Free Tucker Peak by Archer Mayor Page A

we’re coming?”
    She smiled. “I thought I’d use the personal approach right off, given our reputation.”
    I saw her point and changed directions. “Lead the way.”
    · · ·
    Forty minutes later, Sammie and I pulled into the parking lot of a converted, two-story family home with a sign outside advertising the county sheriff. Unlike state police barracks buildings all across Vermont, which suffered from a uniform architectural blandness that only made you pity the inhabitants, sheriffs occupied a broader spectrum, which also unfortunately included the odd, windowless municipal basement. Snuffy had been luckier than most.
    We walked up the handicap ramp to the front door and into the tiny lobby. Sammie showed her badge to the woman behind the thick pane of glass overlooking the entryway. “Hi, is Tom Newell here yet?”
    The woman leaned forward slightly to study the badge more closely. “What’s that say?”
    Sammie snapped the case shut and put it back in her pocket, fighting her irritation. “VBI. We’re working on a case with your department. Could you tell him Agents Martens and Gunther are here to talk to him?”
    The woman smiled slightly and picked up a phone. I couldn’t tell if she’d consciously pulled Sammie’s chain or was simply amused by the reaction she’d received. Sammie’s vote, on the other hand, had clearly been cast. Having been skeptical about VBI myself, when it was staggering to fruition through last year’s legislature, I could sympathize with those who needed proof of its legitimacy. Sammie, however, was younger, prone to forming strong allegiances, and quicker to judge those she deemed were judging her. To her way of thinking, to regard the Vermont Bureau of Investigation with anything other than respect was to be an idiot.
    Two minutes later the far door opened, and a tall, slim, broad-shouldered man dressed in the gray pants and dark blue uniform shirt of sheriff’s departments all across the state stepped into the lobby. His expression was markedly wary.
    To give her credit, Sammie opened with a wide smile and an extended hand. “Tom Newell? I’m Sammie Martens. This is Joe Gunther. We’re from VBI—wondering if you could help us out with something.”
    His face didn’t change as he shook both our hands, but he looked at me closely. “I heard the sheriff’d brought you on board. You used to head up the plainclothes unit at the PD, right?”
    “Yup.” I glanced at the year stamped under his name tag, identifying that he’d become a cop five years earlier. “Did we ever meet? I’m sorry I don’t remember.”
    “Nope. You want to come on back?”
    He led the way into a narrow, dark hallway, at the end of which was a large room used for everything from lunch breaks to staff meetings to general storage. We sat around a long folding table, Newell on one side, Sammie and I on the other. Given his body language, I felt like launching into a speech about how our two countries were destined to become friends, but I didn’t think he’d see the humor. It made me wonder if he thought we might be following up on the accusation that he’d been in on the burglaries.
    “What can I help you with?” he asked.
    “We heard you work at Tucker Peak,” Sammie said.
    He frowned. “Not anymore. I quit.”
    I spoke up then, beating Sammie to it, wanting to set a softer, more conciliatory tone. “Sorry to hear that. Snuffy Dawson’s asked us to do a little digging around for him there. We were hoping you could give us the lay of the land. Who’s who, how the politics work,a stuff like that.”
    His eyes narrowed slightly, and I realized my instincts had been right. “That’s all?”
    “That’s it,” I told him honestly. “Snuffy mentioned Manning’s allegation early on. He also said it was a crock. That was good enough for me.”
    A silence fell among us, which Sammie filled encouragingly, having taken my cue. “So, can you help us out?”
    He hesitated, and I could tell