She pursed her lips regretfully. “We did, and we signed off on the project. TPL is calling us traitors because of it.”
I raised my eyebrows, suddenly understanding her earlier hesitation. “Oh. That makes it awkward.”
She put her glass down on the coffee table beside her and crossed her arms. “Yeah. I feel a little funny about it. VermontGreen’s supposed to be the environment’s protective mother ship. I try to be objective about it-I’m a big girl, a lawyer, pretty good at swimming with the sharks-but I used to look at people like me and think they’d sold out. It’s kind of odd. I don’t want them to be right.”
For all her efforts to help the downtrodden, Gail wasn’t an overly sentimental woman. She had a pragmatist’s way of dealing with adversity and could make a deal if it helped her cause. But she held her integrity dear, and her doubts right now made me want to find out more, especially since her protesters and I were going to be sharing the same neighborhood.
“Who are these folks, anyway? They part of a bigger group?”
“Some of them are locals, others are part of the crowd that jump on every passing bandwagon. They don’t have an organization per se, but they do have a steering committee headed by a guy named Roger Betts, who every time you talk to him says he’s not their leader. He’s a good man, pushing ninety, an old-time socialist type from the Woody Guthrie school, I guess. He’s lived near Tucker Peak for decades, and I’ve known him almost since I got here. He’s one of the true gatekeepers of Vermont’s environment, writing articles and giving workshops-taught high school for a living. A sweet man with a powerful moral sense. He’s actually the primary reason I’m worried we may have missed something. Roger’s not prone to tilting at windmills.”
“Except that this one’s in his own backyard. That may have made him less objective. How come I’ve never heard of him?”
She picked up her wine again and took another sip. “You don’t exactly pursue the same interests. Plus, he’s normally pretty self-effacing. This is the highest-profile I’ve seen him, which probably ties in to what you just said. And you could be right. Proximity may’ve colored his thinking. That’s another reason I’m wobbling. I can’t make up my mind.”
“What exactly are they accusing Tucker of?”
“Cooking the research, paying off a naturalist or two, keeping crucial facts off the books. The idea of laying a pipeline into a lake and drawing water to make snow isn’t so bad all by itself. There’s hardly a mountain around that doesn’t do something like that. Tucker did it about twelve years ago themselves, when they tapped into their current pond. But it’s how many gallons and the rate of extraction and how many times a day or week this new lake will be used that only the mountain will know about. There’s monitoring equipment and on-site inspectors to keep people honest, but who’s kidding who? In a state like Vermont, there aren’t the resources for that to mean much. Machines can be fooled, and there aren’t enough inspectors to go around. And that doesn’t even touch the hotel and the new chairlift and the extra planned trails, all of which will leave footprints on the environment.”
“I thought you said Phil McNally was playing ball,” I reminded her.
Gail made her eyes wide as if she were going nuts and jerked her head around in pantomime. “I know,” she burst out. “That’s my problem. McNally’s a good guy, Betts is a saint, the corporation’s done all the right things. Which only means TPL is either a bunch of cranks led by a sentimental old man, or right on the money and occupying the last line of defense, with VermontGreen as one of the enemy. It’s driving me crazy.”
She paused, relaxed a little, and added, “And it’ll add spice to your life, too, even though you’ve got nothing to do with it.” She suddenly studied me more closely. “Unless you do. You never told me why you’re going undercover. Is it connected to all this?”
“No, we think the girl’s murder may have had something to do with a string of burglaries up there. But what is TPL planning to do? They really going to create havoc?”
She looked unhappy again. “I’m on the suspect list, remember? They wouldn’t tell me. But assuming they fit the model, they’ll try to undermine McNally’s hospitality, mess up the mountain’s day-to-day business, block traffic, slow the lift lines, and be loud and obnoxious. Basically do the civil disobedience thing until the cops run them in and make them front-page martyrs. It might actually turn out to be handy for you. Maybe you can use the chaos to flush out whoever you’re after.”
I had my doubts about that. It sounded like the goal was to fill the resort with protester-busting cops, which was hardly the low-key scenario I’d been hoping for.
I gazed out the dark window at the distant lights and answered her vaguely. “I guess I’ll find out soon enough.”
The next morning, I ran into Sammie Martens as I climbed the stairs to the top floor of the Municipal Building. She was headed down, dressed for the outdoors.
“You get the go-ahead from the chief?” she asked.
“I had to wear him down,” I told her. “And he said if we don’t get something in four weeks, he’ll shut us down.”
That didn’t seem to bother her. “Good. I was hoping he’d bite. I was thinking last night we ought to find someone who used to work at Tucker Peak-to maybe educate us a little-when I suddenly remembered one of Snuffy’s men moonlighted in security. I was going to chat with him, if that’s okay.”
“Is he the one Manning said was crooked?”
“One and the same. I read the internal report about that, though. Clean as a whistle.”
She checked her watch. “And he’s due at his office in ten minutes.”
“But he doesn’t know 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?”