Murderous Roots

by Virginia Winters

  "No, I don't think so."

  "Jennifer Smith used a blue and white diamond patterned one for a paper-weight on her desk at the library. Could it have been taken as evidence?"

  "No, I looked at everything at the station. How heavy are they?"

  "Heavy."

  Adam slipped back into the foyer and hefted one of the balls. The medical examiner had described the murder weapon as a smooth, round object. One of these would be perfect. Good weight too. He took an experimental strike to the astonishment of some arriving guests. He returned the ball to the collection and joined Erin who was now in the dining room.

  The renovator combined the old front parlor and the sitting room of the house into a long narrow dining room. Sometime in the Victorian era, an ornate fireplace had been added at one end. Massive dark oak, ornately carved, framed a mirror above a mantle of the same wood. Bright green tiles surrounded the firebox. A broad, flat stone, worn with age, formed the hearth. A fire glowed behind tall brass firedogs.

  Erin's table was at one side, set into an alcove. She sat with her back to the room. Her brown hair glowed with red highlights from the candles and firelight. Adam stood still for a moment, before joining her, for the pleasure of looking at her.

  “So?”

  "Later," he said as the server arrived.

  Adam didn't recognize the server. New to town with the restaurant, he guessed. As she tacked across the room, she reminded Adam of the figurehead on a ship, head and chest thrust forward, her tight dark jacket emphasizing her more than ample curves. She told them her name was Matilde.

  "They typed the specials and put them in the menu. I don't like taking a memory test every time I go out to dinner."

  "I find that irritating, too. Everyone at the table forgets something, and the waiter goes around the table again. I know it's supposed to be more elegant."

  "Do you see anything you like?"

  "Yes, blackened catfish."

  "Steak for me."

  Their dinner was a success. The conversation ranged from the presidential primaries to their favorite music. They both enjoyed jazz and disliked modern atonal. As dessert arrived, Erin asked Adam about his family. She remembered when his parents had died in a plane crash, about two years before.

  "Do you have brothers and sisters?"

  "Not a one. Nor cousins, never a wife. I do have an aunt in New York. How about you?"

  "Oh, I have everybody. My parents live in Burlington. My brother and his wife and kids live here. We grew up in Burlington, but I wanted to try a smaller town for my business."

  "Lucky you. I miss having a family."

  After a pause, she asked, "What about the carpet ball?"

  "Could be. One of them is blue and white patterned. Would you look at it and tell me if it is similar to the one Jennifer had?"

  "Sure. Would you like to have coffee at the shop?"

  "Very much."

  On their way out, Erin examined the collection of balls. She thought Jennifer's had been similar to the blue and white one, but a darker blue.

  They walked in comfortable silence across the dark square. When Erin switched on the shop lights, Adam saw she had arranged chairs, lamps and a low table in front of the fireplace.

  "This is nice, Erin. What are the chairs called?"

  "Oh, these are more modern than usual—1930's art deco club chairs. The chrome and glass table is deco also, following a design by Eileen Grey. Would you prefer a drink?"

  "Coffee, thanks."

  The rest of the evening passed in quiet conversation. When Adam left, he kissed Erin softly.

  "I'll call you," he said.

  "I'd like that."

  Chapter Sixteen

  Anne worked on the computer when Adam arrived at the office in the morning. She'd changed her working clothes from sedate suits in darker colors to jeans and pullovers that matched Brad's habitually casual wear.

  "Adam, I found a local name. Jake Morrison. Brad says he's a developer and he handed over quite a bit of cash.”

  "Good, now can you look through the land records, the most recent ones first, to see if you can find out what he owns and if it has any relationship to anyone else's on our list."

  "I'm going to see if I can find out anything about the lost Culver-Beauchamp connection. Brad can do the land stuff."

  "I need the help on this land deal. The Culver-Beauchamp connection can wait."

  "Brad can do it. I'm not interested in routine police work. I'm only interested in genealogy."

  "You could do it faster, and I need the answers."

  "Don't push, Adam. I'm helping you, remember, not working for you."

  "If you want to help, then help. Following the money trail will give us more answers than finding out who married who."

  "If you don't want my help with the genealogy, perhaps I should go home and forget it. Brad is more competent than I am to look at land records. Or hire a real estate agent instead."

  They stared at each other, appalled at the turn the conversation had taken.

  Adam spoke first, relieving the tense silence. "I have no claim on your time. If you want to stop helping the investigation, say so."

  "No, I want to continue, but let me follow my own leads. I don't take instruction well. Also, I'm only interested in the part of this that relates to genealogy. "

  "But this Jake Morrison is a hot one."

  "True, for a policeman, not a genealogist."

  "Fair enough."

  Brad sat behind his own computer, hiding a grin. It wasn't often he heard the boss put in his place.

  "Do you want me to interview Morrison, or chase down his land deals, Lieutenant?"

  "The land deals for now. Any luck on that list of grey or silver sports cars?"

  "About fifty in the county fit the description. No one we've talked about is on the list."

  "Did you check for priors on the owners?"

  "Yes. One of them belongs to a guy who did time for assault. He's out now. I found an address from before he went away.”

  "Where's Pete? He can check it out."

  "Pete went to meet with Bill Perkin's boys to take back the computer disks."

  "Did Pete talk to Tracey Dirkens yet?"

  "He put a report on your desk."

  Adam poured himself a coffee and sat down to read Pete's report.

  Pete had quite a time with Tracey. She told Pete her grandmother knew they were not related to that family and she, Tracey, wouldn't want to be a relative of such a boring, stuck-up bunch. They paid well, and she was saving up to leave Culver's Mills forever. She claimed she knew nothing at all about her great-grandmother. Her grandmother was ashamed that everyone thought she was Andrew Beauchamp's child and insisted it wasn't true. She knew her father was Derek Spotiswood, a soldier who died in the Great War.

  Adam gave the information to Anne, who would check the databases Jennifer had collected for birth certificates. She searched as well for the elusive Douglas and Leticia Culver and any offspring. Nothing so far. She intended to look for marriages in the years after the war in a series of books which cross-referenced births, marriages and deaths in announcements in the local newspaper for 1890 to 1930. If the wedding or engagement had been announced she thought she would find it. She would look for Spotiswood also.

  At noon, Adam left for Burlington after reporting to Captain Naismith. Wednesday was the day for his law classes, one in the afternoon, the other from seven to nine at night. He found just enough time in the last week to do the reading, but he wasn't sure if he could continue to carry both, the final two courses in the first year of his part-time law degree. He had to meet with his faculty advisor early in the afternoon.

  Anne spent the afternoon with the records from the newspapers. She found one of a Spotswood marriage in 1916, and the notice of the man's death in France a year and a half later. Mrs. Spotswood joined the legion of war widows raising her only child, Tracey's grandmother, on her own. Anne copied the information for Tracey and Br
ad said he would get it to her.

  The Beauchamp cousin in Montreal said she found a reference to the Culver-Beauchamp marriage in a Montreal Gazette social column. She asked Brad to take her to the library where the newspaper archives were kept. Some foundation or another paid to put all the early editions on microfilm. He took her in the cruiser, extracting her she would call him, and not try to go home alone.

  Brad continued west out of town. Morrison, the contractor, lived in the first completed home of a new small subdivision near the village of Pine Grove, a tiny spot on the map.

  The highway bypassed it but a narrow, hilly road wound into the village past a dilapidated gas station and grocery store, long since closed. The center of the village held only two schools, two churches and few houses. Quite a lot of building for a hundred people, Brad thought. Maybe the new subdivision would liven the place up. The public school sat on a little hill, surrounded by a chain-link fence. At the bottom of the street stood an old one-story store built some time in the 1800's. Brad parked in front.

  The interior was a surprise with a general store feel, but the merchandise had gone uptown. The young man at the counter looked uptown as well. He wore a casual open-necked shirt of some silky taupe material with a pair of neatly pressed jeans and the kind of shoes advertised in glossy magazines.

  "Can I help you?" he said with a friendly grin.

  "Yeah. I'm Brad Compton, Culver's Mills Police. Do you know where the Shining Lake subdivision is?"

  "Sure. I hope there isn't any trouble?"

  "Not that I know. Were you expecting trouble?"

  Brad watched the other man closely. Perhaps he was an ordinarily anxious guy.

  "When the cops turn up, I always expect trouble."

  "Lots of experience with us, have you?"

  "Hey, no, officer. I'm only fooling around. What trouble could there be on a little construction site in the middle of the country?"

  "I don't know. I need to talk to a guy called Jake Morrison."

  "Jake. Yeah, he's the boss."

  Brad noticed the worried lines around the man's face and the sudden ageing. Perhaps he wasn't so young after all.

  "Friend of yours, is he?"

  "Look, officer. I'm Jake's brother. Name's Ted. I don't want him to have any problems. He has enough with the building and his crazy crew."

  "What sort of trouble?"

  "Ask him. I don't know anything about it."

  From the look on his face, Brad knew that was the last he was going to find out here.

  "How do I get there?"

  "Left across the bridge, through the rock cut and turn left at the old rail bed road."

  "Thanks."

  As he pulled away, Brad saw the man's hand reaching for the phone. Morrison would know he was coming, he thought.

  The road through the rock cut had been made and paved when the spur railroad to this area shut down. The narrow track fell away steeply on both sides. It followed a causeway separating the lake from a swampy area, known locally as Grass Lake. On the other side of the causeway, it left the rail bed and followed the shore of the lake closely.

  A white clapboard church and steeple stood on the other side of the lake in the village. A road sign pointed the way to the Shining Lake Subdivision-- one completed house and half a dozen others framed in but not roofed as yet. The one completed house should be Morrison's.

  A broad expanse of lawn dotted with cedars shaped into balls and spires separated the house from the lake. Large grey stones of the local granite buttressed the shoreline. A power boat, large for this lake, was tied to the floating dock, beside the boathouse. A man ran towards it.

  "Hey, Morrison. Stop. I want to talk to you."

  A powerful roar from the engine was his only response.

  A dog yapped at the screen door when Brad came up to the house. A slight woman, Chinese or maybe Vietnamese with dark hair pulled back in a ponytail stared out at him with frightened eyes. Brad held his identification up to the door.

  "Rusty, be quiet," she said to the Jack Russell terrier at her heels. "What do you want?"

  "I need to talk to Jake Morrison. I'm Brad Compton with the Culver's Mills police. And you are?"

  "Denise Morrison. Jake left. What do you want with him? He's not in any trouble, is he? Why can't he be left alone?"

  The words tumbled out of her with no space left between for Brad to answer. One of her hands clasped the door frame so tightly the fingers were white. Finally, she stopped. Not to breathe. She seemed to hold her breath. So still he wasn't sure she was aware of him.

  Brad spoke as quietly as he would have to a child or a frightened animal. "Mrs. Morrison, I want to ask him a question. He's not in any trouble that I know."

  "What's the matter?"

  "Nothing is the matter. He's not here. Go away. Go away now."

  She continued to stare past Brad, watching the lake, or nothing.

  "When will he be back?"

  "I don't know!"

  The heavy patio door closed, cutting off the sound of her voice. She pulled the heavy drapes across.

  Brad walked down to the water. Nothing to be seen on the lake in either direction. Nothing doing on the construction site either. He walked back to the car. He'd better go back to town and work on the land deals. Adam wouldn't be too happy he had gone out alone.

  Around the bend in the shoreline, the big boat drifted slowly about its anchor. Jake Morrison, a tall, sandy-haired man waited. From time to time he took off his baseball cap and wiped his balding head. Finally, he heard the sound of an engine. He'd better risk it. It wouldn't be good to leave her alone too much longer, the shape she was in these days. Damn that Smith woman anyway. Why hadn't she left them alone? And now the cops, pushing and prodding and leaving her a hysterical mess, no doubt.

  As he tied up at the dock, he watched the house. There was only a little movement at the drape over the patio door. Was it Denise watching him or the big cop? As he neared the door, the drape flew back, and Denise ran out the door and across the stones of the patio to him.

  "Oh, Jake, I was so scared. What did he want? What is the matter? We have to go away from here. What have they found out? Soon they'll come to take me away."

  Jake held her against him until the trembling had stopped.

  "Nothing about you, pet. Nothing about you. It's sure to be about those land deals the woman was hounding me about. She's dead. She didn't know about you. It's not about you."

  His soothing voice whispered on and on in her ear.

  "Come in the house and make us some tea. You know that makes you feel better."

  "Yes, a nice cup of tea."

  When Brad left her and her young policewoman guard at the library, Anne climbed the stairs to the stone and glass addition housing the reference library and a small art gallery which elbowed out from the rear of the old building. The guard stayed in the hall to watch the stairs and the elevator. Anne passed by the door of the gallery. There were so many things she had wanted to do on this visit. The gallery contained some interesting old portraits, painted by itinerant artists early in the last century and a collection of works by local artists.

  Stacks of old reference books at one end and computer terminals at the other bracketed the long reference room. In between stood square oak tables worn with use. Anne loved to work in reference libraries, with room to spread out and interested people to help. The reference librarian, a thin, pleasant blonde woman named Mrs. Wolfe, assisted her in setting up the viewer and finding the correct roll of film.

  She had searched back three decades when the librarian tapped her on the shoulder.

  "It's 5:00 pm, Dr. McPhail. If you want to work longer, you can. Turn off the machine and the lights when you go. You have to leave by eight o'clock, though."

  "I had no idea it was so late. Thanks so much for your help."

  Anne stood up and stretched as Mrs. Wolfe leave. She thought she would look through a few more years of records before calling Brad.


  She had to keep reminding herself to stick to the social items. The histories, politics, even advertisements of the day were fascinating.

  Ads appeared for long ago trades. Hat makers were prominent. It was, however, in a small column beside an advertisement for Wm. Goodwin, painter, that she found the long-lost couple, in a simple announcement that the marriage had taken place. Such hurried marriages usually meant that a baby was coming a little early, so she went ahead six months and looked for births. Intent as she was, she was startled to hear the door of the room open and close again, and heavy footsteps across the carpet. She sat, still and frightened, in front of the view screen.

  "Anne, what's the matter?"

  She turned and reached a hand to Brad.

  "I'm so glad to see you. I lost track of time, and you startled me. I thought you were the killer, coming to get me."

  Her voice was unsteady.

  "I should have called out from the door. I'm sorry. The guard was outside, until now."

  "I forgot. I was so intent because I had found the marriage and I was looking for the baby."

  "Baby?"

  "I think there must have been a pregnancy; the marriage seemed so low-key. There was no celebration, just an announcement."

  "Can you put the books away, because I have to take you home now? It's almost eight o'clock."

  Anne swiveled to look at the clock. Almost eight o'clock. She had promised to be home for dinner at seven. She gathered up her belongings but left the books where they were. She scribbled a brief note asking Mrs. Wolfe to leave them for her return.

  Catherine and her sons were finishing dinner when she arrived. She had saved Anne a portion of chicken fricassee with dumplings. Anne apologized as she sat down to eat.

  "I'm so sorry I was late, Catherine. I was working at the library and lost track of time until Brad came to get me."

  "Any luck at all today?" Catherine asked as she served salad to her.