He took her through the apartment, room by room, asking her to stop and consider each view as they came upon it. He asked her about furniture moved, pictures missing, objects disturbed, files gone astray. They wound up before the dresser, where he pulled open the drawer and asked her to check its contents. Sadly but not surprisingly, she merely gave him a blank look.
“You think I know what was in my father’s sock drawer?”
He indicated the space before her. “It’s not socks, for one thing. Take a look.”
Amused, she did as he’d asked, even poking her finger in among the odds and ends. “Okay,” she then announced.
“Did he have a jewelry box?” he asked her. “With cuff links, tie tacks, things like that?”
Her brow furrowed slightly. “I think my mom gave him one. He used to scatter those things across the top here.” She patted the dresser’s flat surface, which was clear aside from a decorative lamp. She added, “Where we used to live. It drove her a little crazy. She was kind of a neatnik.”
In the end, she fell short of being the oracle he’d hoped for, including about the contents of the stolen box. She did tell him of a politically oriented photograph that was missing from the office wall, and that the telephone must have been voided of messages by someone not her father-she claimed he would never have done that, since he’d habitually used the answering machine as a form of to-do file, stacking up to twenty messages there on a regular basis.
“Do you remember who was in the photograph?” Joe asked, standing before the spot it had occupied, as if willing its ghost to reappear.
She stood beside him. “It was a group shot, with my father. The governor at the time may have been in it. But there were others-men and women, both. I just don’t know who. Not sure if I ever did, to be honest.”
“You say, ‘at the time.’ So it was old?”
She considered the question before responding, “It looked old-black-and-white, a little contrasty because of the flash. I’d say a half century, more or less. It was back when my father was at his peak. He looked very pleased with himself.”
“You ever see a copy of it elsewhere?” Joe asked hopefully. “In a newspaper, maybe?”
But she announced what he didn’t want to hear. “Nope. That might’ve been it. Probably gone for good now.”
Joe had brought along a file of documents related to the case. He fetched it from the kitchen counter and extracted a copy of the photograph that he and Lester had found in Barb Barber’s album in Shelburne, of Carolyn and Michelle’s father facing the cameras during the Governor-for-a-Day event.
He laid it on Gorden’s desk. “This the missing picture?”
She barely glanced at it. “No. As I said, it was a group shot.”
Disappointed, he picked it up and handed it to her for closer scrutiny. “That is your father, though, correct?”
“Oh yes,” she said, taking the copy. “And this was around the same time. That girl may have even been in the other picture.” She waved it gently in the air, adding, “But this isn’t it.”
“Did you ever hear your father refer to anyone named Carolyn Barber?” Joe asked.
“Never,” she said.
“Or hear him mention an event from about that time, called Governor-for-a-Day?”
Again, she couldn’t help him. “No,” she said. “Sounds pretty silly.”
He took the picture back. “Yeah. I thought so, too. Once.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Rob stepped off the elevator on the third floor and looked around. He’d been to Sheldon Scott’s office building before, but only at ground level, where the conference rooms and reception staff were located. He knew that the firm owned the entire building-it was that kind of operation-but he’d gotten the clear impression that people sharing his political philosophy weren’t likely to be invited upstairs.
That had always been the projected image of Scott amp; Company, as the business was officially called. From the formidable turn-of-the-century building to the formal dress code adhered to by everyone down to the lowest-ranked employee, the place smacked of a generally anachronistic attitude-displaying the sensitivity of an upper-crust manor in a land of tepees and yurts.
Not that Montpelier was lacking in monumental architecture-or suits, dresses, and business attire. It was the state capital, after all, even if that state was small and rural. Still, for all the effort exerted in the form of gold domes and urban “power-wear,” Perkins had nevertheless spotted a Vermont Supreme Court justice wearing clogs under his robes.
“Mr. Perkins?”
He turned to find a young woman, immaculate from toe to head, standing in an unmarked entrance halfway down the otherwise empty mahogany-paneled hallway.
“Mr. Scott will see you in here.”
Perkins approached and followed her into the room she’d appeared from. Having entered, however, he heard the door closed behind him and found himself alone in one of the largest offices he’d ever visited-as big as the entire end of the building, with towering windows on three of its fifteen-foot walls. He was instantly reminded of the set for My Fair Lady.
“Rob. How nice to see you.”
He glanced about, unable to locate the source of the voice.
“Hi, Mr. Scott,” he said nevertheless, the man’s age advantage earning him the title-a reflection of Rob’s traditional upbringing.
“Up here,” replied the disembodied voice, drawing Perkins’s attention to the two-story, balcony-equipped bookshelves directly behind him. He walked farther into the room and turned to look up at his host.
Sheldon Scott, in pinstripe suit, red tie, French cuffs, and trademark thick mane of snow-white hair, smiled down on him like the cross between a TV evangelist and an emperor of Rome. Perkins half expected to receive an imperial thumbs-down as a tiger was set free from under the truck-sized desk near the far wall.
Instead, Scott walked the length of the balcony and nimbly descended a wrought-iron spiral staircase, emerging from it with manicured hand extended.
“How long’s it been?” he asked.
“Nine months,” Rob answered, having checked the fact in his calendar before coming here. “The Cross-Border Conference reception at the Hilton.”
“Really?” Scott gestured for him to proceed to the other end of the room, where a cluster of leather armchairs was gathered before a cavernous fireplace. The walls at this end were adorned with books as well, but allowed, too, for a scattering of carefully framed photographs-each of them featuring Sheldon Scott with some conservative luminary, dating back to Richard Nixon and Barry Goldwater. A large shot of Scott and then Senate President Pro Tem Gorden Marshall caught Perkins’s eye, if only because of an article in the morning paper stating that Marshall had died at his retirement home in eastern Vermont.
“Then we’re overdue for a catch-up,” Scott was saying. “Would you like anything to drink?”
“No, thank you. I’m all set.”
Scott waved him to one of the chairs and settled down himself, crossing his legs and shooting his cuffs with the grace of a seasoned actor. Perkins had long considered that one of the weapons in this man’s arsenal was this almost theatrical aristocratic bearing. For a country that had violently broken from a monarchy, the United States had, in Rob’s opinion, forever-after harbored a longing for royalty, which the likes of Sheldon Scott exploited to the hilt.
“Having a good time working for the governor?” Scott asked airily, as if making conversation.
“An excellent time.”
The older man nodded thoughtfully. “This storm has certainly added to your headaches, though. Terrible thing.”
“We’re managing,” Perkins said cryptically.
“So, what brings you to see me?” Scott asked his guest with an expansive gesture of hands, apparently tiring of a game of manners that clearly had no traction.
Rob had expected this opening gambit, and so didn’t hesitate to respond, “You wouldn’t be seeing me in your inner sanctum if you didn’t already know. For that matter, one could say that you indirectly asked to see me. So why don’t we start there? Why am I here, Mr. Scott?”