“Any reason it should?” Sammie asked with a big smile, sitting opposite him. “You have a skeleton in the closet?”
He wiped his mouth and shook his head. “Oh, God no-just that it was so long ago. Who are you, anyway?”
I made the formal introductions, which deepened his astonishment. “My Lord. The Vermont Bureau of Investigation. I’m not sure I’ve ever heard of that. Is it part of the state police?”
Willy rolled his eyes, but I simply answered, “No-different agency.”
“But have I done something wrong?”
I tried putting him at ease by waving to the waitress. “No, no. We’re more on a fact-finding mission than anything. Do you mind if we join you for dinner? I notice you just started.”
He shook his head. “Be my guest.”
We placed our orders, Willy taking the most time. “Mr. Brown,” I began, “we heard Mickey’s Best had a special night when they served wild game.”
He laughed at that. “Yeah-well. It was advertised as wild, and when we could get it, it really was. Mickey would try anything to turn a buck, and back then there weren’t so many regulations that could trip you up. It was a harmless trick, really, and it wasn’t like he was cheating folks. The tourists were paying for the ethnic charm.” He said the last two words with a fake upper-class lilt. “And the locals didn’t seem to know the difference, bragging aside.”
“We heard it didn’t last long,” Willy commented.
“No. Mickey was ahead of his time. The tourist trade was a coming thing, but not even close to what it is now. The trains weren’t much, the interstate wasn’t there yet, and the roads were pretty bad. There was money around, but not in Stowe-not yet. Not like it would be.”
He paused to take a small bite, politely slowing down on his consumption until our meals arrived. “Plus Mickey was a restless man. Good at selling, not so good at following through. He got bored fast.”
“Rumor has it you were pretty good at selling yourself,” Sammie observed.
Arvin Brown ducked his head modestly. “I was just a kid on the make. I thought Mickey had the world by the tail-that he’d take me places. Wasn’t till after the restaurant closed that I realized his limitations. I didn’t dislike him for it, though. He was a dreamer, and we all need those. But we parted ways.”
“What did you end up doing?” I asked.
He smiled. “Selling-no surprise there. I sold darn near everything-appliances, machinery, bulk goods, lumber, property-anything that would take me out on the road. I like people and I liked to travel till I finally got too old for it. Ended up here ’cause it’s peaceful, small, and the people are nice, and,” he added with a laugh, “it’s too far off the beaten path to attract any salesmen.”
The waitress arrived with our food, and Brown watched us settle in, especially Willy with his one-handed dexterity. “I don’t see why any of that would interest you,” he finally admitted. “Did Mickey finally get himself in a jam?”
I decided to stay shy of the real issue for the moment. “We heard he was long dead. But it’s an interesting question. Ahead of his time or not, wasn’t it a weird place for a hustler to ply his trade?”
Brown finished chewing. “Stowe? Maybe. He wasn’t alone, though, and even the ski bums eventually became businessmen. Like I said, it didn’t get really big till about the seventies, but the roots went down when I was there. I mean, hell, look at the biggest name of them all. The Singing von Trapp Family, or whatever they called themselves. They weren’t hustlers, but they had to hustle to make a go of it, and made a tidy profit, too, and bought up a hell of a lot of real estate. That mood was in the air. Mickey’s main problem was that he thought too small.”
“Was there any criminal activity back then?”
That froze his fork halfway to his mouth. “Criminal activity? My God, there weren’t enough people, not if you mean what I think you do. There wasn’t even a police department. I was talking about people looking to make money. Not mobsters.”
I waved my hand dismissively. “Sure. I know. I was just curious. There’s so much money there now-makes you wonder. Was Mickey’s Best pretty popular?”
“It depended on the time of year, of course, but when it was hot, the place really jumped-big ski weekends, fall foliage, hunting season-times like that. And Mickey tried to keep it interesting, like with Game Night. How’d you hear about that, anyway?”
I reached into my pocket for the old photograph of Jean Deschamps wearing a fedora and smoking a cigarette. “Do you ever remember seeing this man at the restaurant? I know it’s a long shot-so many years ago-but we heard you were really attentive to the customers.”
Arvin Brown took the picture in both hands and fondly regarded the old crook. “Wow. Isn’t that amazing. After all this time. Sure, I remember him. He was like a movie star when he came in-his coat draped over his shoulders, dark glasses. Not many people wore those back then, least not the locals.” He laughed, “And not at night. He tipped me the same as the bill-one hundred percent. Told me I reminded him of himself when he was a kid. If Spencer Tracy had walked in that night, I wouldn’t have been more impressed. He was amazing-just what I wanted to be.”
“Did you know who he was?” Sammie asked.
Brown shook his head. “Nope. A rich French-Canadian was all I knew. Never saw him before, never saw him again. You know what happened to him?”
“Yeah.” I didn’t elaborate. “Any idea why he was there that night? Did he ask directions to anyplace, or mention anyone local?”
“Nope. He seemed real at home, like he knew what he was up to. But then I figure he looked like that wherever he went.” He handed the picture back to me. “But I’ll never forget that face.”
Sammie pulled a pad from her pocket. “Mr. Brown, assuming this man was staying somewhere in the Stowe area that night-not a private residence-where might that’ve been? Especially for a high roller?”
He chewed thoughtfully for a while, staring at his plate. Finally, he looked up and answered, “Well, the Green Mountain Inn was in business. That’s a possibility. And the Summit House was still operating on top of Mount Mansfield. A lot of folks went there for the adventure of it. But it was kind of rustic, and I don’t see this guy doing that.” He hesitated and then said, “Truth be told, the place I’d bet on doesn’t exist anymore-the Snow Dancer Hotel. Funny name but a classy joint. That’s why it went under-owner spent too much pampering the guests, and they ended up not wanting to pay the price. He was from Spain, I think. Always dressed to the nines, complete with a walking stick. We kids used to make fun of him-thought he was a sissy. Anyway, I could see this gent hanging his hat there for a night. Be a perfect fit.”
Willy didn’t look impressed. “But the place and the Spaniard are ten feet under, right?”
Brown wasn’t put off by Willy’s tone. “True,” he admitted. “The building’s still there, though. Last I knew, it was a B and B. Very pretty, with a barn out back. It used to have all the original Victorian fixtures-carpets, furniture, chandeliers, the works-and I heard most of that’s still there. It’s called the Summit View now-must be a thousand with that name-but you could give it a look. That and the Green Mountain Inn, of course. They might even have records going back that far.”
He’d finished his meal by now and half pushed his chair away from the table, his tone hardening just a shade. “So I’m guessing I told you pretty much what you came for, and you’ve been careful about not showing your cards, which is what I guess you people do for some reason. But how ’bout a little even-Steven? What the hell’re you after?”
The three of us exchanged glances. Willy and Sammie both shrugged. Arvin Brown had been forthcoming with us. It wasn’t going to hurt to return the compliment.
“It’s going to be a letdown,” I warned him. “Your big tipper was murdered shortly after he left Mickey’s. We figured out he’d been there ’cause his stomach contents matched your menu on Game Night.”