Hide Away, page 9
He’d never known a con woman—make that a hopefully former con woman—before. Definitely none any smarter and more beautiful. He slapped the side of his head at that thought. Focus, bucko.
Adam closed his eyes to recall the GPS map of the area. Whoever drove the car creating the tire tracks that fateful day traveled down the one-way Happy Valley Road. He would have had to turn around a quarter of a mile down from the crime scene in the lone gravel cut-out. Did the murderer simply happen upon it by accident?
Adam had to laugh at the thought of their killer saying, “Well now, this looks like a nice little spot for murder.”
A sudden squawking from above turned his attention to the trees. The source of the earlier sound, no doubt. About a dozen crows perched on the gray branches of a leafless maple like ornaments on a noir Christmas tree. One of the bunch swooped down by his head, making him jump back, starting a cacophony from the crow-ish “choir.” The swooping-crow dropped to the ground and seemed to be interested in something shiny on the ground. Adam shooed the bird away and squatted down to get a better look.
It was a small silver metal circle with a hole in the center. A tiny bit of the circle was missing like the object had broken and fallen off something, but what? It didn’t look antique, but it certainly wasn’t dropped by a fisher or snowshoe hare. He carefully carried the piece to the car to place it in a baggy for safekeeping.
He returned to the site of the find and carefully sifted through the snow to see what else he might turn up. They must have missed this earlier. Wasn’t dropped since then, half-hidden as it was under the old snow.
But after a methodical grid-pattern search, he came up empty. With his luck, the damned crow dropped this and was coming back to retrieve it. Crows were known to be attracted to shiny objects and even carry them off.
He looked over at the swooping-crow who’d hung around watching Adam, making clicking noises as if laughing at his failed efforts. Adam called out to it, “Thanks for nothing, bird.”
Despite the crows and Farmer Wigley’s nearby farm, this was a lonely place. Wallace Ryall’s killer had gagged him before running him through with the sword, but it wouldn’t have mattered. Any screams would get carried away on the wind and be indistinguishable from the ungodly screeching of a fisher cat.
It was difficult for Adam not to feel empathy for a victim’s pain and suffering, but objectivity was critical. Still, the image of Ryall tied up and gagged, watching helplessly as the sword was pulled back before being plunged into his chest, was hard to take.
Adam gave one last glance around before heading to the car. He didn’t know why, but he waved at his crow. The bird flew to the hood of the car and stared at Adam through the windshield. Then, with a flapping of his blue-black wingtip feathers spread out like fingers, it took off.
Too bad crows couldn’t talk. The one thing Adam desperately needed right then was a good witness. With a sigh, he headed back toward the office. There would be many a phone call and investigative mile to go before he slept tonight.
Chapter 14
Beverly stopped by Bistro de Bardot for some supper takeout and made her way to Harlan’s. His home was the typical Vermont style cottage she loved—an early nineteenth-century Cape-style house, simple but sturdy with a steeply pitched roof and massive central chimney.
She wasn’t sure if she’d get to see the inside if Harlan wasn’t home, or worse, didn’t want her company. But when she knocked on the door, he dragged her inside and wrapped her in a hug while she was still holding the bag of takeout.
She put the food down on the counter as she studied him. “You look pretty good for a dangerous criminal and newly flown jailbird.”
He took a bow. “It’s all that five-star prison cuisine.” He sniffed the bag on the counter, and she pulled out several containers, starting with some Vermont cheddar and caramelized-onion focaccia rolls and maple cinnamon raisin bread.
“I wasn’t sure which kind you liked, so I got both.”
He grabbed a cheddar roll and started munching with a look of bliss on his face. Then he pointed to the styrofoam boxes. “What other delights do you have in store?”
“This one is lemon-garlic brook trout.”
He wrinkled his nose, and she placed her hands on her hips. “Adam said you liked to fish. Don’t tell me you don’t eat fish?”
“Fishing is all about the experience. The air, the sunshine, the peace and quiet. It’s not about eating the fish.”
“Well,” she opened up the other box. “Good thing I also got some applewood smoked ham.”
“Ah,” he smiled and nodded. “Now that’s what we call a Vermont delicacy.”
“Delicacy? Ham?”
“Comes from the same word as delicious, don’t it?”
Beverly was a former art history major, not English, but she wasn’t about to argue with his logic. She was just happy to see him looking so relaxed and untroubled by his recent ordeal.
They ate in silence for a few minutes. Beverly had purchased four coffees and got up to hand him a fresh cup. “You know Adam wanted to be here, don’t you?”
He took a sip of the coffee. “Feel sorry for him. He’s smack dab in the middle and doesn’t know which way to turn.”
“It’s not your fault.”
“Not directly. Though I still feel responsible somehow. If I’d got that security system Prospero’s been bugging me about.” He slurped more of the coffee, then added, “Sure wish I could thank Adam for arranging that attorney fellow. Got me out on bail. Don’t know how he did it, though. Magic wand?”
“You have Agnes Flamm to thank for that.”
“Isn’t that the woman who was friends with your grandmother? The antiques store owner?”
“Former antiques store owner. She’s opening up a wine shop now. And she put up her property as bail money. It’s a lien, essentially.”
“Now why in tarnation would she do something like that? She doesn’t know me. I mean, we’ve run into each other a couple of times, both being in the biz. But that’s it.”
“She doesn’t like injustice any more than I do. And she knows how much you mean to me. Guess that’s all that mattered.”
“Huh.” Harlan pushed the remains of his dinner away, what little was left of it, and went over to sit in his favorite green recliner. “A wine shop, you say?”
Beverly sat across from him on the plaid sofa. “She wanted to try something new.”
“It’s a pain in the ass setting up a new store. Might take her a while to get stocked up. I could loan her some things on consignment to get her going. I’ve got a couple of great wine racks collecting dust.”
“I have a feeling she’d appreciate that.”
“I’ll call up Prospero and have him send some things over this very day.”
Beverly collected up the empty food containers and put them in the trash before curling up on the sofa next to Harlan. “Maybe Adam can’t talk to you about the case, but I can.”
“Wouldn’t want you to get into any trouble.”
“That’s my middle name.” She smiled at him. “Adam has one good lead, a man named Braddon Hopper, who belonged to the same Society for Creative Anachronism chapter the victim did. Was quite jealous of him, in fact. And an expert swordsman.”
“Sounds too good to be true.”
“Maybe, but it’s a start. And Mr. X is helping work on the Forsythe angle.”
“Mr. X?”
“His last name is really Xenakis, and—”
“Xenakis?” Harlan’s eyes turned dark with suspicion. “There was a man by the name who was a Forsythe henchman. Very secretive and mostly stayed invisible. But I heard lots of rumors. Beverly, please tell me it’s not the same guy.”
“It is, but—”
“Oh, Beverly.” Harlan shook his head. “Either you’re betraying me or this fellow is taking you for a ride. I don’t trust him.”
Beverly winced at that. “Dear Harlan, I would never betray you, you mustn’t think like that. Mr. X left the Forsythes’ employ when he saw what they were like. He’s retired from the business now, but he still has connections. He’s a valuable resource. And he’s on our side, please trust me on that. I’d trust him with my life.” And she surprised herself to realize she truly meant it.
Harlan leaned back in his chair. “I do trust you, Beverly. So I’ll trust him.”
She smiled at him. “Thank you. Some day I’ll let you meet him.”
“Sure would be interesting, I’ll hand you that.” He looked around the room, then frowned as he pointed to some tackle boxes on a shelf. “I don’t remember leaving those open. You think a burglar’s been in here?”
Beverly cleared her throat. “More like a couple of detectives, I’m afraid.”
“Oh.” Harlan slid down further into the recliner. “Guess they had to do that. Kinda feels—”
“Like you’ve been violated?”
“Betrayed again. But that’s not fair. And better them than a burglar, right?”
“Any day.”
Harlan put his feet up on the recliner’s footrest. “Well, now, you said suspects, plural. Are there more?”
“The estranged brother. There’s also an ex-fiancée and her new boyfriend. And several pissed-off people the victim sued could also be on that list.”
Harlan sighed. “Sounds like a cider-barrel of work for poor Adam.”
“That’s what he gets paid for. Although I think he’d take this case on pro bono if he had to.”
“You don’t think he’s going to get fired, do you?”
“The mayor would love to arrange that. I’m pretty sure the chief’s got his back.”
“He damn well better.”
Beverly tipped her cup at him. “There is one other strange thing that happened.”
“Strange as in how?”
“Adam and I paid a visit to Forsythe in his hospital room. He’s still very much comatose, but there was a man in his room who ran when he saw us. Big burly guy with a red beard. Know anyone fitting that description?”
“‘Fraid not. Some criminal type afraid of the police?”
“Some Forsythe henchman who’s afraid of the police. Or Adam in particular. Might even be the real killer of Wallace Ryall who arranged all of this to get back at Adam.”
Harlan grumbled, “Well, none of this makes any sense, does it? I mean, there are simpler ways to get back at Adam than through me with this murder business. Too convoluted. Like using a jackhammer to crack open a nut.”
“Perhaps you’ve made some enemies yourself, Harlan. Or our red-bearded mystery man works for one of the NAL crooks and wants to put you out of business. Like he did my grandmother and other antique store owners.”
“Don’t think I’m important enough to have enemies. Too James Bond. Russian spies and all that.”
“You have to admit the NAL angle makes sense.”
“I’m a lowly small-business owner. Not worth their while.”
A faint thud outside caught Beverly’s attention. She put up her hand, motioning for Harlan to be quiet, then listened harder. Another thud was followed by the sound of a scraping noise, like a key on a glass pane.
Beverly got up and whispered into Harlan’s ear, “Keep talking. About the weather or fishing.”
As her heart raced, she tiptoed toward the back part of the house and grabbed a flashlight from a counter in the kitchen. A solid Maglite, which she weighed in her hand. Good. Heavy enough to make a dent in someone’s skull.
She crept through the kitchen, staying in the shadows as much as she could. The scraping noise started up again, and she stopped to listen some more. The sound was coming from the porch, so she hoisted the flashlight above her head and swung open the kitchen door.
She found herself face to face with the same red-bearded man she and Adam had seen in Forsythe’s hospital room. Beverly didn’t dare take her eyes off him for a second to look and see if he had a weapon. The gun in her purse in the living room was no help.
The intruder stared at her for a moment, then smiled when he saw her flashlight. He took a step closer toward her. But a sudden look of shock spread across his face, and he took off into the yard into the darkness of the night and vanished.
Beverly swirled around to see Harlan with a loaded rifle perched on his shoulder he was aiming at the intruder. “Come back here, you lily-livered coward!”
He made motions like he was going to give chase, but Beverly stopped him. “Better call the police, Harlan.”
“But Adam can’t come, can he?”
“Jinks or the beat cops can.”
He relented and watched as she propped a chair under the porch door knob. She explained, “To make it harder to get in. He’ll have to break the glass.”
“That guy will think twice about returning for a second go-round, now.” He patted the gun. “This ole girl here is going to sleep with me tonight.”
“That ole girl can sleep with you, and this ole girl will take the couch.” She smiled, and when he started to protest, she shook her head. “I’ve been told I’m more stubborn than a mule.”
Harlan laid the rifle on the kitchen counter. “That maple cinnamon raisin bread will make a right tasty French toast in the morning. Since you bought it, guess you should get to enjoy it.”
“That’s the spirit.” She grabbed her cellphone and dialed the Ironwood Junction PD, a number she knew by heart now. She half-hoped Adam and Jinks would show up, but knew it would look better if they didn’t. What was Adam up to? She didn’t dare think about such things. Not right now.
Chapter 15
Thursday, December 6
Adam yawned as he watched the sunrise with its pink fingers spreading apart the gray clouds. He hadn’t got much sleep. Then again, his car didn’t make the most comfortable bed, and trying to watch Harlan’s house from down the road had kept him awake most the night. As he drove to the station to pick up Jinks, she was waiting for him outside and hopped in, wordlessly handing him a cup of steaming black coffee.
They sipped in silence for a moment until Jinks asked, “How’s Harlan? That attempted break-in must have been a shock.”
“Shaken up, but okay. We’ve got a BOLO out for our redheaded burglar.”
“He turns up in two places—first Forsythe’s hospital room where the man’s in a coma, then at Harlan’s. If it’s the same guy.”
“Beverly swears it’s the same one. And how many ‘ginger’ crooks do you know?”
“Point taken. How much sleep did you get? An hour?”
“Or so. Enough.” Wanting to change the subject to distract his heavy eyelids that kept threatening to close, he asked, “How’s Jacob?”
“Looks like a chipmunk with its mouth full of acorns. You have had the mumps, right?”
“Think so.”
“That’s good. Can make adult males sterile.”
“Felicia keeping an eye on him?”
“Her job owes her some sick days, but my mother’s doing the honors today.”
“Guess that means lots of ice cream.”
“And cavities. And whining about how Nana does so-and-so better than I do. Gotta win the lottery so I can afford daycare.”
Adam winced. Jinks and her mother had a prickly relationship even on good days. She’d never approved of her daughter’s desire to become a police officer and definitely didn’t approve of her relationship with Felicia. It was times like this he was glad he’d never had kids, mumps or no mumps. “If you need the time off—”
“Don’t want to put Chief Quinn on the spot since I’m outta sick days. Not with Mayor Lehmann breathing down the chief’s neck.”
“It’s me he hates. I don’t like him giving you or the department any grief on my account.”
Adam took some sips of the coffee. Pretty good, but he needed some mini-jacks along with it to keep his eyes propped open. “I thought about taking a job in New Hampshire.”
Jinks frowned. “And let that conniving snake-of-a-mayor win? Don’t you dare. Besides, I just got you broken in.”
“So that’s what all those newspapers are doing on the floor of my office.”
“Here,” Jinks handed over a bag with a cream-cheese muffin. “Puppy chow.”
Adam took the muffin gratefully, surprised at how hungry he was. “Any leads on our red-bearded mystery man?”
“Not in the databases, no. By description or the fingerprints from Harlan’s porch.”
“First Forsythe’s room, then Harlan’s home. Not seeing the connection unless our theory about avenging Forsythe has legs.”
“And I’m not liking that theory.”
“Maybe the victim’s brother, Ramsay Ryall, can enlighten us since he’s back from his vacation or business trip or whatever it was. You got the address?”
Jinks pulled out her cellphone. “About ten miles down in the Brookhaven area. You drive, I’ll navigate.”
Adam was grateful for many aspects of living in Vermont. One was the lack of traffic on the roads, even during the so-called “rush hour.” More so in the winter after the leaf-peepers and snowbirds were all back down in their hot, humid, winter havens.
Not that Adam couldn’t use some of that Florida sunshine, but with the sunshine came the bugs. Lots of bugs. And malaria and dengue and bird flu and chikungunya and God knows what else.
A mere twelve minutes later—after a stop for Adam and Jinks to get more coffee—they reached their target. Ramsay Ryall’s house was in stark contrast to his brother’s OCD-constrained duplex. For one thing, it was a house he owned, not rented, and it showed he wasn’t doing all that bad financially, unlike his brother. Not a palace, but a good three acres or so, with the house’s stone facade looking as good as new. A blindingly white picket fence surrounded the yard.
Ryall led them into a den that hinted of a woman’s touch, with blue-and-green curtains matching a braided rug and the aqua and periwinkle fabric on the furniture. He motioned for them to sit and grabbed a seat for himself near the fireplace. “I cut my trip short and got here as fast as I could after your department called me. I’m still in a state of shock.”
