Murderous Roots

by Virginia Winters

  "Hey, the lady invited me. She said you gave the okay to let me in on the end of this."

  "I guess you write the story, now we have a confession."

  Anne met them at the door and took them into the breakfast room. After brunch, a contented, well-fed and coffee-drinking group demanded an explanation from Adam and Anne.

  "What happened, Adam?" Erin asked. "I thought you suspected the Beauchamps or the Culvers, and then the whole Russian thing happened, and now Beatrice.”

  "The two families were involved, but only because their ancestors lived here for so long."

  He glanced over at Anne. "You tell this part."

  "A Beauchamp's daughter, Leticia, married a Culver. This was the only time a Beauchamp's married locally. They jumped the gun a little, and a baby was on the way. When they died young in the influenza epidemic, the old grandmothers sent the child to New York. They had been embarrassed by the birth in the first place. After she grew up and married, her family had nothing to do with her and lost track of her descendants after she was murdered."

  "Murdered. Did that have anything to do with this murder?"

  "Not at all. It meant neither family knew Peg and May were their cousins. When we found the Beauchamps have a trust fund, we thought that gave Thomas motive for murder. However, he doesn't benefit from the trust himself, and they are intent on helping Peg and May. The next red herring was the whole Culver thing: first the rumor about the Irish maid, which wasn't true, at least not as far as we could find at the time; and then the aboriginal ancestor, which was. David Culver paid Jennifer to keep that one quiet. And you keep quiet, too, Ted."

  "The Culvers gave me permission to publish the lot: murder, blackmail, everything."

  "How did the Russian Mafia get involved?"

  "That was Jennifer's bad luck," Adam said. "She discovered the Culver baby and the wills on both sides and also searched for land just like Anne did. When Jennifer found Howarth building on what was still Culver land, she and Davis started to blackmail him. This time she chose a real bad guy. Howarth was hiding from Interpol. He thought he might as well launder some money through construction. That was his style in Russia too: land that didn't seem to belong to anyone, a few bribes, perfect. Then came Jennifer. He had a genuine alibi for her murder because he didn't kill her. When he learned of her death, though, he took that as an opportunity to clean up the other loose end and get Davis off his back."

  "What about the Morrisons?" asked Catherine.

  "They're long gone into the wilds of Quebec, according to the brother. They had nothing to do with the murder. She was terrified ICE would find her."

  "And all the time it was Mrs. Ames," Erin said.

  "How is she, Adam?" Anne asked.

  "Very remorseful. I think likely the charge will be reduced to manslaughter, but you never know."

  "What about you, Anne? Are you going back to Canada tomorrow?" Erin asked.

  "Are you going to continue your family research?" asked Brad.

  Anne looked around the room. All these people who had become so close to her. So much to look forward to in their lives: Erin and Adam, Catherine and her boys. In almost losing her own experience here, somehow she recovered it. And now there was Thomas. Of course, she would return.

  "I may give up genealogy forever. It is far too dangerous. Catherine has asked me to come back in the fall, so I hope to see you all then."

  "For a quiet, uneventful holiday," said Catherine.

  About the Author

  Virginia Winters Murderous Roots is Virginia Winters’’ first published novel. Short works have appeared online in Camroc Press Review, Six Sentences, and Pine Tree Mysteries. A short story has been published in Confabulation2, an anthology produced by Wynterblue Publishing, North Bay, Ontario. Virginia blogs about writing and other interests, including genealogy, current events and gardening at her website, http://www.virginiawinters.ca. She also posts book reviews, and some of her photography. Virginia is a pediatrician, living in Lindsay, Ontario, Canada with her husband George, an internist, cat Fred and standard poodle Charlie.

  Turn the page for and excerpt from the exciting sequel, The Facepainter Murders.

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  For more information or to contact Virginia

  virginiawinters.ca

  vwinters@bell.net

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  The Facepainter Murders

  From The River Publishing

  ©2010 Virginia Winters. All Rights Reserved First Print Edition, Oct. 2011

  Cover Design by Karen Phillips

  Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. All characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of the book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Author or Publisher, excepting brief quotes to be used in reviews.

  Dedication

  For my family

  Acknowledgements:

  Thanks to my friend, Barbara McFadzen, for the many Friday nights she has spent listening to me while I read the latest story or chapter to her. Thanks are due to the Lindsay Public Library, reference division for its invaluable help. Finally, thanks to editor Shelley Rodgerson Chase for all the extra hours she spent on The Facepainter Murders.

  CHAPTER 1

  Maggie danced around the body that lay face down in the muddy water remaining in the ditch after the afternoon rain. Anne grabbed the dog’s collar and dragged her away from her find. She must have smelled it all the way from the house, she thought. That’s why she was so frantic to get out here.

  She squatted by the head. A precise hole, just visible in the tangled mass of blood and hair, marked an entry point above the right ear. No point in touching him, she thought. No point but someone would ask if she had made sure he was dead. Her fingers felt through the water to where his carotid pulse should have been. Nothing. Nothing except that smell. Fighting the waves of nausea that threatened to overwhelm her, she wiped her fingers on the grassy bank and stood up.

  “That’s enough,” she said to the protesting dog as she hauled her through the gate onto the path. Maggie tugged frantically the length of the garden and up to the kitchen door.

  Catherine turned around from the stove, startled when the screen door slammed behind Anne.

  “There’s a body in the ditch,” Anne gasped, as she collapsed into a kitchen chair, out of breath from her tug- of-war with the dog.

  “Who?”

  “I don’t know. How could I know? I just got here; remember? Eighteen months since I was here last, and in all that time, did I find a body at home? No. Cross the border and here’s another one, waiting for me in your back garden.”

  The ghost of a smile at the lame joke crossed Catherine’s pale face as she said, “I’ll call 911. No ambulance?”

  “Yes, he’s gone. So are all his clothes. Whoever left him there took all his clothes away.”

  “Naked?”

  “Absolutely. I should go back. You’re supposed to stay with a body.”

  Anne slumped against a pillar, watching the orange and black of an oriole as it darted at the feeder. The garden was a mass of scarlet and ochre with brilliant strokes of indigo from the butterfly bushes. Far better, she thought, to stay here. The dog whined softly from the other side of the screen door. Behind her she could hear Catherine speaking quickly to the 911 operator.

  “No, Maggie,” she said as she hung up the phone.

  Anne forced herself off the porch and through the garden as far as the gate. She didn’t go through, but stood looking at the fields while she waited for the patrol car and the questions. There would be many questions, that she knew. When she had found the murdered librarian on her last visit here, they had been endless. And then she had become involved with the investigation, and then she had almost died. Almost been killed. When she had finally gone ho
me it had taken many months for the nightmares to stop.

  She watched the body. The wind had picked up, rippling the water and giving an illusion of movement as it disturbed a few strands of the dark hair. She shivered in the sudden chill as the sun fell below the trees. The wail of a siren, rising and falling in the distance, came closer then stopped as a patrol car turned into the lane. The murky water, reddened by the flashing lights, lapped the body as though it steeped in its own blood. She shivered again as she turned to the voices of the policemen who walked towards her.

  “Hi, Dr. McPhail,” called the taller of the two men.

  She recognized them as brothers Pete and Dave Graham. The one who spoke was Dave, the quieter younger brother.

  “Damn shame you have to find a body every time you come down to see us,” called the other, more lighthearted Pete.

  “Was he dead when you got here?” asked Dave.

  “Yes, he was. I could smell him,” she answered, “and so could the dog. That’s why I came back here. The dog. She wanted to see what it was.”

  “Do you recognize him?”

  “No.”

  “How long have you been in the country, Doctor?” Dave continued.

  “Since yesterday.”

  “We’ll want to see your passport.”

  Anne could see Pete standing back as Dave asked the questions. Maybe he thought he knew her too well. She hadn’t had much to do with Dave on her last visit. Everyone’s a suspect until they’re not, she remembered Adam saying to her.

  “Okay, you go back to the house now. Adam will be along to speak to you,” Dave said to her as Pete muttered into his shoulder radio.

  “All right.”

  Anne walked back through the garden, not noticing the few flowers picked out by the last rays of the sun.

  Catherine was pouring tea into gaily-painted ceramic mugs as Anne opened the screen door.

  “Do you want to have something to eat while we wait for Adam?” Catherine asked.

  “I don’t think I can. How do you know I’m waiting for Adam?”

  Catherine laughed. “It’s a small town,” she said, “and we have one detective who investigates homicides. Besides, when the patrolman reported who found the body, Adam would come anyway. After all the help you were to him the last time you were here, I’m sure he wants to see you again.”

  “Dave Graham didn’t seem as friendly as last time. He seemed quite suspicious.”

  “Don’t worry. Adam knows you.”

  “Yes, but two bodies in as many years?”

  Catherine didn’t answer, but turned to fill her teapot.

  “What is it?” Anne asked, as she watched Catherine's fingers turn white where they encircled her cup.

  “Not the best advertisement for a bed and breakfast,” she answered, her eyes filling with sudden tears. “You know it’s all I have and the twins are going away to school next year.”

  “I know.” Anne remembered that Catherine’s husband had died in the second year of their marriage, leaving her with the twins, the big old house and enough insurance money to bury him and get the business started.

  “Should I go and look at him? What if he’s someone I know? What if he’s been a guest here?”

  Now the cup was shaking. Anne reached over and held Catherine’s hands. Cold, she thought. She needs that tea.

  “Wait until they come and get us. Please drink your tea. You’re very cold, Catherine.”

  An hour later, Anne was sitting in Catherine’s little library, still waiting for Adam. She had left her little grey brick house in Bridgenorth, a small town in Ontario, the day before, leaving behind her Siamese cat, Albert. She had considered bringing him this year but wasn’t sure how Maggie would feel about a cat invading her domain. Maggie sat on her footstool as usual, surveying her from behind grey bushy eyebrows. Half sheep dog, she seemed to need to keep all her humans in sight. When Adam came in she welcomed him with a few thumps of her slightly too short tail.

  “Hey, Maggie,” he said, rubbing her ears. “Hello, Anne.”

  His dark eyes and thin face looked more relaxed than last year, she thought, not as edgy. Maybe he was happier. Catherine had said that he was still seeing Erin, a local antique dealer.

  “Adam, I didn’t hear the door.”

  “I came through the kitchen. How are you?” “Not too bad, considering.”

  “What did you see?”

  Anne told him about finding the body. “…and Maggie pushed ahead of me, so there will be dog prints. I hauled her out of there as soon as I was sure he was dead.”

  “Did you see or hear anything else?”

  “No.” She went on, “We heard a car in the lane, before Maggie started barking, but I didn’t see anyone when I went out.”

  Adam settled back in his chair and looked at her: small, early forties, very fair hair, green eyes set in a round face which bore an unexpected tan. She was a little thinner than last year, more grey in the fair hair, and a little tired-looking. Finding bodies could do that to you. He hoped neither she nor Catherine had any connection to the dead man. Anne was talking.

  “It’s good to see you again. I’ve been so looking forward to this trip. I hope that you’ll have time to have dinner with me.”

  “I hope so too.” He held out a small plastic bag with a torn scrap of paper in it. “Do you recognize this?”

  “Is it part of a ticket? I’ve not seen one like that, but then I got here yesterday.”

  “We found it in the guy’s hand.”

  “What a strange thing to hold on to.”

  Adam stood up. “Yes, it was. Catherine had to go look at the body. I hear them in the kitchen. Maybe she needs you,” he said.

  Catherine did indeed need her. Her thin body trembled and her large dark eyes held a film of tears. Anne sat with her arm around Catherine until she had stopped shaking.

  “Catherine, did you know him?” Adam asked.

  “No, I’ve never seen him before. So inhuman, somehow, to abandon him in a ditch.” She looked across the table at Adam. “I don’t think he’s local.”

  “Neither do I. Thanks ladies, and thank you, Maggie,” he said as he rubbed the ears of the worried-looking dog, sitting with her head on Catherine’s knee. He walked out into the night and across the garden to where the crew was working.

  Adam watched the forensics crew searching the lane and the roadside, moving like shadows in and out of the lights that had been set up around the scene. The body was dumped, he thought. Why would he have a ticket in his hand, especially if he saw the attack coming? What was the ticket for? After a few words with Pete, he drove back through town to the police station.

  The station was part of the courthouse complex on one side of the town square. Culver’s Mills, population seventeen thousand, was a post-card-typical Vermont small town. The courthouse, clock tower and police station formed one side of the square. Opposite stood the white clapboard Methodist church. A short row of shops, including an antique store owned by Erin Maxwell—his own special lady—and professional offices filled in one side; a restaurant, homes and the bank, the other. Brick pathways crisscrossed a small green space, centered on a heroic statue of the town’s founder. Quelling the impulse to stop and see Erin, he parked in front of the courthouse and took the ten steps to the door two at a time.

  The police station occupied one wing of the courthouse building. The court’s side was all polished marble floors and dark oak paneling, but once through the station doors only the bright screensavers on the desk computers enlivened the institutional-green walls, grey vinyl floors and steel filing cabinets. Four desks were jammed in the middle of the room. Cables, secured to the floor with duct tape, snaked around and between them.

  “Brad,” Adam called to his youngest officer, a computer expert.

  “Yeah, boss.” Brad was tall and loosely put together, his friendly nature showing all over his face.

  “We have a problem. Our stiff out there has no clothes, no id. We
’ll need the fingerprints, dental impressions, maybe an artist. I don’t think he’ll photograph too well.”

  “I’ll borrow from Burlington if we need one. Was there anything else at the scene?”

  “Just this.”

  Adam showed him the torn ticket. He noticed now that the two letters remaining were Cu suggesting it was for something in town.

  “Not like any ticket I’ve seen lately. I’ll get a list of recent events from the paper and the rec center. Bars too. Sometimes they use tickets for special bands.” Brad picked up his phone to start his round of calls.

  “Circulate the motels and B and B’s for missing guests and get the boys to check any vehicles that seem to be abandoned. I’m going over to talk to Peg.”

  “Will do.” Brad grinned. Peg was the owner of the local diner, Lil’s, and it was dinner time.

  The diner was diagonally across the square from the courthouse in an old stone building that had previous lives as a lumberman’s office and a grocery store. It had been Lil’s for fifty years now.

  Adam walked past the statue in the middle of the park, automatically touching the toe for luck as he passed, and up the stairs to Lil’s door. Lil herself was long gone, but the décor remained the same. Red vinyl seats in comfortable booths filled the space in front of the windows on three sides. A white enamel counter, worn through to black in a few places, ran the length of the room. An old-fashioned, polished chrome milk shake maker stood at one end of the counter. Adam took one of the red and chrome stools and said hello to Peg.

  “Hi, Adam—usual?”

  Peg herself was thoroughly modern: close-cropped sandy hair, a pair of rimless glasses and a white shirt tied short over faded jeans.

  “Sure.”

  Peg made the best chicken salad sandwiches, from her own home-reared and home-cooked chickens that he’d had anywhere, and he had tried them everywhere. He looked around the room, recognizing everyone except a family with two kids who were enjoying themselves, spinning around on the stools. No singles.