Murder on the Bluffs, page 9
Wulu butted my leg with his head. “Good idea, my friend,” I said. I rose and clipped his leash to his collar. I laced up my sneakers, donned a sweater, and headed out in the direction of the cemetery.
It was only a few blocks to the graveyard that had been the original town burial site. Wulu and I wandered through gravestones carved beginning in the mid-1600s. I bent down to examine a thin, dark gray stone with the skull head of an angel of death watching over the remains. The letters in the slate were barely legible in the dusk, but I thought I made out the inscription:
Here Lyes Buried the Body of Mr. Jebediah Winslow
Aged 51 years
Departed This Life 23, May 1796
The stone next to Jebediah’s bore a slightly fresher carving about Mrs. Patience Winslow, wife of Jebediah, who had not departed until 1832.
I pulled Wulu close. I perched on a stone bench across from Jebediah’s grave. What a period to have lived through. Born in 1745, Jebediah saw the creation of a new country. Maybe he’d enlisted in the Ashford Minutemen who had marched to join the Battle of Lexington and Concord. Perhaps he had ultimately died as a result of some injury suffered in the Siege of Boston or at the Battle of White Plains. What about Patience? Had she stoked the fire in the wide colonial fireplace while he was gone? She’d surely have tended a vegetable garden or taken in mending to feed their children.
Fifty-one. That had to be about Charles Heard’s age. It had been five days since his murder. A killer likely still roamed the town. How long would it take before the police made an arrest? It seemed to me that finding the motive for the killing must be key. The only murder I’d been involved with had had money and drugs at its root. I didn’t know of any drug connection with Charles Heard, but money? Highly possible.
He was a Trustee and a businessman. He’d had conflicts over the disposition of the Bluffs rental income. He hadn’t been a very pleasant insurance agent, at least in my experience. Who else might he have crossed? Mary didn’t seem overly upset about his death. She’d said she’d had disagreements with him, arguments perhaps about money or property. But kill her own brother? Yikes.
Maybe Iris knew something about his personal finances or even his personal life. Nobody had mentioned a grieving widow or children. Mary had said he hadn’t stayed married long so an ex-wife was somewhere. A weeping bereft girlfriend could be somewhere in town.
I heard the crack of a branch to my left and whipped my head in that direction. Dark had approached while I’d imagined Jebediah’s life. Who was out there? I stood, feeling in my pocket for my phone. I swore. It was at home. Exactly the thing I’d promised myself never to do again, go out without a phone.
Shapes moved in the gloaming at the other end of the graveyard. Wulu yipped.
“Shh, Wulu,” I whispered, my heart thudding. I made my way as fast as I could toward the path that led back to High Street and the safety of its streetlight, pulling Wulu on his leash. He strained in the direction of the shapes. “Come on,” I urged, still whispering.
A hoarse laugh came from one of the shapes, and then a high giggle. I glanced over. Two red spots pierced the dark. I blew a breath out. It was only teenagers having a smoke.
Despite danger being transformed into innocence, relief washed over me when I trod on the sidewalk again. “Time to be at home behind a locked door, Wu,” I said as we picked our way over pavement buckled from the roots of decades-old trees.
Wulu barked his agreement.
• • •
As I ran along the salt marshes the next morning, I still felt scrambled by what my mother had told me, like a giant hand had shaken the little snow globe that was my life and rearranged everything. Daddy hadn’t disappeared. He was gay. The only constant was the accident. But even that seemed murkier than it had. And then the voices in the churchyard, followed by the altercation between James Wojinski and Vincent Waters after Charles Heard’s service. What had happened to my peaceful summer vacation?
I finished my morning run by stretching my calves at the steps to my condo. Yesterday’s rain had blown out to sea. The town’s Memorial Day parade and town picnic would have clear skies and probably a heavy dose of sunburned faces by day’s end. But all I could think about was the past.
I shook my head. I had to move on with my day. I’d lost enough sleep over an event almost two decades ago that I couldn’t change. I’d asked for the truth and received it. I resolved to start coffee, shower, and work on the paper I needed to write.
Several hours later, through the open window I heard the thumps of drums and the high strains of flutes. The parade. I’d become so involved in Japanese phonology that I’d forgotten about one of the highlights of living in a small New England town.
I grabbed my Red Sox hat, stuffed money and ID in my pocket, clipped Wulu’s leash on, and ran with him down the hill to High Street. We joined a crowd of residents who watched from the narrow sidewalk. An elderly woman sat in a lawn chair gripping the handle of a tiny American flag. A boy with tousled blond hair looked on from his father’s shoulders.
I made it in time to catch the start. The veterans’ honor guard led the way, a uniformed man holding on with both hands to the staff of a large flag holstered at his waist, accompanied by a group of male veterans of all ages. One tapped a cane as he held another man’s elbow. The five selectmen marched next, two of whom were women looking sharp in white slacks and navy blazers. Walter Colby was part of the group. I had forgotten he was a selectman as well as a Trustee.
The next group was female veterans. I shook my head. Still second-class citizens in this day and age? I knew the young women currently serving in the armed forces underwent as much danger and trauma as the men. A group of Ashford police officers marched by. Even Chief Flaherty wore a uniform. Right as he passed me, his eyes veered onto mine. Was that a scowl? I gave him a little wave and smiled.
Which reminded me that I still hadn’t given him the lighter. I promised myself to do it the next day. I checked on Wulu, who sat alert and panting, excited by the music and the crowd.
When I looked up again, I stared. This had to be the oddest section of the parade. About a dozen middle-aged men walked along, waving and smiling. Wearing aprons. Stiff-looking half aprons. The men’s cooking club? It had to be something else. But what? The banner in the front of the group had already passed by. I’d have to ask Iris.
I tapped my foot as the slightly ragtag high school band marched by in white shirts—some tucked in, some not—and black pants. The young musicians were mostly in tune on the Marine anthem and marched somewhat in unison. I had played the clarinet in my high school marching band, which won awards for its music and its precision. Awards this ensemble was unlikely to qualify for. Still, military music always plucked a fond, if ironic, chord in my pacifist heart.
The procession lasted another ten minutes. There were vintage convertibles with flags and a motley troop of boys in khaki Scout shirts followed by smaller Scouts in blue. After them, taking as example the placement of the veterans, no doubt, walked the Brownies and the Girl Scouts.
Finally, fire engines brought up the rear, sirens a roar. I pushed an index finger into my right ear to protect my hearing and drew Wulu in closer with the other hand. What looked like every resident who had been watching farther up the road now took up the rear as if following the Pied Firefighter. Strollers, bicycles, kids on skateboards. Everybody headed to the field in front of Town Hall for the ceremony and the picnic.
I looked more closely at the skateboarders. “Hey, Joey!”
He hitched up his pants with one hand and waved the other without losing his balance. “Hi, Dr. Roo,” he called.
“See you down there,” I replied. Iris had said she’d save me a spot on their picnic cloth. Wulu and I joined the crowd strolling down High Street. It had been the original road of the town back in its inception. Many of the homes now proudly displayed plaques declaring the name of the first owner and date of construction. The Josiah Lord House, 1658. The Old Manse, 1727. The Whitehorse Inn, circa 1658. A wide restored building at the corner of North Main was the Day-Dodge House, 1737.
I liked to picture residents of that era walking down the road or riding on a horse or in a wagon. The route would have been narrower, without pavement, without power wires, without even glass in the windows at that time. Woodsmoke would have wafted from every chimney. Every yard would have had its kitchen garden and a shed for the owner’s cow and horse.
The modern-day walkers turned onto County Road. Two blocks down at the corner where it intersected Green Street, I spied a tall man on the sidewalk. He seemed to be arguing with someone. I pulled Wulu to that side of the road. The man’s short dark hair looked like Dan Talbot’s. As I grew closer, I saw that it was Dan. He looked down at Bobby Spirokis and shook his head. The fire engines still blared right ahead. I couldn’t make out what the two were saying. I started to wonder how they knew each other, then gave up, a small town being synonymous with familiarity.
As I watched, Bobby pushed Dan. Bad move. In an instant Dan had Bobby neatly on the ground with his arm twisted at an unnatural angle.
Bobby’s face was red and it looked like he swore in Dan’s face. Dan leaned in close to him and said something.
The parade followers nearest to that side of the road stopped. I tried to move closer but couldn’t weave through the thick crowd. I stood on my tiptoes. What was Dan doing to Bobby? Two men from the street approached the two on the corner. As fast as Dan had wrestled Bobby to the ground, he now had him up and standing. He kept hold of Bobby’s arm. At the same moment, the sirens fell quiet.
“It’s simply a disagreement, gentlemen. Not to worry. Right, Bobby?” Dan’s face was somber, but his voice was calm. He seemed to tug a bit on Bobby’s arm.
“Right. Yeah. No problem.” Bobby waved the men away. He glared as he wrenched his arm out of Dan’s grasp. I guessed that happened only because Dan let it.
By the time the crowd swept me along with it to the corner, Dan and Bobby had disappeared. What kind of bad blood did those two have? Bobby didn’t seem to get along with many people. That evening at the Holt Estate, he had acted strangely. It seemed like yesterday and a lifetime ago. It had been six days.
Still, the sun shone. I surveyed the people around me. Children waved small flags and ate candy. Residents of the Green Street nursing home sat in chairs and wheelchairs along the side of the road. Some wore red-white-and-blue sun hats and watched the procession, others slumped in oblivion. None of these people were concerned about a body discovered above the beach.
It was only another block to the field in front of Town Hall, a broad three-story brick building next to the Ashford River. As I approached, I heard a band of a different kind amplified through loudspeakers. This was no martial marching music, but rather an Eagles tune my parents used to dance to. Oldies rock for all generations.
The town picnic was under way. An irresistible aroma of grilled hot dogs and burgers wafted by. The band music mixed with children’s gleeful screams and the mumble of hundreds of people chatting, arranging blankets, throwing footballs, and probably discussing town politics.
I caught sight of the Tapmobile, an antique red truck fitted out with taps from the Ashford Brewery. A line of adults waited to buy tickets for tall plastic cups of draft ale.
I scanned the crowd for Iris. Coming up empty, I joined the beer line. Wulu barked as a deep voice spoke close to my ear.
“Don’t forget we have class in a few hours, Dr. Rousseau.”
I whirled as Dan Talbot straightened, hands in pockets, a crooked smile on his face. “Sensei! You startled me.”
“A good karateka isn’t startled. Always stay aware of your surroundings.”
“That’s good advice, actually.” I shifted my gaze to the red truck ahead. “Anyway, one beer will be out of my system before class.” I knew my thirst wasn’t simply physical. When I looked deep inside, I realized I probably drank too much. I should probably figure out why my thirst was great. I knew Quakers traditionally frowned on the consumption of alcohol because it muddled the clearness of life they strove for. I tried not to look deep inside too often.
“Hey, I’m in line, too.” His tone was light. “Beautiful day for a picnic, isn’t it?” Dan swept his arm out, as if gesturing to the world. His face was a mask of contentment, but his alert eyes moved over the crowd like a proctor’s.
I looked up at Dan. “I saw you wrestle Bobby Spirokis to the ground. What was that about?”
Dan didn’t meet my eyes. “Only a disagreement. He’s not happy about the clam flats at the Bluffs. And doesn’t really know how to play nice.” He stood with arms folded. He no longer smiled. “Don’t worry about it.”
I didn’t feel worried. Curious, definitely. I didn’t think I’d accomplish anything trying to find out the real story, though.
The line inched forward. I realized it had been a mistake to bring Wulu. The field was filled with way too much activity for a small dog on a leash. Wulu strained this way and that, his eyes on a Frisbee sailing overhead, then on a sweaty Cub Scout who tore across their line in pursuit of another boy.
“I have to take this guy home,” I said to Dan, pointing at Wulu. “I don’t live far, and I run.” I dug a five-dollar bill out of my pocket and proffered it. “Get me an IPA? I’ll be back in five minutes.”
Dan nodded, accepting the money. “Meet you over at the edge by the Riverwalk.” He pointed across the field to where the grass met a row of trees.
“Thanks. I’m supposed to eat with a friend. We can find her together. Come on, Wulu.” I eased out of the line and through the crowd until we reached the street. I ran with Wulu the few blocks to my condo, made sure he had food and water, then locked the door and ran back in the heat. That beer was going to hit the spot.
Dan was exactly where he’d promised, two tall plastic glasses full of ale in his hands. As we headed in search of Iris, he halted. Walter Colby strode toward us.
“Dan, I need to talk to you.” The banker’s voice was low and urgent.
Dan shook his head. “No, you don’t.”
I looked from one to the other. Dan’s eyes were icy. Walter’s pleaded.
“After our last meeting—” Walter began.
“We don’t need to talk. Come on, Lauren.” Dan gestured to me and turned his back on Walter. He strode in the opposite direction without waiting for me.
“Is this a Trustees issue?” I looked at Walter Colby.
Walter stared at Dan’s back, then turned and left as if I hadn’t spoken.
Did the Trustees not agree with anyone, including each other? I wandered through the crowd until I spied Iris, who waved and patted the empty space on the Indian bedspread she’d spread on the grass. The middle of the cloth held a half dozen containers of food as well as several plates of items from the grill.
Dan appeared a moment later. “I try to avoid people with negative energy,” he murmured in my ear.
I started to introduce him to Iris and Joey.
Iris put up her hand. “I know Dan Talbot. How are ya, Danny?”
Dan appeared to wince at the nickname but said, “Good. You, Iris?”
We chatted in between bites of grilled sausage and Iris’s special potato salad. Joey seemed impressed with Dan’s karate credentials before he sauntered away to hang with his friends.
Iris mentioned a couple of mutual friends and inquired about the karate studio. Then she said, “And aren’t you a Trustee, Dan?”
“Yes, I am.”
Had Iris read my mind? I had been dying to ask Dan about the Bluffs. But surely Iris had already known that Dan was a Trustee?
“Do you mind telling me how you get to be part of that group?” Iris’s alert eyes did nothing to disguise her curiosity.
Dan shrugged. “I’m not really supposed to talk about it.”
“I saw your picture on the Web with the rest of them,” I chimed in. “Aren’t you a little, you know, young for that?”
“I guess.” Dan surveyed the assembled residents. Some lingered over lunch, others danced in front of the band. Children ran everywhere, and two teens tried skateboard maneuvers on the concrete steps to Town Hall before a police officer waved them away. Dan looked back at Iris and me with a somber face. His dark eyebrows nearly met in the middle.
“You must not have heard. My father moved to San Francisco some years ago.” He frowned, as if concentrating on the memory. One hand picked at a spot on the back of the other. “The rest of the Trustees asked me to carry on.” He spread his hands. “I was pretty young, but they wanted the continuity, I guess.”
“Why did he move?” Iris asked with innocent perkiness.
I stared at my friend. What did she know that she wanted confirmed?
“Tired of the winters, I suppose. I haven’t really seen him since then.”
“And now you have to pick a new Trustee. ’Cause Charlie’s dead. Hey, maybe you saw the killer,” Iris said. “My girlfriend said she saw you heading onto Holt Beach the afternoon of the murder.”
“Your friend needs to get her eyes checked. I wasn’t anywhere near there that day.” An incoming Frisbee headed for Dan’s head. Staying seated, he scooped it out of the air and airmailed it back to its teen sender in one fluid motion.
Iris shrugged. “Yeah, she must have been mistaken.”
“So, how’s the bakery business?” Dan asked. “I hear your new cinnamon rolls are to die for.”
Chapter Eight
I pulled my karate gi off a stack of clean laundry. I’d grabbed a twenty-minute catnap after I walked home from the picnic.
I glanced at the clock on the wall. Speaking of karate, I was almost late. I donned a turquoise tank top and tied the loose pants snugly around my waist. I folded the gi top and my belt into a bag.
