Tucker Peak

  Tucker Peak

  Archer Mayor

  Contents

  Preface

  1 · 2 · 3 · 4 · 5 · 6 · 7 · 8 · 9 · 10

  11 · 12 · 13 · 14 · 15 · 16 · 17 · 18

  19 · 20 · 21 · 22 · 23

  Excerpt

  Biography

  Bibliography

  Preface

  I WAS DETERMINED AT THE START of my career chronicling Joe Gunther and “his” Vermont that I would avoid the pretty postcard versions of the state, most commonly reduced to cows, maple syrup, pretty leaves, and ski resorts. My ambition then—as it remains—was and is to portray my home as the real place it is, complete with the woes and mishaps all too familiar to us humans.

  It is, of course, a beautiful and nurturing place to live, and the likes of what I write about are spread more thinly here than in many other states. But it exists nevertheless.

  So it was that I found, not surprisingly, that the ski industry in Vermont suffers, here and there, from the occasional dark shadows cast by this more ominous world. I therefore assembled a small but highly experienced group of experts in my office for a background briefing and a few anecdotes, and from them compiled what I needed to bring Tucker Peak to fruition.

  There was one small wrinkle in this process, however. You may notice that the acknowledgments page in this book—normally pretty well populated—is here a thin thing. I asked all these advisors if they’d enjoy appearing there, as a token of my thanks. The unanimous response? No, thank you very much—it’s a small industry within a small state, and we all want to keep our jobs.

  Make of that what you will. I tried to honor them, if not by listing their names, then by being true to what they told me.

  Archer Mayor

  June 2012

  Vermont

  Chapter 1

  I GLANCED OVER SNUFFY DAWSON’S WELL-PADDED shoulder at the snow drifting by out the window. It was falling in thick, light flakes, like goose down meandering earthward after a well-conducted pillow fight.

  An avuncular man, Snuffy was the sheriff from the county next door—called Daniel only by his oldest female relatives—and as canny a politician as he was old-fashioned a police officer. He liked things simple and straightforward, or so he said, which put him increasingly at odds with a complex and confusing world. It also prompted him to affect a slow and deliberate manner, which helped explain why my attention was beginning to wander. He’d been standing awkwardly in the woodworking shop attached to my small Brattleboro, Vermont, house for fifteen minutes already, and I still hadn’t figured out why.

  “You sure you don’t want some coffee?” I asked for the second time. “I have a fresh pot in the kitchen.”

  He looked around at all the tools I’d lovingly, even compulsively, hung on several Peg-Board sheets along the walls. They were almost like a museum display, they were so tidy. A keen observer might have ventured that such neatness implied more show than action. And it was true that the shop was more a personal escape valve than it was some master craftsman’s studio. I was happy enough to be what my brother called a “wood butcher.”

  “How’re you liking your outfit so far, Joe?” Snuffy suddenly asked.

  The “outfit” was the Vermont Bureau of Investigation, or VBI, a new statewide detective squad drawn from the best officers of every law enforcement agency in Vermont—previously a plainclothes function belonging exclusively to the state police’s Bureau of Criminal Investigation, or BCI. This new, more democratic, seemingly reasonable configuration, created by the legislature just one year ago, had caused some serious ripples across the law enforcement community. It had provoked deep resentment from the state police, whose BCI officers were now restricted to more localized coverage areas, and had to hand over their major crimes to VBI.

  “I like it a lot,” I told him, absentmindedly running a piece of sandpaper along some wood I’d just cut out on the table saw. “People are still getting used to us, but we’ve gotten high marks from the ones we’ve helped. Is that why you’re here?”

  But he wasn’t being rushed. “I heard the state cops weren’t too happy.”

  I repressed a sigh, irritated both by the familiarity of the topic, and that it was being voiced in this one place of retreat. I hadn’t done much woodworking since I was a kid on the family farm upstate, but once my brother Leo made me a gift of our late father’s refurbished tools—right after I’d moved in here—it had become a reborn passion.

  “Some are, others aren’t. If any of their detectives want to go back to doing statewide major crimes, they can sign up and join us, and keep their bennies intact. Not that that’s any secret—most of our agents are ex-troopers, anyhow. My bet is the majority of bent noses either belong to people who don’t know what we do, or who were turned down when they applied. We are tough to get into, as we should be.”

  I didn’t state the obvious, that the additional rub was the perceived affront of it all—that the VBI was proof that the BCI wasn’t capable of doing its job. In fact, the opposite was true. BCI had been so successful the politicians had merely opened up the opportunities it offered to a wider pool of qualified people.

  Snuffy didn’t look overly impressed. Police officers are a conservative bunch. The test of time is what they use to tell a good idea from a bad one—and we hadn’t been around nearly long enough.

  “I suppose,” he said vaguely, idly running his finger through a thin film of sawdust on the table saw’s otherwise gleaming black surface.

  I figured I’d now fulfilled my social obligations. It was Saturday, and despite Snuffy’s having driven so far for whatever reason, I was eager to get back to what I’d been doing. “So, you got something on your mind, or are you just running away from your paperwork?”

  He smiled and shook his large, close-cropped head. “Nah. I either don’t do it or I give it to somebody else. I just wanted to run something by you—sort of to be polite, you know?”

  I wasn’t sure I did, but I nodded to keep him going now that he’d finally gotten started.

  “We had a burglary at Tucker Peak last night—one of the condos. The owner had a watch stolen and a bunch of other stuff. We spread the word as usual, but it’s probably a little early yet.”

  He paused as if expecting a response. For lack of options, I played straight man. “Nice watch, huh?”

  He raised his eyebrows. I had apparently done well. “Oh, yeah. Twenty thousand dollars worth.”

  I whistled. “Jesus. What else did he lose?”

  “Some jewelry, plus the standard portable stuff: a small TV, a cordless phone, a couple of radios, some silverware. About thirty grand total, but it was the watch that turned his crank.”

  Another lull, another nod from me. “Too bad.”

  “Yeah, well. He said he wanted you guys in on the investigation.”

  That caught me by surprise. I put the piece of wood down on the bench before me. “No kidding. He asked for VBI by name?”

  Snuffy frowned slightly. “Yup. Said he was a friend of the governor—wanted the best of the best, not a bunch of Deputy Dawgs.”

  He stopped again, but this time I knew he was fishing for more than an encouraging head nod. “You tell him to eat shit?” I asked.

  He laughed, obviously pleased with my response. “Not in those words, but yeah, sort of. What pissed him off is that one of my men moonlights as security for the mountain, which made the rent-a-cops and us look like one and the same. That was after he implied the security people might be in cahoots with the crooks. Real jerk.”

  He hesitated briefly and then ruefully admitted to his credit, “Not that it’s not possible—in theory, anyway.”

  I dusted my hands on my jeans. “Well, he’s out of luck. That’s not how we work.”
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  His eyes narrowed. “This below you?”

  “No,” I answered pleasantly. “It’s felony theft—we handle that. But we only come in when the home turf agency invites us.”

  That wasn’t a hundred percent true, of course. The VBI’s charter allowed it more room than that. But I wasn’t about to ruin a good mood for no reason—Snuffy’s presence here spoke for itself.

  “What if he does call the governor?”

  I shrugged. “Same answer. We’re a support service, not a lead unit. You don’t want us, we don’t come. If we do, though, I should add that we come equipped with our own prosecutor, especially assigned to us from the AG’s office. You know her—Kathy Bartlett—tough as nails, been there for years, and makes the lawyering end of any problems we run into fast and efficient, always a plus if you need legal advice in the middle of the night.”

  He mulled that over as I added, “And we always report to whoever calls us in—no separate press conferences, no leaks to the media. Just like we did in Stowe last month.”

  His expression showed he understood the reference. Our last big case had been under Stowe police aegis, and our profile had been so low most of the public hadn’t even heard about us. Law enforcement had, though; we’d made sure of it.

  “Okay,” Snuffy said, but he didn’t sound elated.

  “This theft the only thing you got going?”

  “Hardly,” he answered. “Just the latest in a string of burglaries, and the worst. And then there’s a bunch of tree-huggers bitching about new developments planned for over there, too. Tucker Peak’s become a pain in the ass.”

  “You don’t have any leads?”

  “Nah, and I’m stretched for coverage.”

  I chose my phrasing carefully. “Tough spot—tight on manpower and a potential conflict of interest if the victim’s right about your deputy.”

  “The victim’s full of crap. I already looked into that. I can’t swear the security outfit’s clean, but my guy is.”

  I ducked that debate. “What’s the victim’s name, by the way?”

  “William Manning. Flatlander, of course—New York.”

  This time, I was the one to let silence fill the room. Snuffy knew the political realities. Not to use us would be foolish, given the circumstances. But he had his pride, and I didn’t want him claiming later that I’d twisted his arm.

  Finally, he rubbed his chin with one large hand, stared at his shoes for a moment, and then slowly looked up at me. “So, how’s this work exactly?”

  · · ·

  Willy Kunkle stared incredulously at me from across the office, his coat still on and his standard dour expression darker by several degrees. “A stolen watch? It’s Saturday, for Christ’s sake. I thought we were like the Un-frigging-Touchables—murder and mayhem only. We’ll be ticketing cars next.”

  We were on the top floor of Brattleboro’s Municipal Building, two flights above the police department we both used to call home. Only now, instead of sprawling across half the ground level and most of the basement in a cluster of mismatched rooms and windowless caverns, we and two other so-called special agents shared a single large office, our desks backed like wary opponents into all four corners. Willy and I were alone for the moment, making the room look emptier than usual. This sensation was only enhanced by a general barrenness. Nothing had been hung on the walls yet, and while we’d been given a few file cabinets and computers, the use of things like a copier and a fax machine could only be had through the good graces of our downstairs neighbors. VBI’s budgeting and equipment needs were still works in progress.

  “It’s the latest in a string,” I said, not really expecting to win him over. “This last victim suspects the rent-a-cops are in on it.”

  Kunkle waved his hand dismissively in the air. “Hell, they all say shit like that. Rich guy in a fancy condo, leveraged up the wazoo—probably pawned his junk for the insurance. Why can’t Dawson handle it, beside the fact that he’s too dumb?”

  “We got it, Willy,” I told him, my tone indicating the conversation had run its course. “Saturday or not.”

  He studied me for a moment, perhaps reflecting on how many times we’d jousted in the past. Proud, judgmental, cynical, dismissive of others, and incredibly rude to almost everyone he met, Willy was also a workaholic who’d used law enforcement as a lifeline to pull himself free of a coterie of devils, from the Vietnam War, to alcohol abuse and a self-destructive, violent divorce, to a crippling bullet wound he’d received when we’d both worked downstairs, which had left him with a withered, useless left arm. Through it all, and despite many who’d urged me to cut Willy loose, I’d made it a point to ensure he was measured by his abilities instead of his attitude. Which is how he’d paradoxically ended up among the VBI’s first recruits. The Commissioner of Public Safety had tapped me as the Bureau’s field force commander and the Southeast Division’s agent-in-charge. I’d accepted both jobs, but only in exchange for Willy’s being considered on his merits, and not his personality.

  Which had resulted in my being, once more, his immediate boss.

  Willy finally raised his eyebrows. “Guess that means we’re supposed to risk our lives, drive out to Tucker Peak in the middle of a snowstorm, and see if we can’t help the good sheriff tell the difference between his butt and a hole in the ground?”

  I rose to my feet and crossed over to where my own parka hung on the wall. I noticed that the snow had pretty much stopped falling. “Right.”

  Chapter 2

  TUCKER PEAK LIES IN SOUTHERN VERMONT, which for a ski resort is both good and bad news. Like its sisters—Stratton, Mount Snow, and Bromley—it’s closer to the money states of Massachusetts and Connecticut, and to New York City, but unlike more northern mountains, such as Stowe, Killington, and Jay Peak, Tucker suffers from the south’s chronic climatic stinginess. As with almost every other resort, it’s piped for snowmaking, if only partially, but even artificial snow requires freezing weather, and there are winters in Vermont, especially recently, when that kind of cold, not to mention plain old-fashioned, natural snow, has been a precious and rare commodity.

  Of course, that’s one reason the pipes appeared in the first place, and with them other, less winter-dependent options for financial survival. Golf courses, tennis courts, horseback riding, summer alpine slides, swimming pools, old-car shows, antique fairs—along with the requisite hotels and condos—have slowly crowded around base lodges all across the state to help make Vermont’s occasionally threadbare skiing a smaller piece of the economic pie.

  Which is not to say that this type of mixing and matching isn’t still a tricky recipe, conditional as it is on such imponderables as customer loyalty, community and governmental support, and the ability of a resort to turn its customers into its own best ambassadors. In fact, while I’d heard of Tucker Peak’s ambitions to diversify, this last ingredient was something rumored to be in short supply.

  “You’re close to the grapevine,” I told Willy as we left Brattleboro for the Green Mountains that ran up the state’s middle like a spine. “Give me the lowdown on Tucker Peak.”

  Willy was staring glumly out at the barely falling snow that was both dry and sparse enough to make windshield wipers unnecessary. “Bunch of bored people sliding down a mountain so they can drink too much and jump each other’s bones after a night at the disco. Never made much sense to me.”

  I ignored the preamble, knowing there was no information about his fellow human beings Willy didn’t find interesting, and waited patiently for him to address the actual topic.

  “According to the barflies I know who work there,” he admitted after a pause, “up to last year, no one could count on being paid for the full season—attendance was down, equipment was falling apart, and maintenance was sucking hind tit. Now, it looks like they’re betting the farm.”

  I knew they’d added condos, boutiques, and a nightclub, to negligible effect, but this was obviously something bigger. “How’s that?”

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nbsp; “They’ve lined up some big investors to spruce up everything at once. Summer and winter stuff both: a hotel, twice the condo units, tennis courts, and a golf course. They’re talking over fifteen million dollars, which is huge on our piss-ant scale.”

  “Why haven’t I read about it in the paper?”

  “They haven’t hit stride yet. They got a fancy model in the base lodge, a few contracts out for hardware and engineering studies, and surveyors and guys cutting trees for new trails and a lift line, but basically they’re limping through this winter so they can make a big splash in the spring.”

  I absorbed all this without comment. Willy took my silence as encouragement.

  “My sources are hardly Wall Street types, but they see no reason this should work.”

  “Why not? A total mountain makeover might be a home run.”

  He was shaking his head. “My people feed these wannabes, clean their toilets, change their sheets, pick up after ’em. They hear the bitching about ticket prices, lousy service, how boring the slopes are. It’s the proverbial pig’s ear, according to them. You can gussy it up all you want, you can’t change the basics.”

  I drove through the tiny village of Lifton in three seconds flat and then turned onto Tucker Peak’s access road a couple of miles farther on. It was identified by a slightly weather-beaten sign next to a small cluster of retail buildings, including a bar. “So you’re not buying stock?”

  “How’re they going to pay for it, even with investors? Prices’ll have to go up, and the mountain’ll still be what it’s always been, a mole hill with attitude, just like the rest of this woodchuck state.”

  Sad to say, even if untrue, but that had a ring of familiarity to it. Vermont’s economy wasn’t far different from the rest of the country’s, but it was miniaturized to where it looked quaintly third-world. No matter what we did commercially up here, or how well, our best was always a blip when compared to places budgeted in the billions. The one exception was maple syrup, where we topped the nation by a fat margin, but even there, who really cared? A half-million gallons a year still only supplied a demand less than that for caviar. So, I understood what Willy was saying about little Tucker Peak. Spend what it might, it could never hold a candle to resorts in Utah and Colorado. Worse still, it couldn’t even compete in sheer size and height to the best in Vermont. In a market rewarding bigger, steeper, faster slopes, Tucker didn’t look slated for survival, much less rebirth.