) would corroborate Sherm’s explanation for the three thousand dollars he’d withdrawn from the bank. Latham was conducting searches of Sherm’s pickup and house for physical evidence linking him to the arson. Also Leland’s car and the condo in Essex that Leland shared with Brianna.
A narrow footpath ran alongside the river, which was no more than two hundred feet across at this particular spot. There were no homes on the opposite side. Nothing but marsh. They found Gaylord standing on the mucky staked-out building site that he’d managed to shoehorn in between the edge of Nan Sidell’s property and the waterline. An identical site was staked out between Ray Smith’s place and the water. A white-haired man in overalls was tromping around in the muck with an engineer’s transit. A kid with stakes and string lines was helping him. Gaylord was watching them work, his wavy blond hair rippling in the breeze, hands stuffed in the pockets of his Barbour field jacket. He looked as if he were posing for a cologne ad.
When he heard Des and Yolie squishing their way toward him, he turned and smiled at them. “You found me.”
“Thanks for sparing us a few minutes.”
“Not a problem, Trooper Mitry. Always happy to help out.”
“This is Lieutenant Yolanda Snipes of the Major Crime Squad.”
“Nice to meet you, Lieutenant,” he said, his eyes treating Yolie to a highly appreciative undressing. Thorough, too. The man not only helped her off with her panties, he folded them neatly for her. “You have some questions for me?”
“Yes, I do,” Yolie replied, her nostrils flaring. She had zero use for players, especially the married kind. “Although now that I’m standing here what I really want to know is how you can build two houses on no land.”
“Technology, Lieutenant,” Gaylord explained, thumbing his chiseled jaw. “Our water usage will be a fraction of that of older homes. Low in-flow means low out-flow. Sam Spielman here is the top man in the state at making sure we have adequate drainage. And he is sure. These houses will be fully computerized. The homeowners will be able to monitor and tweak each and every function of their physical plant either on-site or by phone app. And, just to be clear, these will not be gargantuan trophy mansions. We’re talking eleven hundred square feet max—two bedrooms, one full bath, one half-bath. Natural cedar shingles over a classic exposed post-and-beam structure. The houses will look as if they’ve always been here.”
“And yet Mr. Swope was fighting you, I understand,” Yolie said.
“He was,” Gaylord acknowledged, running a hand through his hair. “I simply couldn’t convince him that I’d never, ever do anything to compromise the Lieutenant River. If I thought for one second that my project might contaminate these bird habitats I’d walk away. I love this river. I go kayaking in it all of the time. But Hubie refused to see things my way. He was a small-town guy. Not real comfortable with new technology. And, speaking candidly, Hubie enjoyed sticking it to me. He’d resented me ever since we were kids.”
Yolie frowned. “Why’s that?”
“Because I was popular and Hubie was a pimply little twerp who had no friends. But for some strange reason I always had a soft spot for him. Dorset won’t be the same without Hubie. He loved this town. He loved his job. And he was a very lucky guy.”
“Lucky?” Des looked at him curiously. “How so?”
“He’d found his role in life. Not very many people can say that. Hubie couldn’t make a decent living as a contractor. He was too persnickety. People didn’t warm to him. But the job of building inspector fit him like a glove.”
“What’ll happen to this project now that he’s gone?” Yolie asked.
“Old Joe Hart’s going to come back on an interim basis. I just spoke to him on the phone a few minutes ago. Joe was always a reasonable guy. I believe he’ll green-light it. In fact, I’m sure he will.” Gaylord glanced at Yolie uneasily. “I know how this looks.…”
“Like you and your project are going to benefit from Hubie’s death?”
“Well, yes, if you want to cast it in the harshest possible light. But I would have won Hubie over eventually.”
“You sound pretty confident of that,” Yolie said.
“I am. Confidence is a must in my business. If you exude self-doubt then people will never believe in you.”
“And do they believe in you?”
“Absolutely. My buyers are as excited about this project as I am.”
“Move back, Kenny…!” Over at the other building site the older man, Sam Spielman, was squinting through his transit and barking directions at his young helper. “Now left, Kenny…!”
“One of them’s an elderly widow who has retired to Hobe Sound but wants to maintain a summer residence here. It’ll be perfect for her. The other’s a woman from Greenwich who recently went through a divorce.”
“Is she the one who’s your mistress?” Yolie asked.
Gaylord shot an angry look at Des. “Now, listen, I don’t know who you’ve been talking to…”
“It’s all over town, Gaylord.”
“And it’s nothing more than cheap, nasty gossip. The old biddies at the Coastal Cuts beauty salon make the stuff up. They love, and I mean love, to paint Loretta as a no-good tramp because she divorced John Friday and married me. We happen to be incredibly happy together, but they won’t accept that. Take my word for it, there’s nothing going on.”
Gaylord Holland was a very convincing liar, Des reflected. Plausible, persuasive, and thoroughly believable—if you didn’t happen to know that he was lying. It was Loretta herself who’d told Mitch about their open marriage. So why was he lying to them about it? Out of habit or because the truth somehow bumped up against their investigation?
“I’m told you were attending a Lions Club meeting last evening when you were summoned to the fire,” Yolie said. “And Sherm Gant was at the meeting, too.”
Gaylord nodded. “Quite a few local businesspeople belong. Men mostly, but we have some women now, too. We sponsor a free vision screening at the annual health fair, and award a college scholarship every year to one of our high school graduates. We also maintain a stretch of Old Shore Road. You’ll see us out there every Saturday morning picking up the garbage that people throw out of their cars.”
“What time did your Lions Club meeting start?”
“Six o’clock on the dot. We’re very punctual.”
“And what time did you arrive at the Clam House?”
“A few minutes after five.”
“How about Mr. Gant?”
“The same. He walked into the bar right after I did.”
“Why did you get there so early? If the meeting didn’t start until six.”
“A few of us like to catch up over a beer before it starts. We’ve gotten used to doing it ever since…” Gaylord trailed off, clearing his throat. “Let’s just say our meetings aren’t like they used to be.”
Des peered at him. “You mean because it’s not a boys’ club anymore?”
“I’m not complaining,” he said hastily. “I’m delighted that we have women in the Lions Club now. It’s the right thing to do. But the meetings are a lot more formal now. We have to watch every word we say. So some of us like to have an informal little pre-meeting get-together.”
“And do the women know about it?” Des asked.
“You’d have to ask them that,” Gaylord answered, as Sam Spielman called out to him, gesturing that he needed him. “Anything else I can help you with?”
“We’re good for now,” Yolie said. “Thank you.”
“Happy to help,” Gaylord said, smiling at Yolie as he removed a business card from his wallet and handed it to her. “You can reach me at my cell number anytime, day or night. Please don’t hesitate to call, okay?” He smiled at her again before he went striding off.
Yolie watched him go. “I feel like I need to take a shower now.”
“Hot or cold?”
She let out a guffaw. “Give a girl some credit, will you?” They started their way back to Des’s Crown Vic on the narrow, squishy footpath. “Sounds like he can account for his whereabouts a solid half hour before that fire started. His and Sherm’s both.”
“Sounds like.”
“Are the two of them tight?”
“Not that I’m aware of. But they did share a strong common interest.”
“Getting Hubie Swope out of their lives?”
