Murderous Roots

by Virginia Winters

  The maid appeared carrying a tray, which held teacups and a cream-colored Spode teapot. Mismatched teacups, hand-painted, early eighteenth-century design, Anne noted. Mrs. Beauchamp lived with her antiques daily, she thought. No display cases here.

  "I would like to see your information," Mrs. Beauchamp said after she had poured the tea. "I assume the diary is in the library?"

  "I have it here. Because I was coming out to you, the librarian broke the rules and allowed me to bring it. It is written in old French that I can't read."

  "Perhaps I can help you," Mrs. Beauchamp replied, smiling faintly. "I took my degree at the Sorbonne in French. My thesis involved literature of the eighteenth century."

  "That would be so helpful," said Anne, digging into her briefcase and pulling out the carefully-wrapped little volume. "This book has such importance, I think it ought to be preserved. The library doesn't have the best facilities for keeping old documents."

  "I will discuss it with the librarian."

  Mrs. Beauchamp didn't go on but began to read as she sipped her tea.

  Anne settled back into her chair after pouring herself another cup, watching the elderly lady become lost in the past. Finally, Mrs. Beauchamp sighed and closed the book, holding it gently on her lap.

  "Just as you say, Dr. McPhail, that seems to be the only reference to the de la Ronde connection, although the diary does give a picture of life in those times and the attempts people made to have a civilized life in the wilderness."

  "Perhaps you would undertake to translate it for the library."

  "Perhaps I shall."

  At that moment, a knock on the door-case interrupted them, and Thomas Beauchamp came in. "May I join you, Mother?"

  "Of course. Dr. McPhail, my son, Thomas."

  As Anne and Thomas shook hands, and Anne met his gaze, she realized that this was not only a powerful and attractive man but also a worried man as well.

  "What is wrong, Thomas?"

  His mother recognized the worry as well.

  "Daniel just called from their hotel in Toronto. They are worried about the baby," he said as he pulled a chair near to his mother and sat down.

  "Why?"

  "Daniel said the baby has a fever and hasn't been drinking well today. I have Daniel on hold on the phone."

  "Daniel and his wife are very young, Dr. McPhail," Mrs. Beauchamp noted. "We worry about them, perhaps too much."

  "How old is the baby?" asked Anne.

  "Two months."

  "Could I help you in any way?"

  Anne's manner had changed to her professional calm as she realized that the situation is Toronto was more serious than the family was aware.

  "Could you talk to Daniel?"

  "Of course."

  Once on the phone, Anne asked a few questions.

  "Daniel, what is the baby's temperature?"

  "Over 103.5."

  "And is the baby nursing?"

  "Yes, but he only stays on a little while and he has been throwing up."

  Anne could hear the panic in the father's voice.

  "Has he passed much urine in the past three hours?"

  "Only a little."

  "Any tears?"

  "He hasn't cried much. Doctor, what shall we do?"

  "Daniel, what hotel are you at?"

  "The Chelsea"

  "You are only two blocks from the Hospital for Sick Children. Go downstairs and take a taxi to the hospital. Don't walk. It is too cold. Ask the driver to take you to the emergency entrance. Inside there will be a nurse at the triage desk. Tell her about the fever, the vomiting and the lack of urine. Do you have all that?"

  "Yes, thank you. Let me talk to my dad."

  Anne passed the phone to Thomas who said, "Call me when you have seen the doctor."

  He hung up the phone and turned to Anne.

  "Does it sound bad?"

  "It could be anything, but likely just a virus he picked up, travelling. The temperature and the lack of urine mean the baby has to be seen right away because of his age."

  "Should we go up there?"

  "I would say wait until he calls you back. Can you fly from here?"

  "Yes, we have a plane. Thank you," he said, taking one of her hands in both of his. "Daniel is my youngest. His mother died when he was twelve, and I worry about him too much."

  "I'm so pleased I could help," Anne replied, keeping her voice professional and calm, but conscious of the attraction of the dark eyes that looked into hers. "I should go."

  "Could we call you when we hear from Daniel?"

  "Certainly. Perhaps you could let the baby's own doctor know what is going on?"

  "We will."

  Thomas walked Anne out to her car and shook hands, before opening her car door. She glanced in the rear-view mirror. He stood in the doorway, watching.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Catherine tapped on Anne's door. Years of responding to late-night telephone calls meant Anne answered the summons in seconds, wide-awake.

  "Yes. Come in."

  "Thomas Beauchamp is on the line. He insisted I wake you."

  Catherine handed Anne the phone.

  "Thank you. I'm glad you did. Good morning, Thomas," she said into the phone.

  "Yes, it's a great morning. Daniel called from Toronto. If they hadn't taken the baby when they did, he might have died, so we are all very grateful."

  "Did Daniel say what was wrong?"

  "A urinary tract infection spread to his blood. He has some kind of abnormality called reflux that will need antibiotics for a long time. Is that safe?" he asked.

  "Yes it is, and most of the time prevents the need for surgery."

  "That's wonderful to hear. Could you come to lunch with mother and me today?”

  "I'd be delighted."

  "About 1:00pm. Shall I pick you up? I'll be in town."

  "That would be fine, thanks."

  Anne expected some resplendent car to arrive, a Cadillac or BMW, but the vehicle stopped in front of the house was a lovingly cared-for, silver, 1992 Honda Prelude. Thomas came to meet her as she walked down the steps.

  He gave her an impulsive hug.

  "Thank you so much. We're sure you saved our baby."

  "Thomas, your son and his wife may have more sense than you give them credit for. I'm happy I could help.

  Anne held his arms as she tilted her head back to look up into his eyes.

  "Sense?" he said. "I don't know. They are both gifted academics, but they are only twenty-four years old."

  Thomas helped her into the low front seat of the Honda.

  "This is my favorite car. I've had her since she was new."

  "From the look of the body, I don't think you drive it in the winter."

  "No, she goes in the garage, up on blocks, shrouded in a dust cover. I visit her on Sundays," he said deadpan, with a slight sideways glance at Anne who struggled but failed to contain her delighted laughter.

  Lunch was a great success. Anne, Thomas and his mother finding more in common than a narrowly-averted tragedy spent a convivial two hours in conversation ranging from literature to art and travel. When Thomas left her at Catherine's, it was with a European-style kiss on each cheek and a question—could he call her again?

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  The cast party after the final performance of the play was on Saturday night. Adam and Erin had plans to meet after the performance. The new director, David Mason, was throwing the party. Adam remembered their interview and wondered how the thin-lipped chiropractor would feel about having him as a guest. At least, to his surprise, he would be able to say he liked the play.

  Erin was pink-cheeked and bubbly with the aftermath of the success when he went around to the back of the theatre to pick her up.

  When she saw him, she hugged him and said, "Did you like it? Didn't it go well? Wasn't David's direction right on the mark?"

  "Yes, yes and yes. Are we ready to go? I think I saw most people leave already."

&nbs
p; "Yes, but I turn out the lights and make sure the doors are all locked."

  "I'll come round with you."

  As they walked around the darkened theatre, Erin talked about the play, and how well all the people had worked together.

  "It's sad, but the rehearsals go much better without her. She was so nasty in these last few months. Maybe that's because she was acting out of character. Perhaps she fell into the criminal actions, and couldn't get out."

  "I think you are too kind to her. She and Davis ran an extensive operation. It wasn't something you would fall into. It took a lot of planning."

  "I suppose you're right. I don't like to think badly of her, especially since she died in such a terrible way."

  "Let's have fun, Erin, and leave all this behind for a little while."

  With that, they checked the last of the doors and walked out to Adam's ancient car.

  David Mason lived a little out of town, in one of the newer estate developments: five acres with most of the trees left in place, a horse barn and paddock and an extensive one story house. Twinkling white lights in the trees lit up the grounds. Other lights disguised as mushrooms and frogs marked the path to the front door.

  "I didn't know chiropractors did so well," Erin said.

  "He drives a Mercedes too."

  The party was going at full bore when they walked in. There was a little stir as some of the cast noticed Adam. The host, however, was all smiles as he came up and air-kissed Erin and shook Adam's hand. Adam was able to praise the play and escape. He got drinks for them, and as Erin mingled and went over details of the play with her friends, he stood on the outside of groups and listened to the gossip.

  Word had gone around about Peg Watson and her sister. At least to some extent it had. Many people mixed up the old story about a parallel and illegitimate family with the new information that Peg and May were Beauchamp cousins.

  "My dear, how will they handle all that money? They have never moved in polite society," he heard one overdressed and drunk matron hiss to another.

  She was one of the teacher's wives, he thought. He wondered what she thought polite meant.

  Other groups discussed Jennifer's murder, but the speculation was vague. The Culvers and the Beauchamps weren't talking to the locals, so there didn't seem to be much out about their involvement. Thinking of them, he remembered the message to call Mrs. Ames, the Culver housekeeper. He'd no time to call her back, and come to think of it she hadn't answered the door or been around when he was out to see David Culver.

  "Are you mingling, or are you eavesdropping?" Erin teased as she took his arm.

  "I'm eavesdropping, although this bunch is getting less coherent by the minute."

  "There's some food in the other room. Would you like some, or would you like to get a pizza at my place?"

  "What a choice. The food in the other room doesn't stand a chance."

  They said goodbye to their hosts to a universal chorus of "don't go yet", and escaped down the long driveway.

  At Erin's shop, stained glass shades on a few lamps cast a soft, shadowed glow over the interior. The grouping in front of the fireplace had changed again. This time, he sank onto an over-stuffed Victorian love seat. The footstool in front, with its worn cover, was almost as long as the sofa.

  "What do you call this cover on the footstool?"

  "Needlepoint."

  "I think I saw the same kind of thing at the Beauchamps."

  "Mrs. Beauchamp likes Victorian furniture."

  Erin brought him a glass of red wine and sat down on the sofa beside him. They talked about the party as they waited for the pizza she had ordered on their way from the Mason's.

  "Do you know the Ames woman, who is the housekeeper for the Culvers?" he asked.

  "She has only worked out there for a few months, and I don't know where she came from. She's not local, at least not from Culver's Mills."

  "Have you seen her around the last few days?"

  "She came in the shop, the day of the snowstorm."

  Erin described the scene with Mrs. Ames.

  Adam groaned. "Dammit, I should have called her back when I got her message."

  "Hey, I thought we were going to have a night off from your case."

  "You are right," he said. "We have a lot better things to talk about and do."

  Adam left Erin's early the next morning, hoping to keep the relationship quiet. Her main street home made this a little difficult. He went home to shower and make peace with his angry little cat.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  The blinds on the windows of the station were closed, not even the janitor having arrived when Adam walked in. Brad's battered steel desk in the corner held only his computer. Adam had been hoping for information on Howarth. Disappointed, he pushed open the door to his own office to find a report, titled Howarth, staring at him from his desk.

  Peter Howarth moved into local development circles here two years before, spread a lot of money around and surprised most developers by acquiring title to a piece of land that wasn't for sale. The land records wouldn't open until Monday, so Brad was stalled at getting at the paper trail.

  When Brad came in, he and Adam talked over a strategy for getting a look at Howarth. Collecting for a children's charity seemed like a good ploy.

  Howarth lived in a suburb of Burlington in one of those monster homes that are replacing small suburban houses. The house overwhelmed its tiny lot. Brad and Adam parked in the driveway, and Adam walked up to the door and rang the bell.

  A small boy with curly dark hair and dark eyes, opened the door.

  "Is your dad home, son?"

  "Just a minute."

  To Adam's surprise, he closed the door again. A slim, blonde, highly made-up woman with frightened eyes came to the door.

  "Can I help you?"

  "Ma'am, I'm Lieutenant Adam Davidson of the Culver's Mills Police. I'm collecting for the Boys and Girls Club, and I understand your husband has given generously to other worthy causes." Adam smiled his best, most benign smile at her.

  "Please come in," she said.

  She led Adam through an immensely tall foyer, with a circular staircase carpeted in white, into an expansive and highly-decorated living room. Matched her makeup, Adam thought.

  Howarth stood up as she explained Adam's purpose. Adam stuck out his hand. The man was short, square-built with badly scarred skin, small black eyes and very crooked and stained teeth. A dark brown moustache covered his upper lip.

  Howarth shook Adam's hand and asked him in middle European accent what the club did. Adam explained its work with underprivileged youngsters. All the time an ominous feeling he had seen this man before nagged at him. He accepted with fulsome thanks an offer of $1,000 and explained that someone would send him a letter and a pledge card.

  Brad stayed outside. He walked over to a black jeep that stood a few feet away and gave the dirt-encrusted license plate a discreet kick. Later he would run the plates. As he walked around the jeep, he saw that it had some recent front-end bodywork. Once they got a warrant, it should be easy to match the black paint to that from Anne's car.

  Adam appeared and walked quickly down the walk. His face was grim as he got into the passenger side.

  "Let's go, Brad."

  "What's up, boss?"

  "We need more than you and me. That guy gives me a bad feeling. I'm sure that I have seen his ugly face on a poster or bulletin. We need a picture."

  "I got the license. We'll get a picture from the department of motor vehicles.

  Usually, Adam enjoyed the drive from Burlington to Culver's Mills. The road ran through forested hills and past the lovely lakes that were the main tourist attractions in this part of Vermont. He barely noticed the greening hills and the white blossoms of the wild plum trees. His mind focused on the pockmarked face of the man he left standing in the over-decorated living room.

  Brad accessed the department of motor vehicle records and printed a picture. When it emerged, Adam note
d that as usual it only bore a faint resemblance to the original.

  "We'll have to fax this to the FBI with a written description. It doesn't look a whole lot like him.”

  "Do you want me to try immigration or Interpol?"

  "Sure, and send it to the RCMP. If he is an illegal, he might be known to them."

  Many people slipped through the heavily-wooded border. People smugglers along the St. Lawrence, usually bringing Chinese migrants, sometimes brought in others as well. The RCMP might have a file on the guy.

  He should call John Whitfield, the chief of detectives in Burlington to see if he had anything on Howarth. On the other hand, Howarth looked as though he hadn't been hassled by the police recently. Best not to get Whitfield all worked up. He was the sudden type who might go out there without enough information.

  Bill Perkins might know something about Howarth. The contractor wasn't in his county, but Bill got around and heard things. Restless, Adam left Brad with instructions to call if any information came in, and drove to the Sheriff's home.

  The house in Owen fronted on a short, curving street. A garden filled the front yard, daffodils and early tulips at this time of year, but overflowed with colorful flowers by July. Bill's wife was the gardener, Bill the muscle.

  Bill met him at the door. "Come in, come in. What can I do for you?"

  "I need your help again, Bill."

  "How about coffee first?"

  The two men walked back to the cheerful kitchen where Bill's wife poured coffee and left.

  "What's this about?”

  Adam recounted his visit to Howarth. Bill didn't know much about him, except that he employed some tough-looking men on his site whose only job seemed to be to stare at strangers and the workingmen. Bill knew guys who quit because of it, in spite of excellent wages.