Characters in The Colorado Kid

At the end of that period, when he was still John Doe and still unclaimed, Abe Carvey went on ahead and embalmed him. He was put into the funeral home’s own crypt at Seaview Cemetery—” “This part’s rather creepy,” Stephanie said.

… “I got a call from a woman named Arla Cogan. She lived in Nederland, a little way up in the mountains from Boulder, and her husband had disappeared in April of the previous year, leaving her and a son who had been six months old at the time of his …

Steffi, Chris Robinson delivered two of my children. My second wife—Arlette, who I married six years after Joanne died—was good friends with the Robinson family, even dated Chris’s brother, Henry, when they were in school together. It was the way Dave says, but it was more than business.”

Devane goes off with those two stupid cops, O’Shanny and Morrison, as soon as Cathcart gives them the preliminary report on the burn victims from the apartment house fire, because they don’t give a heck about some accidental choking victim who died over on Moose-Lookit Island.

Steffi, Chris Robinson delivered two of my children. My second wife—Arlette, who I married six years after Joanne died—was good friends with the Robinson family, even dated Chris’s brother, Henry, when they were in school together. It was the way Dave says, but it was more than business.”

… either Clayton Riggs or Ella Ferguson at least once a year, as if they were going to all at once jump up like Satan in silk britches and say something brand new?” “I don’t know who those people are,” Stephanie said. Vince clapped a hand to the back of his …

David Bowie, The Weekly Islander’s managing editor for just shy of the years Helen Hafner had lived, leaned forward and put his pudgy hand over her young and pretty one. “I know you do,” he said. “Vince does, too.

“We’ve gotten two dozen letters, I guess, and the only bad one was from Mrs. Edina Steen the Downeast Grammar Queen, and she’s completely mad.” “Nuttier than a fruitcake,” Vince agreed. Stephanie smiled, wondering at how rare it was once you graduated from childhood—this feeling of perfect and uncomplicated happiness.

… Riggs or Ella Ferguson at least once a year, as if they were going to all at once jump up like Satan in silk britches and say something brand new?” “I don’t know who those people are,” Stephanie said. Vince clapped a hand to the back of his head. “Ayuh, …

“I thought I’d start with Ellen Dunwoodie snapping off the fire hydrant on Beach Lane when the parking brake on her car let go. Then, once I’m properly warmed up, I thought I’d move on to a rewrite of my library editorial,” Vince said, and cracked his knuckles.

“We asked,” Dave said. “More important, we asked Gard Edwick, who was the ferryman in the spring of ’80.” Did Cogan bring him tea? she suddenly found herself wondering. Because if you want to ride the ferry, you’re supposed to bring tea for the tillerman. You said so yourself, Dave.

“George the Artist, be he Rankin or Franklin, told Arla that Jim had pretty much reached the top end of that which his talent was capable, and he was one of the fortunate people who not only knew his limitations but was content with them.

… the one outside the Public Library, and callin George Wournos, who was the Moose-Look constable in those days (long since gone to his reward, dear— ticker). Nancy had no problem with that, but she wanted Johnny to set ‘the man’ up again first. That’s what she called him: ‘the man.’

… about those stories we told Hanratty at lunch, Steffi— the Lisa Cabot, the Coast Lights, the Wandering Mormons, the Tashmore church poisonings that were never solved—and tell me what they have in common.” “They’re all unsolved.” “Try doin a little better, dearheart,” Dave said. “You disappoint me.” She glanced at …

… an upcoming retirement party for a fellow named Haverty, one of the agency’s founders. The party was scheduled for mid-May, and George the Artist told Arla that her mister seemed excited and looking forward to it. They batted around ideas for a retirement gift until the elevator came, and then …

he asked her. “No... who’s Helen?” “Helen Hafner, she who waited on us.” Vince nodded across the patio where a slightly overweight woman of about forty was picking up dishes.

My second wife—Arlette, who I married six years after Joanne died—was good friends with the Robinson family, even dated Chris’s brother, Henry, when they were in school together. It was the way Dave says, but it was more than business.”

She knew that Moose-Look’s dozen or so high-school-age kids almost always took the seven-thirty ferry, giving the ferryman—either Herbie Gosslin or Marcy Lagasse—their passes so they could be recorded with quick winks of the old laser-gun on the bar codes.

“The diabetes.” “Ouch,” she said. “Ayuh.” “Let Jack n Maisie Harrington go hang,” Vince said impatiently. “I never believed in the Second Airplane Theory when it comes to Cogan any more than I ever believed in the Second Gunman Theory when it came to Kennedy.

“Because it’s the policy of Jack Moody—who happens to own this fine eating establishment, and his father before him, if you care—” “I do,” she said.

… of first the Colorado Kid and then Mr. James Cogan of Nederland, a town just west of Boulder. But the bottom of the pack was facing him, and he saw the stamp on it. It was a stamp, like a postage stamp, and that made him think of the pack …

Steffi, Chris Robinson delivered two of my children. My second wife—Arlette, who I married six years after Joanne died—was good friends with the Robinson family, even dated Chris’s brother, Henry, when they were in school together. It was the way Dave says, but it was more than business.”

For a couple of years they were all but inseparable.” Stephanie sat up straighter in her chair. The John Gravlin she knew was Moose-Lookit Island’s mayor, a gregarious man with a good word for everyone and an eye on the state senate in Augusta.

Helen Hafner grimaced. “Jude fell out of his tree-house and broke his arm last week. Didn’t he holler! Scared me bout to death!” The two old men looked at each other... then laughed. They sobered quickly, looking ashamed, and Vince offered his sympathies, but it wouldn’t do for Helen.

… to worry about, not to mention the little Lester boy going to Boston for a kidney transplant—if he lasts long enough, that is—and of course you need to tell folks about the End-Of-Summer Hayride and Dance out at Gernerd Farms, don’tcha?” “Don’t forget the picnic,” Stephanie murmured. “It’s all the …

The fourth one—a woman named Maisie Harrington lived out there with her father and about sixty mutt dogs, and she claimed that no one flew into their strip from October of 1979 to May of 1980, but she smelled like a distillery, and I had my doubts if she could …

She knew that Moose-Look’s dozen or so high-school-age kids almost always took the seven-thirty ferry, giving the ferryman—either Herbie Gosslin or Marcy Lagasse—their passes so they could be recorded with quick winks of the old laser-gun on the bar codes.

… Nederland, Colorado, married to Arla Cogan, father of Michael Cogan, age six months at the time of his father’s disappearance, age going on two years at the time of his father’s identification.” Vince stood up and stretched with his fisted hands in the small of his back. “What do you …

Didn’t work, though. The other detective—his name was Morrison—said, ‘Who asked you, Irving? Haven’t you got a yard sale to cover, or something?’

“A stuffed string” was what Mrs. Pinder, The Islander’s part-time secretary, called him. Usually with a disdainful sniff. “The Grey Gull’s policy is that the waitresses are responsible for the tabs their tables run up until those tabs are paid,” Vince said.

I then made a call to the Attorney General’s Office and spoke to a fellow name of Murray in a department called Evidence Storage and filing.

“Not holdin hands, but might as well have been; always side by side, Johnny Gravlin and Nancy Arnault. For a couple of years they were all but inseparable.” Stephanie sat up straighter in her chair.

The body had already been zipped away in a bodybag. That didn’t stop one of those detectives—a big, beefy guy named O’Shanny—from giving Devane the rough side of his tongue. ‘What took you so long, we’re freezin our butts off out here,’ on and on, yatta-yatta-yatta.

“Devane. Paul Devane.” “That’s right, I recall it now you say it. This young man, Devane, was assigned to three months of postgraduate field work with a couple of State Police detectives out of the Attorney General’s office. Only in his case, sentenced might be the better word.

No one knows who killed those folks. What is known is that Rhoda Parks, the Tashmore Methodist Church secretary, and William Blakee, the Methodist Church pastor, had a brief affair six months before the poisonings. Blakee was married, and he broke it off. Are you with me?” “Yes,” Stephanie said.

Probably would be messy. Rick would not take the news well, because in Rick’s mind, that wasn’t how the story was supposed to go. “I never read a feature story that wasn’t a lie,” Vince said mildly, “but usually you can make a lie fit on the page.

“That organization would be Sam Gernerd, his wife, their five kids, and their various creditors,” Vince said, and his machine beeped. “I’ve been meaning to tell you, Steff, you’ve done a swell job on that little column of yours.” “Yes, you have,” Dave agreed.

“What are you doing?” Stephanie McCann asked, knowing how much Vince enjoyed shocking what he called “her young bones” (how much they both did, really), but in this instance not able to keep the shock out of her voice. “What does it look like?” Vince looked more satisfied than ever.

“All right, ’27, smarty-britches, and Teodore Riponeaux is still on board, but dead as a hake, and the other five are gone, and even though there’s no sign of blood or a struggle, folks say musta-been pirates, so now there’s stories about how they had a treasure map and found …

Once the Globe writer was gone, Vince Teague reached across the table and removed the bills—two fifties—from beneath the salt shaker. He tucked them into a flap pocket of his old but serviceable tweed jacket with a look of unmistakable satisfaction. “What are you doing?”

No one knows who killed those folks. What is known is that Rhoda Parks, the Tashmore Methodist Church secretary, and William Blakee, the Methodist Church pastor, had a brief affair six months before the poisonings. Blakee was married, and he broke it off. Are you with me?” “Yes,” Stephanie said.