The Second Mouse - Archer Mayor [87]
Joe reviewed what he’d learned—supportive of their theory, but frustratingly shy of hard evidence. He considered asking her outright if she thought Newell had killed Michelle, but he knew that it would merely upset her and result in nothing useful. Besides, she had enough in her bag of dark thoughts.
Instead, he extracted a mug shot of Mel Martin and slid it across the table. “Have you ever seen this man in the company of your husband?”
She looked quite startled at the harshness of the image before her. “Lord. I’ve met some of Newell’s friends. None of them look like this. Newell’s been with this man?”
“He sold him his truck.”
She made a face. “Oh, that old thing. I was happy to see that go. Always left oil on the driveway. Noisy and smelly, too.”
“So he never even described the man he’d sold it to? Or discussed him in any way?” Joe asked hopefully, knowing he was grasping at straws.
She settled the issue by smiling gently at him. “Newell and I don’t discuss.”
Lester Spinney wasn’t having much luck. He’d checked the few dirt roads that might reasonably house anyone who’d notice traffic going to and from Michelle’s, and hadn’t hit a single person yet who’d even known of her or Archie, much less seen Newell’s ex—and Mel’s current—truck. People lived isolated from each other out here by design, it turned out. Everyone he met was perfectly happy not to know the first thing about their neighbors.
It was therefore with no great optimism that he finally pulled up to his last planned stop—a complicated jigsaw puzzle of Swiss chalet, Norman keep, and modern glass—and swung out of the car to make his pitch.
But he never got to it. Before he’d traveled halfway up the front walk, a bright-faced, spindly couple capped in matching snow-white hairdos threw open the broad wooden door and stood beaming at him like something out of a B-level fairy tale.
“Don’t tell us,” the male half ordered, his hand in the air like a circus barker’s. “The car looks strictly standard issue.”
“And the clothes,” his companion chimed in, adding, “I hope you won’t be offended, but they’re practical and inexpensive, aimed toward respectability.”
“Yes,” agreed her mate. “Like an aspiring junior clerk out of Dickens.”
She laughed as Spinney stood there, smiling politely and waiting for the routine to wrap up, although as a cop, he had to appreciate the way they thought.
“So what do you say, George? The poor man’s on pins and needles.”
George looked thoughtful for a moment. “Hard to say with any certainty . . . State employee, for sure.”
She clapped her hands once and kept them clasped against her narrow chest. “Yes, just what I was thinking. But from what branch?”
Lester, far from pins or needles, nevertheless hoped all this would play to his advantage. “Police,” he confessed. “Vermont Bureau of Investigation.”
The couple burst into laughter, George saying, “Oh, I never would have gone there. Thank you so much. You don’t look like a policeman at all, young man. I was just about to embarrass myself—I won’t tell you how.”
Lester waved that away with his hand, displaying his badge with the other, for the record. “Not a problem. I have that effect on everybody. My name is Spinney, by the way.”
“Mr. and Mrs. George B. Heller the Third,” said the woman, extending her hand before abruptly withdrawing it with the words “Oh, my. Does one shake hands with the police? I don’t know the rules.”
“You do with this one,” Lester said, playing out the formalities with both of them.
George Heller asked, “To what do we owe the pleasure, Officer? Have we done something wrong?”
“No, no. Not at all. I just wanted to ask you a couple of questions about the neighborhood.”
Mrs. Heller laughed. “You mean the neighbors, not the neighborhood.”
Lester conceded with a smile. “You got me.”
“Is it poor Michelle Fisher?” George asked. “We knew the police were looking into