The Shadow Box(81)

“And we don’t shoot them,” Staver said. “We only go after the nonendangered. But the thing is, all these piles of twigs and branches and leaves are just things we take for granted out here. Whoever piled them up was probably trying to make it look like just another bunny site.”

“But it wasn’t,” Dufour said. “You could tell a person did it to cover that hole in the ground.”

“And what made you put it together with Claire Beaudry Chase?” Conor asked.

“Well, on account of the fact that group of lawyers and whatnot from down Black Hall way were here for a turkey shoot in March.”

“Lawyers?” Conor asked. But the two men stopped short before they answered, and so did he.

“Huh,” Staver said. “Looks different.”

“Completely different,” Dufour said.

“That’s where the plywood was,” Staver said, pointing at a patch of ground, bare dirt sunken down about a foot, compared to the level grass-covered area around it. “It was covering a deep pit, we’re talking a good three feet, but half of it’s been filled in.”

“Damn it to hell, someone put someone in that grave.” Dufour took a step toward the spot, but Conor stopped him.

“I’m going to ask you to not go any closer,” Conor said.

It was a potential crime scene, so he took photos with his iPhone and called his office to ask for the Major Crime Squad van to be dispatched. While waiting for the forensics team to arrive, Conor took Staver’s and Dufour’s statements.

They sat in the clubhouse on leather chairs beside a large fieldstone fireplace. One entire wall was covered with antlers with brass plates identifying the species and the member who’d bagged it. There were several vintage black-and-white photos of men in tuxedos, a sepia-toned close-up of a Model T Ford, and two out-of-focus shots of what appeared to be the same car on a snowy road and in front of a massive Gothic stone building.

“Whose car is that?” Conor asked, leaning closer.

“One of the founders,” Staver said. “Zebediah Coffin. This land belonged to his family—that picture in the snow was taken here, on the road to the club. Back then they farmed the property.”

“Well, they didn’t,” Dufour said. “The Coffins hired some poor slobs to milk the cows. They lived in that place.” He pointed at the photo of the stone building.

“Nearby?” Conor asked.

“Down on the water,” Staver said. “Same name as this place—the rich ones have to name all their property. The oldest Coffin brother still owns it.”

“He and his wife stay there when they’re not at their other places,” Dufour said. “San Francisco, Saint Bart’s, Colorado. When they’re not home, the caretakers look after the house. We got plenty of founders’ heirs here. Should be thankful to them, right? Having the foresight to start this club?”

Another wall contained trout and bass mounted on wooden plaques. There were several framed slogans, incongruously embroidered with silk thread, including IF YOU’RE NOT SHOOTING, YOU SHOULD BE LOADING; I’D RATHER BE JUDGED BY 12 THAN CARRIED BY 6; IF YOU CARRY A GUN PEOPLE CALL YOU PARANOID; NONSENSE! IF YOU CARRY A GUN WHAT DO YOU HAVE TO BE PARANOID ABOUT?

Conor stared at the signs. He had seen similar sayings before, most recently on the study wall in the home of a family where the six-year-old son had found the loaded pistol in his father’s desk drawer and blown a hole through the chest of his three-year-old sister while playing hide-and-seek.

“Second Amendment,” Staver said, following Conor’s gaze. “Gun wisdom. Those were made by one of our female members.”

“Guns don’t kill people,” Dufour said. “People kill people.”

And six-year-olds kill three-year-olds, Conor thought.

“Can you narrow down the date you first saw that hole in the ground?” Conor asked.

“Let me check,” Staver said, scrolling through the calendar on his phone. “It was a weekend. I remember Jimmy and I were checking the cottontail dens, and I had to make it quick because it was my turn with the kids, but my ex was jerking me around, saying I couldn’t get them till five because of a birthday party. But I can’t remember whose birthday. One of their cousins, I think.”

“That’s right,” Dufour said. “You were pissed.”

“Got it,” Staver said, looking up. “April fifth.”

“Okay,” Conor said, writing it down. “And when did that group of lawyers come here?”

“That we’d have to check with Al on—he’s our membership officer, and he takes care of renting the place out now and then. But he’s not in today,” Staver said. “And they weren’t just lawyers. Businessmen, too, and whatnot. White-collar types.”

“Can you get Al’s number for me?” Conor asked.

“Got it right here,” Staver said and read it off.

“You mentioned Black Hall. That’s where they were from?”

“Somewhere around there,” Dufour said. “That’s how Stavie and me put it together with the Chase woman.”

“What was the name of that club?”

“Jeez, that escapes me,” Staver said. “Wasn’t one I’d ever heard of, but it had a ring to it. I liked it, I remember that.”