“Only to me. What do you want to tell me?”
“When I dashed into her office I found her having sex on the sofa with Casey. Rough sex. That’s how she got the shiner. Casey hit her in the eye. When I spoke to her about it she insisted that it was strictly a role-playing exercise. Casey has confidence issues with women and she’s been trying to help him out. I asked her point-blank if they’re romantically involved. She told me point-blank that they aren’t.”
“But you didn’t believe her.”
“Mitch, I saw what I saw.”
“She told me she got hit in the eye by a ceiling tile.”
“Casey’s the one who tangled with the ceiling tile. Josie lied to you.”
He listened to the frozen rain tapping on the roof, frowning. “I’ve been around a lot of world-class liars. I’m talking about movie producers, agents. She’s a damned good one.”
“How much has she told you about her background?”
“Josie isn’t someone who talks about her childhood. All I know is she grew up in Maine and graduated from Bates. She used to live with some guy up in Castine who liked to write sci-fi. After they broke up she moved down here and became a life coach.”
“She has a Web site. Have you ever checked it out?”
“No, I haven’t. Why?”
“Well, for starters her bio doesn’t say she graduated from Bates. It says she studied there. That’s a classic resume padder. If you audit a summer school class somewhere you can say you studied there. Her bio also boasts that she’s a fully accredited professional life coach. Remember how she mentioned that to us this morning?”
“I remember.”
“Do you have any idea what it actually means?”
“Not really.”
“It means that Josie completed an online degree program and then became officially certified by the American Life Coach Federation. Which sounds really impressive except, hello, it’s not. The American Life Coach Federation and the online degree program are one and the same entity. The outfit that enrolls you in its degree program-at a cost of around three grand-also serves as its very own certifying agency. Josie hasn’t been accredited by any official agency that’s regulated by the State of Connecticut. She
“So you think she’s a scam artist?”
“I think I’m not so sure how qualified she is to be doing what she’s doing. And after walking in on her and Casey getting sweaty, well, I’m not entirely sure
“Really? Because I’m not. I don’t stay friends with people who lie to my face. That’s generally a deal breaker for me.” The rain on the roof sounded quieter now. It had switched from frozen to plain old rain. “Did you get anywhere with our grinch?”
“I found out that it’s a whole lot bigger than some kids swiping Hank’s Christmas cookies. Prescription meds are disappearing. That’s serious business. I’m kicking it to the postal inspectors tomorrow. It’s their case.”
“Now that you bring it up something has occurred to me.”
“Um, okay,
“That the right answer’s often the most obvious one.”
“You mean that Hank’s been stealing the stuff himself?”
“Exactly.”
“That did occur to me,” she conceded. “It would explain why Paulette’s been acting so tense. Maybe she’s been thinking it, too. Last thing in the world she’d want to do is bring down her own boyfriend. But answer me this-why would Hank resort to stealing his own mail?”
“He has big-time money problems. According to Rut Peck he owes his ex-wife a fortune.”
“Paulette mentioned he’d had a personal setback. He even started smoking again. You do know who helped him quit, don’t you?”
“Are we back to Josie again?”
“Does Rut think that Hank’s capable of something that extreme?”
“Absolutely. Mind you, Rut’s not exactly Hank’s biggest fan.”
“Why not?”
“Because he sees him a rival for Paulette’s affections. Like I told you-Rut’s real sweet on her.”
“The only mail that’s been disappearing is the mail on Hank’s route,” she said slowly. “If Hank has serious money problems then you’d have to take a good, hard look at him. I watched him deliver packages up and down Dorset Street today. Didn’t see him do a thing that wasn’t kosher. But I’d just spoken with him at the Post Office. Maybe he was just being careful.”
“You’d have to catch him in the act, wouldn’t you?”
“I’d have to catch him with other people’s mail in his wrongful personal possession. Except it’s not going to be me. It’s the postal inspectors who’ll go at him. And they’ll go at him hard.”
“There’s no way around that?”
“If he turned himself in they might cut him a deal. He’d have to give up his buyer.”
“What buyer?”
“Someone has been gobbling up those stolen prescription meds. Hank would have to finger that individual along with whoever else he’s been doing business with. If he did that he’d have a chance. He’s a solid career employee, active in the community.”
“But he’d lose his job.”
“Hell yes, he’d lose his job. But if Hank’s our grinch then he’ll have to pay the price.” Her cell phone rang. Des reached for it on the coffee table and took the call, her face tightening as she listened. Then she rang off and started toward the bathroom. Her uniform was hanging on the back of the door in there. “You’d better eat dinner without me. I’m going to be gone for a while.”
“What is it, Des?”
“Another suicide, that’s what. Hank Merrill just took his own life.”
CHAPTER 9
The roads were all slushy and soupy now that so much wind-driven rain was coming down on top of all of that snow. Absolutely no one else was out as Des splish-splashed her way up Route 156, the narrow country road that twisted its way north of the village alongside of the Connecticut River into Dorset’s rural farm country.
Her destination was Kinney Road, a remote little lane that ran straight down to the river. Two immense riverfront mansions had been built there a hundred or so years ago. Both places were dark and neither driveway had been plowed. Evidently their owners were spending the holiday season somewhere warm. The road itself had been plowed very recently. She knew this because the town’s big orange plow truck was idling there in the rain when she pulled into the small parking lot at the foot of Kinney, which was a real happening place during the summer. Folks put their kayaks and canoes into the water there. This time of year no one came around.
Hank Merrill’s black VW Passat was parked facing the river. A garden hose was attached to the Passat’s tailpipe with silver duct tape. The other end of the hose was poking through the top of the driver’s side window, which had been rolled up tight enough to hold it in place. The driver’s door was open, the car’s interior lights on. Madge Jewett was crouched there in the rain having a look at Hank while Mary talked to the town plowman, Paul Fiore, who’d phoned it in. The girls’ EMT van idled next to his plow truck.
Des buttoned her rain slicker and got out, tugging her big hat tight to her head. She started with Paul, a heavyset fellow who worked for the town full-time.
“I made one pass through here this afternoon,” he informed her, running a hand over his face. The man was very upset. “It must have been about three o’clock. Nobody was here. When I came through again just now I noticed the Passat parked over there with its engine running. Didn’t pay it much mind. Figured it was a couple of
