Read Online The Coal Black Asphalt Tomb: A Berger and Mitry Mystery (Berger and Mitry Mysteries) by David Handler - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: David Handler
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murmured.
“It does? Why’s that?”
“Mitch, I came here because Bitsy thought it would be a good idea.” Helen’s eyes were fastened on her plate. “But I’ve said too much already.”
Sheila let out another laugh. “You are one heck of a tactful person, Helen. I’m not, so I guess that leaves it up to me. Mitch, I can guarantee you that your lady friend will be hearing all about what a war hero Lance was. Which I’m not knocking. If a man serves his country he has a right to be saluted. But there was more to Lance Paffin than that. Much more.”
Mitch speared a pickle slice from the bowl. “Such as?…”
“Such as that he was the meanest, most vile user of women that it has ever been my misfortune to encounter,” Sheila replied. “He wanted them all. And he had them all. Lance Paffin was a predator who had no conscience when it came to women. None. The man was detested in Dorset. Believe me, there were dozens of husbands, boyfriends, fathers and sons who would have gladly done him in.”
“Helen, how did you know he was down there?” Mitch asked.
“I’ve … heard things over the years,” she answered reluctantly. “There’s the Missy Lay legend, for one. Not that anyone ever believed a word Missy said. She was an old, old spinster who lived right across Dorset Street from the church. My mother was town nurse back then and got to know her pretty well.”
“Goodness, I haven’t thought about Missy Lay in years,” Sheila said with a twinkle in her eye. “The high school kids used to call her Miss Laid. She was a complete loon.”
“Missy was different ,” Helen allowed. “My mother told me she used to consume eight fluid ounces of her own urine every single day. Missy believed that it promoted good health.”
“And did it?” Mitch asked.
“Well, she lived to be a hundred and three.” Helen leaned forward over the table, blushing slightly. “There was also some talk about those fudge brownies that Missy put out for the kids on Halloween.”
Bitsy stared at her. “Wait, you don’t mean…”
“I do,” Helen said. “I most certainly do.”
Sheila got up and made her way over to the stove with her walker to put the kettle on. “Which explains why no one ever believed anything Missy said.”
“What did she say about the night that Lance Paffin disappeared?” Mitch asked.
Helen patted her mouth with her ironed linen napkin before she replied, “Dorset Street had been all dug up. It was a dirt road, and closed to through traffic. No one drove in or out unless they lived in the historic district. So it was very, very quiet outside of Missy’s house that night. And Missy, who had terrible insomnia, swore to my mother that she heard men with shovels digging out in the road in the middle of the night. Also that she saw Lance’s white Mustang parked there in the moonlight. She told my mother all about it the next morning. Told anyone who’d listen to her after Lance was reported missing. But everyone ignored her because they thought she was potty.”
“You believe she really witnessed something, don’t you?”
Helen nodded her head. “Because of something I heard for myself at the office one day. Or I should say overheard.”
“When was this?”
“About twenty years ago. The last time that Dorset Street was being worked on.”
“And what did you…”
“My employer, Mr. Fairchild, was speaking to First Selectman Paffin on the telephone. And I heard him say, ‘Not to worry, Bob, all they’re doing is resurfacing. They won’t go down far enough to find anything.’” Helen paused, shaking her head. “I tell you, it made my blood turn cold.”
“So you think Chase Fairchild and Bob Paffin knew that Lance was down there?”
“I don’t think it. I know it.”
Mitch sat there taking this in while Sheila filled a tea ball with multiple spoonfuls of Earl Gray and poured boiling water into her battered silver teapot. Bitsy got up and cleared their empty plates
“It does? Why’s that?”
“Mitch, I came here because Bitsy thought it would be a good idea.” Helen’s eyes were fastened on her plate. “But I’ve said too much already.”
Sheila let out another laugh. “You are one heck of a tactful person, Helen. I’m not, so I guess that leaves it up to me. Mitch, I can guarantee you that your lady friend will be hearing all about what a war hero Lance was. Which I’m not knocking. If a man serves his country he has a right to be saluted. But there was more to Lance Paffin than that. Much more.”
Mitch speared a pickle slice from the bowl. “Such as?…”
“Such as that he was the meanest, most vile user of women that it has ever been my misfortune to encounter,” Sheila replied. “He wanted them all. And he had them all. Lance Paffin was a predator who had no conscience when it came to women. None. The man was detested in Dorset. Believe me, there were dozens of husbands, boyfriends, fathers and sons who would have gladly done him in.”
“Helen, how did you know he was down there?” Mitch asked.
“I’ve … heard things over the years,” she answered reluctantly. “There’s the Missy Lay legend, for one. Not that anyone ever believed a word Missy said. She was an old, old spinster who lived right across Dorset Street from the church. My mother was town nurse back then and got to know her pretty well.”
“Goodness, I haven’t thought about Missy Lay in years,” Sheila said with a twinkle in her eye. “The high school kids used to call her Miss Laid. She was a complete loon.”
“Missy was different ,” Helen allowed. “My mother told me she used to consume eight fluid ounces of her own urine every single day. Missy believed that it promoted good health.”
“And did it?” Mitch asked.
“Well, she lived to be a hundred and three.” Helen leaned forward over the table, blushing slightly. “There was also some talk about those fudge brownies that Missy put out for the kids on Halloween.”
Bitsy stared at her. “Wait, you don’t mean…”
“I do,” Helen said. “I most certainly do.”
Sheila got up and made her way over to the stove with her walker to put the kettle on. “Which explains why no one ever believed anything Missy said.”
“What did she say about the night that Lance Paffin disappeared?” Mitch asked.
Helen patted her mouth with her ironed linen napkin before she replied, “Dorset Street had been all dug up. It was a dirt road, and closed to through traffic. No one drove in or out unless they lived in the historic district. So it was very, very quiet outside of Missy’s house that night. And Missy, who had terrible insomnia, swore to my mother that she heard men with shovels digging out in the road in the middle of the night. Also that she saw Lance’s white Mustang parked there in the moonlight. She told my mother all about it the next morning. Told anyone who’d listen to her after Lance was reported missing. But everyone ignored her because they thought she was potty.”
“You believe she really witnessed something, don’t you?”
Helen nodded her head. “Because of something I heard for myself at the office one day. Or I should say overheard.”
“When was this?”
“About twenty years ago. The last time that Dorset Street was being worked on.”
“And what did you…”
“My employer, Mr. Fairchild, was speaking to First Selectman Paffin on the telephone. And I heard him say, ‘Not to worry, Bob, all they’re doing is resurfacing. They won’t go down far enough to find anything.’” Helen paused, shaking her head. “I tell you, it made my blood turn cold.”
“So you think Chase Fairchild and Bob Paffin knew that Lance was down there?”
“I don’t think it. I know it.”
Mitch sat there taking this in while Sheila filled a tea ball with multiple spoonfuls of Earl Gray and poured boiling water into her battered silver teapot. Bitsy got up and cleared their empty plates
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