Tucker Peak Read Free Page A

traversing the slopes like ants crisscrossing a sugar spill, weren’t present in the kind of numbers to give a resort owner much joy, especially during a weekend. I also saw there were as many empty building lots as condo sites.
    Willy was checking off road signs. “Summit Road, Powder Lane, Snowflake Circle… Christ almighty, Joe, why don’t they give it a rest? Here we go, the tree section: Maple, Fir, Hemlock… Laurel’s on the right.”
    The scattered houses we’d passed had varied in opulence from the functional, tucked away with no view apart from a few trees, to the marginally upscale, with a glimpse of a meadow or a nearby ski trail. Laurel Lane brought us up a significant notch.
    “What d’ya think?” Willy asked. “A half-million each? Three-quarters?”
    I watched the procession slide by as the road emerged from the trees and stretched taut behind one perched palace after another, like a ribbon with gaudy baubles glued to one edge. Most of the houses were cantilevered out over a steep incline, allowing them the panorama their less affluent neighbors merely aspired to. For the first time since our arrival, here were signs of real wealth—and of potential salvation for the whole.
    “I have no idea,” I said quietly, suspecting the economies of such places had little to do with true value.
    Number 318 looked vaguely western to me, low and spread out with an expansive, oversize roof that was more flat than peaked, unlike most New England buildings. It was built of logs and had huge windows and a wraparound deck that looked deep enough to hold a tennis court.
    We parked next to a sports utility vehicle deserving of a rope ladder and stepped out into the cold air. The snowfall had completely petered out.
    As we set foot on the porch, the front door opened abruptly, revealing a short, round, balding man wearing a bulky, expensive white knit sweater and a permanently angry crease between his eyes.
    “Who are you?” he asked abruptly, his tone of voice matching his expression.
    I couldn’t stop Willy in time.
    “Be nice, asshole,” he said without hesitation, “we’re cops.”
    The owner’s mouth dropped open. Feeling like the straight man in a comedy act, I pulled out my shield and announced as nonchalantly as possible, “Vermont Bureau of Investigation—Special Agents Gunther and Kunkle. I gather you asked to see us?”
    To my surprise, our presumably type-A host merely gave Willy a grudging look of admiration and stepped back into the open doorway. “’Bout time. Come in.”
    We walked past him as he continued, “I’m glad that idiot sheriff got the message. I thought I might have to call the governor.”
    “We’re only here because the sheriff invited us,” I explained. “It’s still his case.”
    The short man waved his hand dismissively. “Whatever. I just wanted someone who could read and write. Guess you’ll have to do.”
    “Wild guess,” Willy interjected, “you must be William Manning, from New York.”
    The crease deepened between Manning’s eyebrows. “You got by the first time, sonny. Don’t push it.”
    “Could we cut this out?” I asked them both.
    They looked at me as if I’d just spoiled a good windup. Manning was the first to recover. “Right. This has really pissed me off. I didn’t come to the boonies to get robbed like it was the city.”
    He preceded us toward a glass-walled living room beyond the entryway. I held up a hand to stop Willy from responding.
    “Why don’t you take it from the top, Mr. Manning?” I suggested.
    He motioned us toward one of three large sofas, all positioned to enjoy the scenery outside. Everything was there, from the sweep of ski slopes, to the base lodge far below, to the windmills looming high in the distance like gigantic praying mantises. I noticed there was a long, graceful ramp connecting the deck to the nearest trail, allowing Manning and his guests to ski directly from home.
    Despite the overcast day, the living room