Adam put off talking to Ada and Maud. Time to go home, feed the cat, and take care of chores. Soon, he thought, he would be at the stage of either do laundry or buy new underwear.
Chapter Thirteen
Heavy cold rain pounded down in the early hours of Monday and by dawn, washed away all but the dirty black remnants of the snow banks. The sun promised to eliminate those. Maybe they'd get some spring, after all, Adam thought as he drove into the square. The diner would be a good place to start this morning.
"Coffee, eggs, bacon and toast please, Peg."
Mondays were busy with most of the business people in town dropping in for coffee or breakfast on the way to work. Adam lingered over his second cup of coffee until business slowed down. Peg came over to pour him a refill.
"You want something, Adam?"
"Why do you ask?"
"You never stay this long."
"You're right. I wondered if you knew the stories about the Beauchamps and the Culvers?"
"You mean the old gossip."
"Yeah, I think so. Whatever happened, it was before 1900."
"No, I don't think so. I heard it was the one who was Andre Beauchamp's grandfather, the one whose picture is in the library."
"I don't know about the picture."
"Behind the main desk."
"What gossip did you hear?"
Peg paused her cleaning to consider his question.
"You have to remember, I wasn't born here. My husband and I came here after he got out of the army. People don't tell me as much as they would if my family had lived here for a long time."
Peg raised her eyebrows and Adam nodded.
"I do hear things said. Anyway, it's not gossip when the information is that old. More like local history. I hear there were scandals, and maybe a suicide. That's when the Beauchamps stopped mixing in town. They haven't sent their kids to local schools or married here since then. I don't know why they stayed."
"That's all? You don't know what the scandal was?"
"No idea."
"Thanks, Peg. See you tomorrow."
Disappointed, Adam left. On his way to the office, he dropped by the library. He hadn't seen a picture of Andre Beauchamp behind the desk because it wasn't there. Watercolor sketches of the town filled the space. He asked Nancy Webb about the portrait. She said Jennifer had suggested the change a few months ago. Nancy thought the picture had gone into storage. No, she wasn't sure. Yes, she would check when she wasn't busy, working without her computer. Didn't like her then, didn't like her now, Adam thought.
Adam and Pete met at the office. Pete attended court for the wrap-up testimony of a recent case. Brad worked at the computer and expected Anne in to help him. Adam suggested they concentrate today on Andre and Marie Beauchamp, telling Brad what he learned so far. Adam was going to Burlington to see the bankers and to interview Stan Davis again on the way.
Ted Atkins followed Adam out the door of Lil's. He'd been too far away to hear much of the conversation between Peg and Adam, but enough to know Adam asked questions about the town's two wealthiest families, one of which, the Culvers, owned the paper he worked for.
The reporter loped across the square in time to see Adam enter the courthouse. He waited on the steps, smoking one of his many cigarettes of the day, for Adam to come out. He butted out in a convenient plant stand as Adam came down the steps.
"Adam, what's this about the Beauchamps and the Culvers? How do they figure in your investigation?"
Careful, Adam told himself. He's fishing.
"What about them?"
"I heard you were asking questions about them. Are they involved in the murder? The people want to know."
"Tell the people our investigations are proceeding. Don't make me regret talking to you."
"Come on."
"I have work to do."
Adam slammed his car door and started his engine.
Adam always enjoyed the drive to Greenbank. His humor slowly recovered as he drove along the road that followed the curve of the river, sometimes close enough to see it, sometimes separated by a farm or an estate. Trees overhung the narrow country road. Where the trees expanded into small woods, he caught the occasional flash of white from an early flowering tree, a wild plum or maybe serviceberry. White or brown slatted fences, the type that meant horses, not cattle, surrounded the homes set in fifty to one hundred acre farms. In summer, every house looked as though it sat in a golf green.
Greenbank was a corridor town: a few houses, a mall, some service offices and a gas station. It existed because the countryside around it contained those large estates whose wealthy owners at times needed someone local to handle emergencies like a speeding ticket or a head cold.
Davis and O'Connor were in reality just Davis, in a corner office in the strip mall. The office was still closed Monday until ten o'clock. At 9:59am a young woman clattered up the sidewalk and Adam followed her into the office.
"Help you?" she said as she hung up her coat revealing a too tight, too short skirt over legs and hips that should have remained a mystery.
Adam showed her his badge, watched her vacant blue eyes open wide. Surely a lawyer's secretary had police visits before.
"I don't think Mr. Davis is in yet," she said, turning nervously toward the back of the office.
"Could you see?"
"Sure."
Two doors other than the one to the outside opened off the reception area. She pushed open the left-hand door, stepped in, and emerged, screaming. Adam pushed past her.
Davis, his body anyway, sat in his chair, his forehead marked by a bullet hole almost dead center. Adam called the emergency number. He took the secretary out of the room and got her calmed enough to talk.
"When did you last see Davis alive Miss—“
"Ashley Baines is my name. I saw him on Friday afternoon when I was leaving for the day." She paused to blow her nose. "He'd just come back from Burlington."
"Did he seem okay? Did you notice anything different or unusual?"
"Not different, except he sort of rushed me out."
"What do you mean?"
“I was being kind of slow, I guess. I put on a little makeup and brushed my hair before I put on my coat. He was irritable with me, you know, asking me if I was going to take all day. I wondered if someone was coming to the office that he didn't want me to know about."
"Did that happen often?"
"You mean that he rushed me out?"
"No, that he didn't want you to know who he was meeting?"
"I think so, but I'm not really sure. When was he killed?"
"Not today," Adam said.
The young woman was truthful, he thought. She was pale and jittery, but only because of the body, not because of guilt.
A cruiser turned into a parking spot in front of the office and an older man, slightly portly, blue-jeaned, wearing a bomber style jacket with Sheriff's Office on the back, walked in. Grey hair, grizzled face, a small chin disappearing into a larger second one: Bill Perkins, Sheriff of Langton County for the last 35 years.
"Morning Adam."
"Morning, Bill."
"What do you have for me?"
He walked past Adam when he motioned the sheriff into the next room.
"By God, Stan Davis. Someone got the bugger at last."
"What do you mean by at last, Sheriff?"
"He's had a shady reputation for years. I've suspected him of being across the line with his clients more than a few times but could never pin anything on him."
His forensics crew arrived.
"Let's talk outside while the boys work and let's send the little girl home until we need her."
Adam hustled a now-reluctant Ashley out of the door as the sheriff pulled chairs up to the desk in the outer office. Adam outlined his case to Perkins, knowing the older man's reputation for solving some of the hard ones.
"Have you suspected him of blackmail?"
"Can't say that I have. But then folks being blackmaile
d usually play it pretty close. I don't know those two families you spoke of real well, although I do recall some sort of old scandal about the Beauchamps. There was some bad blood about land, I think, maybe 75 or 100 years ago now. I never learned any details."
"Can I have my computer geek have a look at the set-up here? Maybe he kept some records I could use."
"Sure. We'll want to look through for any clients who might be holding a grudge against the guy. I'll let you know the forensics on the bullet. Any guns turn up in your investigation yet?"
"Not one. I'll keep you up to date from our end."
They shook hands at the door, and Adam left to continue the drive to Burlington. Follow the money.
The manager of the Burlington Savings and Loan arranged for him to meet the tellers. They spelled each other at the wickets of the old-fashioned bank as he interviewed them in their lunchroom. They all remembered taking the deposits from Jennifer at different times. None of them remembered her saying what business she was in, but they assumed a store or a service that dealt in cash. One of the girls had the impression Jennifer was an antique dealer, another a jewelry salesperson. None knew her personally. They gave her address as the Chesterton Hotel.
The Chesterton Hotel was an unfashionable place on the edge of downtown, popular with travelling salesmen, and executives of minor companies in town for short periods. The desk clerk told him Jennifer kept a permanent room. Sure he could have the key, seeing she was dead.
The room Jennifer used for her double life looked out over a park. She had brought pictures of her family and some framed country scenes.
The bed was just a bed, but she had covered it with a colorful quilt. A crucifix hung over it. The rest of the furniture was standard hotel modern but included a microwave, apartment-sized fridge, and coffee maker. On the shelf of the only closet, he found a small file box with several computer disks—didn't anyone use paper anymore—and a daybook. The last entry was the Saturday before she died. Dinner with S.D. at Malcolm's.
Adam took the disks and the daybook. He would send someone to do a careful search, but he thought there would be little else.
Downstairs the desk clerk, more interested in a ball game on TV than the police presence, grudgingly directed him to Malcolm's, a restaurant with widely spaced tables, low lights and bored waiters. The manager and the server on duty recalled Stan and Jennifer. They were frequent customers. No, not lovers, or at least the waitress didn't think so. They seemed to do business—passing papers back and forth, sometimes envelopes. No, no money that she'd seen, and, no, they never had any other dinner guests.
Adam had opened the door to the street when the server called him back. She remembered one occasion when another person came to their table. They didn't talk while she served, but they were all angry. The extra man left without eating.
She described him as medium—height, weight, build, hair, nose—all medium, but she thought she would be able to identify him if needed. Oh, a moustache and bad skin. Great, he thought, a medium guy with a medium moustache, how easy would he be to find.
Adam remembered the Utronskis as he passed their subdivision. He had time to interview them again if they were home.
The subdivision was called Fantasy Forest. Who came up with these names?
The Utronskis lived on Enchanted Oak Lane in a smaller back split. A basketball hoop over the garage and a bike abandoned on the lawn completed the picture. A woman who said she was Mrs. Utronski answered the door.
Jennifer had been a tall, slim woman with angular features but Darlene Utronski was the reverse, fairly short, heavy with a round face that looked like it was used to being cheerful. She invited Adam into the small formal living room.
"Is there any news, Lieutenant? Do you know who killed Jennifer?"
He could hear echoes of Jennifer's voice in her sister's.
"No, ma'am. I have something to tell you that is not too good."
He paused, but she stared anxiously at him, saying nothing.
"Jennifer might have been blackmailing some people in a scheme with a man called Davis."
He watched the color drain from her face, heard the whispered "no".
She hadn't been involved, Adam thought.
"Are you sure? She was a religious woman, Lieutenant. How could she?"
"Tell me about your sister. Did she have any special need for money?"
Darlene shook her head slowly.
"All she ever did with any extra money was give it to the church. I hoped she would help us save for the children's education, but she never said anything about doing that."
"Was she always so devoted to the church?"
"Oh, no. She fell away for a long time. You see, as a young woman, she had done something awful. At least, she felt it was awful. She had an abortion. Since she came back to the Church, she has been trying to atone for it. Father O'Brien told her that she didn't need to give money, that she needed faith and to do good works, but she believed that if she gave enough money to the church itself, she would be forgiven."
"Did you find her different lately?"
Darlene dropped her head and looked at her hands for long seconds before she spoke.
"She seemed to be thinking less clearly or logically or something. She was irritable and tense with the children. She was furious with the library board in Culver's Mills because they gave the librarian's job to someone else. Overwhelmed with anger."
Darlene cried quietly, tears rolling unheeded down her cheeks.
"I think that's enough, Mrs. Utronski. Thank you for your help. I'll let you know when we have made some progress."
Adam stood up to leave, but the grieving woman didn't notice or care.
Another life shattered, he thought as he drove back to Culver's Mills. He saw Anne's rental car in the guest parking and found her with Brad, still at the computer. They found some further information on Andrew Beauchamp, but not much on his wife. Anne said she needed to go across the border to a genealogical library to look at census data in order to go further. She wondered if Adam wanted her to search the local newspaper archive for any information about the Beauchamps of that generation.
"Yes, I do. Let's leave the cross-border stuff for a little while unless you can call somebody."
"What about the Beauchamp cousin who started all this? Perhaps she knows something.”
"That's a good idea. Brad, you call her with Anne at your elbow. See if she can fax you what she has."
Adam took a chair from another desk and sat down near the computers. He had to tell her.
"There has been another murder," he said. "Brad, I don't want you to leave Anne during the day, and I want you to borrow from county to guard her house at night."
"Who was killed?" Anne asked in a small tight voice.
Adam remembered that she had just recovered from her concussion. He brought her some coffee before he answered.
"A guy called Stan Davis, a lawyer. He was associated with her in some way, maybe business partners. He was shot sometime since Friday night before I could talk to him again."
"Adam, what is going on? Jennifer was an assistant librarian in a small Vermont town. Was the person with the bank accounts really her? Did you show her picture at the bank?"
Adam replied patiently. He knew Anne was frightened and confused.
"I showed the picture. Remember we found the records and the money in her own safety deposit box, and the bank here knew her well.”
Anne flushed and started to apologize, but Brad covered her embarrassment by saying, "Okay, we'll call the Montreal connection of the Beauchamps. Do you think any of these people would pay up to blackmail?"
"I'm not sure yet. Are you two done for the day?"
They were finished. Anne gathered up the material she was taking back with her to work on, and they left the office. They were standing at the top of the courthouse steps when a low-slung grey sports car pulled out of a parking spot down the street and accelerated towards the courthouse. Adam t
urned towards the sound of the engine and saw the flash of the sun off the handgun before he heard the report. He threw Anne on the steps. A bullet pinged off the step behind them and ricocheted off the courthouse door. Adam was on his feet, running to the cruiser, yelling at Brad to get Anne inside. The grey car was out of sight, down a street that angled away from the square, and the courthouse. Adam couldn't see it as he raced the length of the road to where it became the highway. No luck and no license number.
Goddammit, he thought as he climbed the steps. Who's trying to kill her? He traced the bullet's mark on the stone of the courthouse and the chip out of the heavy oak door. He found it in a flower bed just off the steps. It was crushed. Maybe forensics could get something.
He slammed the door behind him as he strode into the office, startling Brad and Anne, who were hunched over coffee cups. A blanket covered Anne's still shaking shoulders. Adam shook his head at Brad.
"You?"
"Grey Camaro. I think. No license on it. I'll run the locals in a minute.
"Adam, I want to go home."
"I'll take you to Catherine's."
"No, I want to go home to Canada. If I leave, they'll decide we've given up. And there aren't so many guns."
"No, whoever it is will likely follow you. Everyone in town knows who you are. Whatever this is about, the stakes must be very high."
"I can go to friends in Montreal. No one will find me there."
"How long can you hide? Anne, now that we know you definitely are a target, we can protect you. I can't protect you in Montreal or Bridgenorth. I'm selfish too. I need your help to sort this out. I'll borrow a female state trooper to stay with you and Brad will be with you all day. Please stay."
A sudden silence filled the room. Adam watched Anne's nervous hands twisting as she played with her rings.
"I can't tell you now. I'll let you know in the morning."
Anne's words squeezed past the tightness in her throat.
"All right. Whatever you decide, we'll protect you as long as you are here." Adam turned to Brad. "Here's a disk from Jennifer's room in Burlington. Lock it in evidence and work on it in the morning."
Murderous Roots Page 7