now, along with the theft of Poochie’s Gullwing. We figure the two are related.”
“Pete saw it happen, is that it?”
“That’s our working theory.”
“He’d never have told a soul.”
“An outsider wouldn’t necessarily know that.”
“So you don’t think it was someone local?”
“Doug, we don’t know.”
“I was just beginning to wonder about him. He should have been home from his rounds by now.” Doug ran a scarred, meaty hand over his face, knuckles permanently etched with grease. “Any sign of the Gullwing yet?”
“Not yet.”
“Poochie will need something to get around in. I’d better run the Jeep up there later.”
Des nodded her head, thinking that everyone saw life through the prism of their own priorities. For Doug Garvey, this represented an opportunity to rent Poochie a car. “The state is legally obligated to notify Pete’s next of kin. Can you help me out?”
“Des, I’m happy to do whatever I can,” he replied, although he seemed uneasy now. “Just don’t expect much in the way of answers. It’s not like Pete opened up to me or anything.”
“You let him stay here,” she pointed out.
“I did,” he allowed, rocking back in his chair. “I felt responsible for him. He was one of ours. And he wouldn’t go into a facility. That crazy son of a gun jumped right out of my truck when I tried to take him up to Connecticut Valley Hospital. Took off running down the center divider of Route Nine, almost got himself killed. I’m no miracle worker, Des. Just an old grease monkey. I found Pete sleeping under the I-95 overpass one winter, must be five, six years ago. I was afraid he’d freeze to death, so I let him use the old trailer out back. Figured it was the decent thing to do. No different from what you and Mrs. Tillis would do for a stray cat. Speaking of which, I’ve got a ton of mice nesting up in my storage loft.”
Des treated him to a huge smile. “Stop by any time. Happy to fix you up. Doug, you mentioned that Pete was ‘one of ours.’ Does he have family in Dorset?”
“Well, you always heard stories…” “What kind of stories?”
“Crazy stuff. You know how people are. One time, I heard that he was the illegitimate son of Ted Williams, who’d kept himself a mistress here in town. Your Yankee fans were floating that one. Then I heard he was a Kennedy cousin who’d been disowned because he was loco. Your Republicans were behind that one. I also heard he was a Swamp Yankee from up in the hills, whose parents had been, well, brother and sister. Mind you, folks say that about pretty much anyone in Dorset who’s a little slow or off or whatever. In plenty of cases, it’s not so far off the mark either. I’m a Swamp Yankee myself, so I can say it.”
“Would you happen to know what Pete’s last name was?” “Des, that’s not something I can help you with.” “Then can you point me to someone who was related to him?” “That’s not something I can help you with either.” Des shoved her heavy horn-rimmed glasses up her nose, studying Doug carefully. He was acting all amiable and cooperative, but he wasn’t being the least bit forthcoming. Which wasn’t to say that he was lying. He was being scrupulously careful not to-so careful that she could swear he’d been coached. “Doug, was there anything unusual about Pete’s routine this morning?”
He shook his head. “He came in and washed up about six, had himself a cup of coffee and took off on that bike of his. I was getting ready to open up when he left.” “Were you here all morning?”
“Pretty much. I took the truck out a little after seven to jump a dead battery for Mrs. Bingham up on Old Ferry Road.”
“You have to go past Four Chimneys to get to Old Ferry. Did you see Pete making his rounds?” “Sorry, I’m afraid not.” “Doug, how long did you know Pete?” “Since we were little guys-eight, nine years old.” “Is that right?” Nothing he’d said so far had even hinted at this. “So Pete grew up in Dorset?”
“Well, yes and no. Pete was one of those kids who didn’t seem to belong to anybody. For a couple of years, he lived next door to me with the Millers. They were both schoolteachers, had a whole mess of kids. Some their own, others foster kids they took in. Although that kind of thing seemed a lot less formal back in those days. We three used to play together in the woods behind my house.”
Des frowned. “You three?”
“Me, Pete and Milo Kershaw. Milo lived right across the street. We were always getting into mischief together.”
“Are you and he still good friends?”
Doug lowered his gaze. “I run a business. I try to get along with everyone. Milo can be difficult. He’s always searching for villains in his life.”
“Did Pete seem at all strange to you when you were boys?”
“Not at all. He was a fun-loving little guy. And a real chatterbox, if you can believe that.”
“You say he lived next door for two years?”
“Until they sent him away.”
“Who sent him away, Doug?”
“No idea, Des. I don’t know where he went either. I never saw him again. Not until I spotted him camped out under the overpass, like I said. I hadn’t seen the guy for almost fifty years, but he had that same long, bony nose he had when we were kids. So I pulled over and said, ‘Holy Christmas, Pete, is that you?’ He just shrugged at me. I threw his duffel bag in my truck and brought him here. Thought maybe Pete could pump gas for me. But that didn’t work out. He got too frightened by the customers. I did what I could for him-not that he’d let me do much.”
“Did Milo reach out to him as well?”
“Milo thought he was crazy. Wanted nothing to do with him.”
“Pete had no identification on him. May I go through his personal effects?”
He led her out back through the service bays, moving none too swiftly. Doug had the ponderous duck waddle of a big man with a bad back. There were half a dozen clunkers parked out there in the mud alongside of the dilapidated old Silver Streak. The trailer was unlocked. Doug showed her in. Long ago, it had been all tricked out with a kitchen sink, propane stove and electric refrigerator. There was a dinette, a built-in bed. No doubt it once was very nice. Not anymore. The appliances were history, and it reeked in there of mildewy carpeting. There was a rumpled sleeping bag on the bare, stained mattress. A few canned goods on the counter next to the sink. Some dirty laundry. Newspapers in a pile. A dog-eared copy of The World Almanac.
“My dad used to take this baby up to Maine on fishing trips,” Doug recalled fondly, his bulky frame filling the dank little trailer. “It’s seen better days, but it suited Pete’s needs. Mostly, he just kept to himself out here. The ladies in town would drop off old clothes for him. If he wanted anything he’d take it.” Doug shook his head sadly. “Not much for a man to leave behind, is it?”
Des searched the trailer for personal papers, letters, anything that would provide a key to Pete’s identity. The storage cupboards were empty. She looked inside the pockets of his soiled, stinky clothing. Under the mattress. She found nothing.
“Doug, did you ever get mail here for him?”
“Not once, Des. He wasn’t in contact with the outside world at all.”
“Then I guess I’ve hit a dead end. You can’t help me at all.” She stood with her hands on her hips, staring at the big man. “Is that how it is, Doug?”
He cleared his throat, his eyes avoiding hers.
“Doug, I’m not trying to get in your face here, but I’m sensing you’re not telling me everything you know.”
He kicked at the moldy rug with his heavy work boot. “I just don’t want to stir up a hornet’s nest, that’s all.”
“There’s absolutely no need to worry. I’ll be the one doing the stirring.”
“Well, okay,” he said reluctantly. “Awhile back I was given instructions about what to do in case Pete’s condition ever took a serious turn for the worse.”
“By whom?”
“By Bob Paffin.”
“Is that right? Now why did the first selectman take such an interest in our village scavenger?”
“Des, I don’t know. I only know that he told me who to contact under extreme medical circumstances.”
