Free Three Can Keep a Secret by Archer Mayor

time. He preferred going home every night.
    "You out there, babe?" he texted.
    "Hi," came the near-instant response from his wife, Sue, a nurse at Springfield Hospital.
    "What ya doin'?" he typed. His daughter, Wendy, had tried to educate him on the protocols and practices of proper text-speak, but he and Sue preferred their own version.
    "Good timing," she wrote back. "Babysitting a pt. in ICU. U?"
    "Waterbury. Just went thru the tunnels here. Creepy."
    "Dangerous?" was the immediate reply.
    "Nope. HazMat suits. Town a mess. Missed U last nite."
    "U2."
    "Dave do OK on test? "
    " Thinks so."
    Spinney heard Joe calling out for him from somewhere in the building. "Gotta go, honey. Luv U."
    He was reading "Luv U2" when Joe poked his head through the open doorway and smiled. "Tell her I said hi."
    Les laughed and dutifully followed orders, reading aloud to Joe, "Tell him to give you back to me in one piece."
    "I promise," Joe said, and crooked his finger. "I found a girl who knows a guy who knew our missing person — a nurse at the hospital. Maybe she'll tell us Carolyn's couch surfing in her living room."
     
    Gail Zigman stepped into the small back office on the top floor of the Pavilion building in Montpelier, located beside the statehouse, and closed the door behind her. Vermont governors were paid a little over $150,000 per year; were issued a security detail, complete with vehicle; and had a staff. They were also the chief executive, with all the attending perks. On the other hand, they still headed up one of the least populated states in the Union, which translated into Gail's living in her own condo just outside Montpelier, although having access to an admittedly spacious combination office/apartment in this building, and another ceremonial office in the statehouse, equipped with a chandelier. There was no governor's mansion, no stretch limo, no executive helicopter, and no palace guard to snap her a salute when she showed up for work every morning. Vermonters had other expectations of their leaders than their appearing like foreign potentates or overindulged chiefs of industry. Not surprisingly, Gail had also quickly discovered, governors had virtually no privacy and little time to themselves. Which explained why she was standing here with her back to the door. After six months of agreeing to everyone's requests of her to do what they wanted and to be where they directed, she'd finally demanded ninety minutes of complete solitude, every afternoon. It was impractical, and honored only about 30 percent of the time, but it beat what had preceded it. And she cherished every minute.
    She wasn't getting that now, however — not with the post-Irene mess demanding that she be in all places at all times. But when she'd announced five minutes ago that she was going to grab a little time for herself, her staffs reaction hadn't been stunned disbelief.
    The downtime wasn't so she could watch TV, do crosswords, or read a book. In general, it was to help her address the private daily duties that she set herself, for herself, outside the demands of her job, her constituents, and her omnipresent staffers.
    This time, for example, it was to call Susan Raffner.
    Politicians — even small state ones — are surrounded by a hierarchy of friends. Some are heartfelt associations, others practical, still others obligatory and occasionally onerous, as with party chairmen, committee heads, key lobbyists, and the like, with whom one is pretty much stuck whether one likes them or not.
    For Gail, Susan Raffner was something else entirely—a fellow resident of Brattleboro, a friend and advisor for decades, a sounding board, an ally, a defender, and a fellow feminist of the old school, Raffner had early seen in her friend the potential that Gail had achieved in the last election. When Gail had first toyed with becoming a selectman, Raffner had been by her side, giving advice, fielding problems, and handling many of the logistical headaches,