Three Can Keep a Secret (26 page)

Paul Canfield read the article slowly and carefully, as if watching for any movement among the words before him. He was a deer hunter by passion
—
or had been before old age had brought that and much more to an end. Trophies in the form of antlers, mounted heads, and celebratory photographs by the dozen adorned his log home outside of Bradford, Vermont. The entire place had a distinctly male feeling to it
—
he lived alone, having been married three times to women who'd found his company quickly objectionable. He also had three children, whose names he knew, if little else. Sharing space, or anything else, had never been his strong suit.

Canfield had been a man in a hurry for most of his life, given to the pursuit of advancement and reward, and not so interested in the care and nurturing of his fellow human beings. A smart man, most col leagues and acquaintances had to concede, but rarely a kind one.

He dropped the newspaper onto his reading table and watched the portrait on its front page become haloed by the circle of light under the lamp.
SCOTT INVESTIGATION CONTINUES,
the headline read, with a smaller subhead underneath it admitting, "Police releasing few statements."

No kidding, Canfield thought. You can't release what you don't have. The cops had said that they had several good leads about who'd killed Sheldon Scott, but they refused to give up names. That seemed telling to Canfield. They were stuck.

He frowned at Scott's photograph. It was a glamor shot, clearly circulated by his office, which was apparently running smoothly following his death. He looked dashing and incisive, his white mane offset by black eyebrows and a piercing look. Canfield assumed the whole thing had been touched up in the darkroom
—
or whatever they used nowadays
—
but he had to admit that he hadn't seen Scott in years.

He was glad the man was dead, though; gladder still that he'd been murdered. Even a man as hard as Paul Canfield had found this former comrade-in-arms to be a heartless, manipulative bastard.

Not that he hadn't done good work. Or hadn't made them all a pile of money. Canfield would give him that much. The son of a bitch could work the system
—
he and his sugar daddy Harold LeMieur. Talk about having friends in the right places.

Canfield placed his hands on the arms of his chair and painfully struggled to stand, pausing at the end of the process to take a breath. He'd read about Marshall dying days ago
—
admittedly from natural causes, according to the one early report that he'd read. Now it was Scott's turn.

Canfield shuffled over to the bookcase beside his fireplace and stood before an elaborately framed glass box sitting on a shelf at eye level. He turned on the special light switch on its side, filling its interior with an attractive golden glow.

There they all were
—
youthful, vibrant, full of vitality and promise. The young bucks of the party's conservative wing, complete with glasses raised. Less ideologues than opportunists, this particular group had used the cause as a cloak to pad their pockets and quench their appetites. The Catamount Cavaliers
—
the elite of the elite, as they'd seen themselves.

He scanned the several photographs surrounding the dark purple lapel pin that he'd had mounted in the middle of the box, right over a copy of the group's tongue-in-cheek rules. He studied Scott's face, Marshall's, his own, and the others'. Three of the four pictures featured women, their gaiety touched
—
he thought now
—
with perhaps a hint of apprehension.

They'd had good reason for that, he reminisced. People would have a fit today, if they knew what the Cavaliers had been all about. He smiled at the memories that brought to mind.

The doorbell rang, straightening his back and creating a scowl.

At this hour?

He turned away from the display and headed slowly for the cabin's entrance, turning on the porch light as he opened the door.

Before him stood a slight, white-haired woman, younger than he by a few years, with an embarrassed smile on her face.

"I'm so sorry to bother you," she said. "But my car stopped running, a mile down the road. I don't know why. I was so happy I saw your light through the woods. . . ."

She left the thought unfinished, no doubt expecting Canfield to follow up with an invitation for her to at least use his phone to call for help.

But he didn't, true to nature. He just stood there, watching her face, his forehead furrowed.

"Could I come in?" she asked. "I don't have a cell, and I ought to call a wrecker or someone."

Reluctantly, he stepped back and widened the door, asking, "Do I know you?" She looked up and smiled as she entered.

THREE CAN KEEP A SECRET A Joe Gunther Novel Archer Mayor

After Vermont is devastated by Hurricane Irene the police are taxed to their limits, leaving Joe Gunther of the VBI involved in an odd series of cases. A seventeen-year-old gravesite has been exposed, revealing a coffin filled with rocks. An old, retired state politician turns up dead at his high-end nursing home in unusual circumstances. And a patient who calls herself The Governor has walked away from a state mental facility during the post-hurricane flood. It's up to Joe Gunther and his team to learn what is really happening.