Read Online The Coal Black Asphalt Tomb: A Berger and Mitry Mystery (Berger and Mitry Mysteries) by David Handler - Free Book Online
Authors: David Handler
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excited. She wasn’t. She was frightened.”
“Rundle’s asked me to take the lead on the investigation for now.”
“Oh, yeah? Why’s that?”
“Because all three of our Major Crime Squad units are tied up with priority cases.”
“Do you think that’s the real reason?”
“You know as much as I do. Will you do me a favor? Talk to Helen again. See if she’ll tell you why she was so frightened.”
“Does this mean you’re deputizing me?”
“Baby, you know that only happens in westerns and bad vigilante movies.”
“You say that as if there’s such a thing as a good vigilante movie. I mean, let’s face it, you’ve got your Death Wish franchise, your Billy Jack …”
“This is strictly unofficial, okay?”
“Well, do we at least get to synchronize our watches?”
“Mitch…”
“Righto. Flextime it is. Not to worry, boss. I am on the case.”
And now he was steering his high-riding Studey truck back up to Sheila Enman’s house, where he’d arranged to run into Bitsy and her friend Helen Weidler while Helen was on her lunch break from the law offices of Fairchild & Fairchild. Helen had been one of Sheila’s prize pupils back when Sheila taught English at the high school. The two had remained lifelong friends.
Bitsy’s minivan was already parked there when Mitch pulled up at the red mill house that faced the roaring waterfall. He didn’t knock on Sheila’s door. No point in knocking. Sheila wouldn’t hear it over the roar of the waterfall. Since the mill house was built right out over the racing water its first floor tended to get a bit sloshy when the heavy rains came. This had happened twice so far since Mitch had known her. So Sheila had no rugs or upholstered furniture downstairs. Just bare wood flooring and tables and chairs that were practically Shaker in their simplicity. In the kitchen, Helen’s stove, refrigerator and washer-dryer were parked on four-inch risers. So was the furnace in her mudroom.
Mitch found the three ladies setting the pine kitchen table with good china, silver and linen napkins. Ironed linen napkins. Lunch was a stack of sandwiches made from Sheila’s awesome homemade deviled ham on slices of her equally awesome Pullman white bread. There was also potato salad and a bowl of her bread-and-butter pickles if anyone was interested. Mitch was very interested.
“I see that Desiree has talked you out of that dumb toothpick,” the ancient schoolteacher said to him in lieu of hello.
“Not at all, Sheila. I’ve simply changed my mind.”
Sheila let out a bray of a laugh. “Of course you have.”
Bitsy greeted him with a warm smile. Helen hung back, saying nothing, still extremely ill at ease.
“Have a seat and dig in,” Sheila commanded them.
They had a seat and dug in.
As Mitch wolfed down what he hoped would be the first of many deviled ham sandwiches he reflected on the unexpected turn his life had taken since he’d moved to Dorset. Who would have thought that he’d be engineering a secret powwow with three older ladies like this? As he took a sip of milk Mitch realized something even more amazing. Seated here in Sheila Enman’s kitchen with the waterfall roaring outside he was somewhere he’d never been before—ground zero of a genuine Dorset gossip mill. He was at the table . He savored the significance of this moment before he reached for another half sandwich and said, “Helen, did you know that Lance Paffin was buried down there? Was that why you came to my house last night?”
Helen chewed quietly on a bite of her sandwich, swallowing it. “So they’ve found him.”
“They haven’t made a positive identification, but they believe it’s Lance. They’re keeping a tight lid on it, so please don’t mention this to anyone, okay?”
“Whatever is said at my table stays at my table,” Sheila assured him.
Bitsy nodded in agreement. “Where was he, Mitch?”
“Right in front of the Congo church.”
“Well, that figures,” Helen
“Rundle’s asked me to take the lead on the investigation for now.”
“Oh, yeah? Why’s that?”
“Because all three of our Major Crime Squad units are tied up with priority cases.”
“Do you think that’s the real reason?”
“You know as much as I do. Will you do me a favor? Talk to Helen again. See if she’ll tell you why she was so frightened.”
“Does this mean you’re deputizing me?”
“Baby, you know that only happens in westerns and bad vigilante movies.”
“You say that as if there’s such a thing as a good vigilante movie. I mean, let’s face it, you’ve got your Death Wish franchise, your Billy Jack …”
“This is strictly unofficial, okay?”
“Well, do we at least get to synchronize our watches?”
“Mitch…”
“Righto. Flextime it is. Not to worry, boss. I am on the case.”
And now he was steering his high-riding Studey truck back up to Sheila Enman’s house, where he’d arranged to run into Bitsy and her friend Helen Weidler while Helen was on her lunch break from the law offices of Fairchild & Fairchild. Helen had been one of Sheila’s prize pupils back when Sheila taught English at the high school. The two had remained lifelong friends.
Bitsy’s minivan was already parked there when Mitch pulled up at the red mill house that faced the roaring waterfall. He didn’t knock on Sheila’s door. No point in knocking. Sheila wouldn’t hear it over the roar of the waterfall. Since the mill house was built right out over the racing water its first floor tended to get a bit sloshy when the heavy rains came. This had happened twice so far since Mitch had known her. So Sheila had no rugs or upholstered furniture downstairs. Just bare wood flooring and tables and chairs that were practically Shaker in their simplicity. In the kitchen, Helen’s stove, refrigerator and washer-dryer were parked on four-inch risers. So was the furnace in her mudroom.
Mitch found the three ladies setting the pine kitchen table with good china, silver and linen napkins. Ironed linen napkins. Lunch was a stack of sandwiches made from Sheila’s awesome homemade deviled ham on slices of her equally awesome Pullman white bread. There was also potato salad and a bowl of her bread-and-butter pickles if anyone was interested. Mitch was very interested.
“I see that Desiree has talked you out of that dumb toothpick,” the ancient schoolteacher said to him in lieu of hello.
“Not at all, Sheila. I’ve simply changed my mind.”
Sheila let out a bray of a laugh. “Of course you have.”
Bitsy greeted him with a warm smile. Helen hung back, saying nothing, still extremely ill at ease.
“Have a seat and dig in,” Sheila commanded them.
They had a seat and dug in.
As Mitch wolfed down what he hoped would be the first of many deviled ham sandwiches he reflected on the unexpected turn his life had taken since he’d moved to Dorset. Who would have thought that he’d be engineering a secret powwow with three older ladies like this? As he took a sip of milk Mitch realized something even more amazing. Seated here in Sheila Enman’s kitchen with the waterfall roaring outside he was somewhere he’d never been before—ground zero of a genuine Dorset gossip mill. He was at the table . He savored the significance of this moment before he reached for another half sandwich and said, “Helen, did you know that Lance Paffin was buried down there? Was that why you came to my house last night?”
Helen chewed quietly on a bite of her sandwich, swallowing it. “So they’ve found him.”
“They haven’t made a positive identification, but they believe it’s Lance. They’re keeping a tight lid on it, so please don’t mention this to anyone, okay?”
“Whatever is said at my table stays at my table,” Sheila assured him.
Bitsy nodded in agreement. “Where was he, Mitch?”
“Right in front of the Congo church.”
“Well, that figures,” Helen
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