Common Disaster

By Geoffrey A. Feller

Natalie Dvorak #13:

Sergeant Natalie Dvorak of the Vermont State Police is the investigating officer at the scene of a traffic fatality. It is an unpleasant yet routine duty and the person killed at the scene of the accident was a prominent citizen. The man’s wife has survived but is in critical condition. The accident itself is an easily closed case but the victims’ family gathers for a vigil around the injured woman. Control of a big company and a life insurance payout are at stake. When a second death occurs the cause is unnatural but who committed murder? There are several people with a motive but the instrument of death is not a handy, household item. Natalie and her partners on the detective squad find rivalries among the survivors, anger and resentment, power struggles and mutual suspicions. Meanwhile, the police have to deal with public outrage against one of their own, something that threatens to distract Natalie from her murder investigation.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Geoffrey A. Feller
• Release date: Jul 10, 2021
• ISBN: 9781005457877

Geoffrey A. Feller

I was born fifty-seven years ago in the Bible belt but grew up in a Massachusetts college town. I am married and my wife and I have moved frequently since we met. We've lived in Minnesota, Massachusetts, and New Mexico, as well as a brief residency in Berlin, Germany. I have worked peripherally in health care, banking, and insurance. In addition to writing, I have done a bit of amateur acting and comedy performances. I am afraid of heights but public speaking doesn't scare me. My wife and I live in Albuquerque with our chihuahua.

Book preview

COMMON

DISASTER

by Geoffrey A. Feller

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2021 by Geoffrey A. Feller

CHAPTER ONE:

THE DAMAGE DONE

Natalie Dvorak was driving home from work on the first Tuesday in November. It was dark outside but the weather was pleasant for late autumn in Vermont. Natalie was a State Police detective with the rank of sergeant; paperwork at the Rutland barracks had kept her busy at her desk longer than anticipated. Natalie looked at the dashboard clock and reckoned she could still meet up with her husband before it was too late.

She and Dan lived in Holbrook, an hour’s drive northeast from Rutland into the Green Mountains. It was a right hand exit off Highway 7 at Brandon and uphill from there. Natalie’s Chevy Cavalier was only two years old and it conveyed her smoothly along the quiet roadways.

One thing Natalie didn’t want to deal with was another traffic accident. Not after the horrific scene she’d looked over a few hours earlier in her official capacity. It was a much more through observation than a civilian’s gawking would have been.

Natalie and Dan’s house was up on a ridge that overlooked Holbrook Village but it was in the town’s center that she was supposed to meet Dan. He was also working late but for a more pleasant reason than hers.

Dan Mortiz, Natalie’s second husband of three years, was the Town Constable, Holbrook’s only police officer. His office was on the ground floor of the Town Hall, a white, wood framed building across from the little grocery store Dan used to own with his first wife Michelle.

Natalie parked in front of Dan’s office window at 6:55, noticing the front door was propped open. A sandwich board sign on the sidewalk outside the entrance was illuminated by a lamp above the door. It read:

POLLING PLACE

Town of Holbrook

Election Day November 4, 1986

Hours: 10AM-7PM

Dan’s police station was in a small room to the right just inside the hall, across from the Town Clerk’s office. But, as Natalie knew, Dan would be in the meeting room at the back of the building.

Natalie walked briskly down the corridor to the polling place, also used for the annual Town Meeting held in March. This event was Vermont’s democratic tradition, allowing citizens in towns like Holbrook to gather and decide questions like whether to renew their constable’s contract.

"Well, there she is!"

The salutation had come from Scott Benson, Holbrook’s Town Manager. He was nearly seventy years old, tall and gaunt, his white hair accentuated by the slate-black business suit he was wearing.

Benson was standing in front of the voter check-in table where Joyce Lennox, the Town Clerk, and Dan were sitting. Dan was in uniform, a pale blue tunic and black slacks that he only wore on special occasions.

Joyce was in her late thirties, a plump woman with strawberry blond hair and a round face. Dan was a big, broad-shouldered man with some dark hair left on his balding head. Like Natalie, he was in his mid-forties.

I’m not too late, am I?

You’re in the door before seven, Benson said, gesturing to the electric wall clock. Come get your ballot!

Natalie smiled and approached the table. Joyce consulted the voter roll, printed out from an Apple computer. It was one of the innovations Joyce had brought to the Clerk’s office.

Need help spelling Dvorak? Dan quipped.

I’ve got it, Joyce said, lining the edge of a wooden ruler over Natalie’s name and address.

She drew a line across them with a ballpoint pen.

All set, Joyce declared with a grin, handing Natalie a ballot.

Guess I can lock up now, Dan remarked after checking the wall clock. Now that our last voter is here.

He got up and intercepted Natalie, bending down to kiss her lips. Standing alongside Dan, Natalie’s head would be at his shoulder level.

On her way to the voting carrels, Natalie gave Joyce a nod. There had been a time when Natalie worried about the younger woman working so close to her husband. Joyce was outgoing, with Southern charm carried over from her Kentucky childhood. By contrast, Natalie had an experienced detective’s cynicism and a compactly muscular body instead of Joyce’s womanly curves. Moreover, since Natalie had stolen Dan from Michelle, it seemed possible that some other woman might try the same thing.

But now, almost a year after arriving in Holbrook, Joyce was otherwise involved. And Natalie liked Joyce better than Michelle.

With a black pencil, Natalie marked her ballot. As usual, she voted for Republican candidates whether or not they had a chance to win the election. By the time Natalie had finished, folding the ballot for deposit, Dan had returned from closing the hall entrance.

Benson stood behind the ballot box, a varnished oak antique with the words TOWN OF HOLBROOK stenciled on the front. Natalie inserted her ballot into a slot on the top of the box and Benson turned a metal crank to draw it inside. A counter above the stenciling clicked up from 118 to 119 and a bell clanged. Inside the box, Natalie’s ballot was marked with an ink stamp and fell into a wire basket with the rest of the town’s votes.

How old is this thing? Natalie asked.

It goes back to 1896, Benson replied, smiling at her curiosity.

Was that the first year you voted? Dan asked, putting his arm over Natalie’s shoulders.

Oh, Dan! Joyce scolded.

Not quite, Benson replied with good humor. But my first ballot went right into this box. That was the year I voted Wendell Willkie for President!

Natalie’s brother, the professor, voted for Bernie Sanders today, Dan reported.

He said so? Joyce asked.

The Sanders for Governor bumper sticker on Henry’s car says so, Dan told her. Well, are you two okay counting the votes without a police guard? Natalie had to deal with a bad highway pileup and she’s tired.

We heard, Benson nodded. Any fatalities?

At least one at the scene, Natalie replied. One car rear-ended another and sent it into the backside of a tractor-trailer truck. Couple of drunks were in the car that caused the chain reaction. Unfortunately, the driver of the car they hit was killed; his passenger was in critical condition last I heard. Truck driver’s okay except for the emotional trauma but the two drunks barely have a scratch on ’em.

How awful! Joyce exclaimed.

Drunk drivers, Benson sighed as he shook his head. Ought to lock them up and throw away the key.

You should be a judge, Dan said.

Like most Americans with a casual interest in the outcome of the national election, Natalie and Dan watched the news coverage on their TV at home. Elsewhere, election night parties were going on for those with a more personal stake in the proceedings. Naturally, these gatherings involved the candidates themselves, the candidates’ families and friends, their campaign staff, and the volunteers who’d made phone calls, knocked on doors, and dropped leaflets. Aside from groups directly associated with the campaigns or political parties, other organizations often held their own watch parties.

Among them was Build a Better Vermont, BBVT, an association of commercial and residential builders. Elected officials appointed regulators who set limits on the size and shape of the BBVT membership’s projects. So there was a collective interest among the association in how Natalie and nearly 200,000 other Vermonters had voted that day.

BBVT gathered at the Lakeshore Hotel’s main conference room. The hotel was in the state’s largest city, Burlington—Natalie’s hometown—and overlooked Lake Champlain near Battery Park. The membership was almost completely represented, including Bill Tarrant, a sixty year old man who was one of the leading home builders in the state; Tarrant Homes had been in business since the mid-1950s.

Tarrant was in a somber mood and not because of the election; well before a codfish dinner was served, there was a general understanding in the room that Republicans would be losing ground in Congress. Yet Tarrant’s concern was more personal: an imminent, hostile takeover of Tarrant Homes by one of his business rivals. The man in question was supposed to offer Tarrant the final terms during the BBVT event. So far, this rival hadn’t put in an appearance.

There were a dozen round tables in the room covered with white table cloths. The hotel venue had accommodated wedding receptions and consumer product conventions; high school proms and self-improvement seminars. The BBVT banquet was somewhere in between such examples. There was a podium on a low stage in front of red velvet curtains. A projection screen TV had been set up to the right of the podium. The set was tuned in to the city’s NBC affiliate with the sound off. Tarrant gazed listlessly at John Chancellor, the network’s senior correspondent, who was giving an update on another state’s US Senate contest.

Tarrant’s table companions were less personal friends than industry compatriots. All of them were aware of the scheme hatched by Gene Osterloh to absorb Tarrant Homes. None wanted to mention it. As a matter of fact, Tarrant did have one consolation that he hoped would remain a secret for the time being. Something more than whatever Osterloh would try to pass off as a fair monetary settlement. It was potentially scandalous and Tarrant thought he might make it public once there was nothing more to lose.

Only one person at Tarrant’s table was speaking. Hugh Mennon was a minor player in BBVT. Not for the first time in the same group, Mennon was prattling on about his hope to see the state billboard ban repealed so that his company might build roadside advertising space from St. Albans to Brattleboro and collect fees from hundreds of companies in the retail and hospitality business.

First of all, Tarrant interrupted, you won’t see the ban repealed. Second, even if it was repealed, national companies would swoop right in and knock your little firm out of contention!

Mennon, irked by this rebuttal, spat back at him: You’re the one who’s going out of contention, Bill!

Hello! Hello!

The words coming out of the ceiling-hung speakers had been spoken by the chairman of the organization. He was standing at the podium, adjusting the microphone to his height.

"Hello, folks! My contact at the state Republican headquarters has more complete results than what’s been on Channel 5. Looks like Kunin’s ahead by 15,000 votes right now. Obviously, Sanders is taking more votes from her than he is from Smith. We hoped it would be enough to put Kunin in second place but that’s not happening. As you know,