LeGarde Mysteries Box Set, page 83
part #1 of LeGarde Mystery Series
Scores of pickup trucks and cars jammed both sides of the road, stretching in two long snaking lines. A dozen men in hardhats and a few in suits gathered at the entrance of the chained gate with shovels in their hands, their backs pushed against the sturdy metal chains.
Heavy equipment vehicles rested at the edge of the woods, ready to dig in a week. I imagined the smoke billowing from their tailpipes when they roared to life, digging into the sacred ground that held the ancestral remains of Native Americans. I didn’t blame the protestors, although I completely understood the importance of private property rights. The situation presented a tough dilemma, one that I imagined would be cause for controversy for many years to come.
Hundreds of demonstrators blocked the roadside, pumping signboards and chanting. From the words on the signs and tee shirts they sported, the group seemed to be a mix of Green Peace and Native American protestors.
A firearm discharged when Joe’s patrol car skidded past the entrance gate. The crowd blurred and panicked, hunkering down and pointing. Heads swiveled; apparently searching for the shooter. Joe swerved to a slanted stop in the only clear spot—a steep hillside—and barked into his radio. “Russell here. Shot fired.” He paused for a second. “Right. I see them coming over the hill.”
Police lights flashed from the direction of Conaroga village. Five squad cars careened toward us, sirens screaming. Joe hurried out of his seatbelt and flung open the door. Checking the gun on his hip, he turned to me. “Stay put.”
I nodded. Adam Knapp pulled up beside us, waved some hand signals at Joe, and then sprinted toward the gate. Joe and three officers followed, guns drawn with muzzles pointing skyward. Another shot rang out. In the next minute, a second slug of cars from the County Sheriff’s department pulled up, blocking the road from the north.
I watched the panic-stricken scene in what felt like slow motion. The crowd swelled one way, then another. Screams filled the air. Frightened faces passed the squad car where I sat, feeling useless. Someone must have called an ambulance as a precaution well before the shots rang out, because in seconds a red and white vehicle screeched to a stop only twenty feet away from me. I watched the action, wishing I could help. But I had no weapon, and certainly no authority.
Another shot erupted within the mob, and a frenzied wave rippled toward the edges, where people started to race for safety. Men, women, teens, and a few children scrambled away from the front gate, streaming past me with terror-stricken faces. I started to open my door to offer sanctuary to them, but I couldn’t push it open against the hillside where it was jammed shut. I slid down to Joe’s door, but before I could get it open, the faces disappeared.
Paramedics rushed into the throng with a gurney; jostling it deep into the mob. Another ambulance arrived and its crew followed the first. I sat and waited as the crowd spread out. Faces passed me, streaked with tears. Images of the Columbine High School shooting raced across my mind’s eye. Three shots had barked into the warm summer morning.
Where had they come from? Had anyone been hit?
Before long, I had my answer. Both stretchers returned with a sheriff’s deputy strapped to one gurney and a woman on the other.
Several die-hard protestors, now angered beyond reason, dropped their placards and surged toward the workmen in hardhats who queued near the gate. One man in a suit grabbed a shovel and threatened the approaching protestors. A shoving and shouting contest followed, the shovel flew in the air, and dust rose from the noisy scuffle.
Another wave of angry young men headed toward Joe’s cruiser, where I sat. Five of the teens followed a leader, seeming to hang on his every word and waiting for his direction. Images of high school washed through my mind.
There he was. The big bully and his crowd of sycophants.
Those bastards had always seemed to appear in our lives, particularly to torment poor Siegfried with their harsh words and taunting. I bristled as they approached the edge of the crowd, pointing back into the melée. I rolled down Joe’s window to hear what they were saying.
The gawky young leader wore his spiky hair dyed pure white laced with green streaks. He pointed at Joe, whose beefy face appeared at the edge of the crowd. “Anna Foxtree was shot! That cop did it. The pig shot her.”
My heart flip-flopped in my chest when I realized they were blaming Joe for the gunfire. It was insane. The shots certainly hadn’t come from Joe’s gun. I rolled up my window when they approached the cruiser with red-faced fury.
Spiky hair, wearing a new Green Peace tee shirt, planted his hands against my window, screaming “Kill the fuzz!” Three silver studs pierced his eyebrow and a thick plug glistened from one ear. I started to open the door to get out and try to calm them—possibly one of my stupidest instincts yet—but his band of wild-eyed friends joined him, slamming into my door and rocking the car.
I tried again to open the door to stop the hooligans, but when I reached for the handle, the car began to pitch. Fearing the worst, I buckled my seatbelt and yanked it tight.
“Pigs!”
I grabbed the armrest. “What the hell—”
They rocked it again, this time more violently. One more time, and the car lurched and rolled over. I grabbed the steering wheel and the side of my seat. Dirt and sky tumbled over until the car landed upside down on its roof. I dangled there, suspended by the belt digging into my hips. A thunderous cheer arose from the teens who spit and screamed at the windows.
“Dirty cops!”
Bracing myself, I released the buckle and landed in a heap on the ceiling. The dome of the courtesy light mashed my cheek. I tried the door handle, impatient to get out and yell at the little bastards.
Jammed. I kicked at it. A wave of claustrophobia threatened.
Joe and Adam loped down the hill, waving their arms and yelling. The boys scattered, not so brave now. The door on the upside of the hill opened, and Joe’s head poked in.
“You okay?” he asked. His breath came in ragged gasps. A film of sweat coated his forehead. He reached an arm toward me and helped me out. I straightened slowly, rubbing the throbbing lump on the back of my head.
“You okay?” he repeated.
“Yeah,” I hedged. A wave of dizziness hit me. “I’m fine. Should have seen that coming, I guess.”
He seemed to catch his breath and leaned heavily against the upturned vehicle. He scanned the crowd. “They’re really riled up.”
“I know.” I swiped at my sweaty temples with my sleeve. “They said the woman was shot by a cop. You.”
“That’s crazy. Far as we can tell, both shots came from up on the hill. From the woods. One hit Deputy Hunter and the other hit this Native American woman, Anna Foxtree. Hunter was luckier than Foxtree, though. She’s in rough shape.”
We both watched the ambulances scream away from the scene, heading north toward Rochester.
Joe looked back at the crowd. Someone had started a bonfire with the wood from the sandwich boards. Flames leapt high in the air, scattering embers to the dry weeds in the ditches by the road.
“Shit.” He motioned to Adam, who ran toward the blaze.
“Well, then, if you’re okay…”
“Go. I’ll walk back to Oscar’s. He’ll give me a lift home. Don’t worry about it. Better get over there before someone else gets hurt or they set the whole area on fire.”
He waved a hand back over his shoulder and jogged toward the crowd. I straightened my shoulders and began the two-mile trek to the Stones’ house.
Chapter 15
I followed a dusty trail on the side of the road, heading south toward Oscar and Millie’s place. The sun beat hot on my head and back. Weaving around lines of parked cars by the wooded hillside, I noticed some gaps, indicating some of the protestors had already abandoned their cause.
Maybe they were the kids that flipped the car. Getting the hell out of Dodge.
And rightly so, if they were caught they’d be charged with something. Vandalism? Destruction of property? Knocking a music professor onto his head? Whatever it was, they’d deserve it.
I felt my temper rise with the temperature.
Little pricks. How dare they?
It had climbed at least ten degrees in the past hour, making the walk unbearable. I plucked at my sticky shirt, wishing I’d stayed at the Stones instead of jumping in the squad car with Joe.
What was I thinking? I should’ve known I’d be in the way when the cops tried to quiet the demonstrators.
I trudged under the searing sun and was startled when a blue heron burst into the air from the scrub brush on the side of the road. I followed his trajectory eastward, shielding my eyes from the glare. He passed close overhead, his gray blue feathers clearly visible with long legs tucked neatly beneath his body. The bird shot up the hill and disappeared behind the tree line.
A flash of metal glinted behind a thicket of woods near the bird’s landing spot. Although I couldn’t see anything, I sensed a ripple of dissonance that occurs in a forest when a stranger trespasses. The birds screeched and a frightened deer bolted across the road.
Someone’s up there.
I walked a bit farther, but stopped when I heard a car door slam and an engine start up. A mushrooming dust cloud rose from the trees, accompanied by the sound of crunching gravel. Someone was driving down the side of the hill. Toward me. I’d nearly reached the dirt road turnoff when a warning exploded in my head.
It’s the shooter.
I stepped into the bushes, ducking to avoid being seen. I felt foolish, but realized if the gunshots had come from this particular hillside, the owner of the weapon would not welcome me witnessing his escape. I crouched beside a thorny wild rose bush. Perspiration dripped from my forehead and ran down my neck; a lump on my head throbbed like hell. My wet tee shirt plastered against me, and my pulse quickened while I waited for the vehicle to emerge.
Nearby, a bumblebee nosed into a clump of orange daylilies. My back groaned and my thighs ached from the awkward position.
Where the hell is he?
The sound of crunching gravel stopped. I wondered if there was another turnoff on the hill and was about to stand when the sound of a roaring engine erupted nearby. A dark panel van barreled onto the main road, its license plate splattered with mud. I wondered how the driver found mud in this dusty environment, and then realized he must’ve found a live creek. Peering through the rose bush, it occurred to me that the van resembled the one parked at the supermarket when I went for the Baby Tylenol. Both had big dents in the rear bumper.
Could it be the same one?
And if so, why do I care, and why the hell am I crouching here like an idiot? Maybe that guy was just lost up there, or taking photos, or having a picnic.
I memorized the make and color and emerged from my hiding place, rubbing new scratches on my legs.
No. The more I thought about it, the more certain I was that the shots had come from the hillside.
I thought about hiking back to the demonstration site to tell Joe what I’d seen, when the same blue heron fluttered from the woods and crossed back over the road. The childlike sector of my brain wondered if it had been a sign.
A sign to pay attention? To beware?
I stopped and looked at the cobalt sky. The clouds stretched in tendrils, pointing ghostly cotton fingers toward the valley.
Is Elsbeth up there? Watching out for me? Warning me not to be seen by the shooters?
I shrugged my shoulders and shook my head. I’m losing it.
I continued to Oscar’s, knowing full well I’d have to call Joe with the new information. No use trying to get his attention in the middle of the fracas that was probably still going on up the road. With that settled, I squared my shoulders and began the hot walk down the hill.
Chapter 16
The next morning at the crack of dawn I sat across the kitchen table from Camille. We’d both tumbled out of bed early and hadn’t showered or changed yet. I yawned, still tired from the long conversation I’d had with Joe the night before that had kept me up until midnight. He’d been stuck at the demonstration site for most of the day, and had rolled into his yard around ten. We’d discussed the panel van and its possible link to the shooting, and he’d taken down the particulars I remembered.
My wife switched on the little television we kept on the kitchen counter. “Let’s see if there’s anything on TV about last night.” She came back to my side and gently touched the lump on my head.
I pulled back. “Ouch.”
“I think you should have it looked at, honey. You might have a concussion or something.”
Laughing, I smiled and pulled her toward me. “I don’t have a concussion. It’s just a bump.” I kissed her lips softly, but was distracted when the old set warmed up and the news came on.
Glenda Mitchell, a local news correspondent, adopted a serious expression, but her voice and eyes were infused with a sense of poorly disguised relish. “Vandalism was reported last night at the historic Civil War cemetery in East Goodland, New York.”
We both watched the screen, drawing closer to the television. It wasn’t often our little town headlined the Channel 13 news. Glenda continued, her heavily made up face rigid under a forced grim expression.
“General Lee Silver’s grave was desecrated by robbers, who stripped the skeleton of its uniform and sword. It is believed that a recent upturn in the value of Civil War collectibles has prompted this heinous new twist on treasure hunting.”
The camera swung to a cemetery shot and then back to Glenda.
“On another topic, the demonstrators at Upstate Rock Salt, also in East Goodland, have resumed their protests. Hundreds of people gathered yesterday, interrupting the ground breaking ceremonies near the Indian burial grounds.”
A film clip followed where the camera panned the surging crowd, who pumped their slogan placards at the lens. I spotted the same group of kids who’d tipped the cruiser and winced, gingerly touching the lump on my head.
“Authorities are anticipating another day of clashing forces today.” The Channel 13 newscaster shook her head with disapproval and shifted gears seamlessly. Her expression transformed to an idiotic grin.
“And now, let’s take a look at some of the local Independence Eve Celebrations. Last night’s fireworks at the High Falls Light Show were spectacular, as you can see from this clip.”
Fireworks filled the screen, bursting green, pink, and white against shafts of light that played on the cliff walls of the Genesee River in downtown Rochester. The camera moved back to her face, which darkened and became somber. “A young boy was hurt in a backyard fireworks display. The eleven-year-old is in Rochester Memorial Hospital in guarded condition.”
The picture-in-picture video of a boy being wheeled into the emergency room was quickly replaced by a live shot of the New York State Thruway entrance in Henrietta.
“And the roads are packed with travelers, so be careful out there. As for me…” she turned and flashed an engaging smile at her cookie-cutter co-host, “I’m going to our annual family picnic.”
“She’s such a dimwit,” I said.
Camille tittered. “That’s one way to describe her.”
I reached over and turned down the volume. Camille refilled our coffee cups and sat across from me. Her hair hung in loose curls about her peaches-and-cream cheeks, disheveled and pretty. I’d come to adore my wife’s early morning expressions. A sweet sense of innocence played about her face.
“Better get started. We’ve got lots to do.” I got up, opened the fridge, and grabbed a plastic bag of green beans I’d picked the day before. I had plenty of work to do before our July Fourth feast. I started snapping beans, tossing the ends into one bowl and the beans into another. After a few minutes of quiet, I rinsed the pile under cool water at the sink.
“Sweetie?” Camille reached around me to grab a bean. She chewed on it with a thoughtful expression. “Where is that Civil War cemetery?”
I dumped the beans into a steamer basket and turned on the burner. “We pass it when we ride the old tow path.” I glanced at her over my shoulder. “Not far from Livingston Road. You know that little wrought iron fence that’s sort of falling down?”
“I think so.”
“Dates all the way back to the early 1800s. Matter of fact, the doctor who built this house in 1811 is buried there. Dr. David Hill.”
“Was Dr. Hill married? Did he have any children?”
“I honestly can’t remember. But my father’s album is in the cabinet by the piano. There’s lots of info about the house and its history, if you want to check it out.”
She wiped a bit of spilled coffee from the kitchen table, balled up the napkin, and tossed it into the garbage can like a pro basketball player. “Yes!” With a proud grin, she turned on her heel and slipped into the great room.
I heard rummaging. Doors closing and opening. “Can you find it?”
She answered by returning to the kitchen, waving the folder in the air. “Got it.”
I grabbed the balsamic glaze from the cabinet and started to chop some fresh dill. I planned to marinate the green beans for a few hours so they’d be tangy and tart by the time our guests arrived.
Camille sat down with my father’s folder and grabbed my cheapo drugstore glasses from the ceramic jug on the counter. She started to read. “Dr. David Hill, born in 1790 in Boston, Massachusetts. Moved to East Goodland in 1811, built this house over the winter of 1811/1812. Wife, Mary Bennett Hill,” she looked up and smiled. “Succeeded by two sons, Emmett and Lucas.”
Camille flipped through the pages, captivated by the old news clippings and photocopies of deeds. “Hey, there’s a mention of the East Goodland Methodist Church in here. Mary and David were married there, just like us.”
