Vinland: A Dan Burdett Mystery (The Cape Cod Mystery Series Book 1)

by T. Hunt Locke

  Mick Beckham let the implication sink in. “Would you be surprised if some of the stolen items were to be found in your home, Niece?”

  “You are beyond contempt. It is inconceivable you came out of the same womb as my Grandfather.”

  “Two sides of the same coin I suppose. What I am is effective. Now, let us get down to business.”

  “The business being you seem to have lost your men,” she replied bitterly.

  He sat down heavily into his chair and swiveled to face the harbor view. “Worse than that I am afraid.”

  “How so?”

  “Peter Collins has suddenly disappeared.”

  “With the map! Geezus. What insurance policy do you have against that bit of betrayal?”

  Enraged, he leapt from his chair. “Pete doesn’t have a disloyal bone in his body. He’s been abducted or, perhaps, a worse fate.”

  Julia let out a chuckle. “In either case, the map is gone. I take it you made a copy.”

  Mick Beckham huffed angrily and nodded to the study’s closet. “A copy of a copy and I still expect you to get me the original.”

  “Not as easy as that. My Grandfather has it hidden. Naturally, your two goons made a mess of things.”

  “Pete and Papi are capable sorts for that line of work. In fact, they produced a great result of 24 Wychmere Harbor Drive,” he added icily.

  “Well get them to clean up this mess, Uncle dearest.”

  “Pete is dead. Papi is missing and probably has suffered the same fortune.”

  Julia allowed herself a smile which she cloaked under a frown. “Nashawena” she whispered.

  “31 to goddamn nothing,” Brick Cleary groaned.

  “To the Buffalo Bills no less,” Dan continued, throwing salt on the wound. “Only one game, but I’m fairly sure my one grand has washed out to sea.”

  “Don’t complain. I’m in for five large. Molly will hit the roof when she finds out.”

  “Where is the little red-headed fireball?” Dan asked. Molly would often accompany Brick if they left Boston to work on a case.

  “She’s got class this week. Me too,” he added rather sheepishly.

  “Class?”

  “Yeah, at Quincy Junior College. Molly is taking classes in English, mostly grammar and stuff.”

  “Good,” Dan answered unable to suppress his surprise. “And you?”

  “Don’t laugh at me, you hear.”

  “Who’s laughing? Look at me. I went back for my master’s degree and now I’m a lecturer over at Cape Cod Community.”

  “Alright, well, Molly likes my stories. You know, some of the shit from back on the force, and now, the private eye gig. She thinks I should write them down.”

  “Like in a book?”

  “Exactly. So I’m taking courses in literature and creative writing.”

  “Huh. Tough to get a publisher I would imagine. I used to like the Spencer for Hire books,” Dan replied adding an optimistic tone.

  “Don’t need one. They have these things called e-books. You can put it on Amazon and people can read the book straight from their computer.”

  Dan raised his beer. “May you be the next Robert B. Parker, my friend.”

  They both washed down their pints and placed their dinner orders. “So, what the hell is so important you invite me down to the Cape,” asked Brick.

  Dan rubbed his chin. “Perhaps, if lucky, your next great story awaits. I’ve been retained by an individual to ensure his property, property of historical value, is legally protected.” There certainly was more to the story but that was all Brick needed to know. “And, my secretary, Nola, her brother turned up dead and her uncle has been lost at sea.”

  “Sorry to hear that, some tough business you’ve got yourself into. And you suspect foul play. Are these two situations connected?”

  “Good question. Probably not. But there is something gnawing at me that says they are tied at the hip.” He thought to mention the possible link, the map, but held back.

  Brick nodded. “You have good instincts, Dan. What’s my angle?”

  “Down at the docks, Fisherman’s Wharf.” Dan reached into his windbreaker pocket and produced a photograph. He looked down at it and let out a heavy sigh. “Here, these are the two in question. On the left, with the Sox cap, that’s Pete. A good kid. Mischievous, knew the inside of a jail, but, really, had a heart of gold. The same could be said of this guy. Papi, a tough as nails fisherman. Handy with his fists, but was the father figure in Nola’s family.”

  “Ok, so, how did Pete die?” Brick questioned looking closely at the figures in the photo.

  “Here’s what I don’t buy. These two were fisherman. They could take you from here to Provincetown and back down to Narragansett Bay blindfolded. The Barnstable County Police Chief has it down to them getting caught up in a squall. Pete got knocked around, hit his head, and Papi was tossed overboard.”

  Brick dug his fork down into a steaming plate of big belly fried clams. Dan turned his attention to his broiled scallops. Brick looked up. “Nah, that’s bullshit. Sure, a recreational boater, but seasoned fishermen? That doesn’t wash.”

  “Here’s the thing. Nola said they were after some sort of treasure.”

  “Not a wreck. You’re not trolling at night for a shipwreck. Damn these clams are good.”

  Dan pondered that for a moment. “No you are not. What the hell were they looking for?”

  “Buried treasure? Now that would make for a good story. Let’s get another pint of this Cape Cod Beach Blonde Ale.”

  “The Elizabeth Islands,” Dan murmured.

  “Privately owned, pal. The Sinclair Family. You’re not landing a boat on their beach I can assure you. That’s good stuff!” Brick said admiring the ale’s deep golden shade. “I’ll need to bring some Cape suds back up to town.”

  “You’re not landing a boat on one of those Islands in broad daylight,” Dan concurred. “That’s for sure. But under the cover of darkness?” He reached for his phone. “Nola, I need you to get me information on the Elizabeth Islands. Inhabitants, topographical information, anything you can get your hands on.”

  “Pete and Papi. Got it. Too easy. What else do you have for me?” Brick asked.

  “The Barnstable County Police Department,” Dan snapped. “They jumped the gun way too quickly. No investigation. Open and shut. The Chief is a tough nut, not interested in anybody asking questions. And the Assistant District Attorney, young, too smooth, also intent to sweep this under the rug. Take a look into those two.” He polished off the last of his scallops and washed it down with the last of his ale. “There’s another thing too, Brick. An officer by the name of Elizabeth Chadwell, Bess, see what you can find out about her.”

  Brick raised his hand for the waitress. “One more please.” He let out a loud laugh. “This Bess, quite a lass I take it. Hey, if she fits the uniform…”

  Dan could hardly suppress his chuckle. That is what made Brick a crack detective. He could read emotions.

  Chapter 4

  The pain had passed. He now hung limply on the iron chains awaiting death. A loud laugh emanated from his mouth that surprised even himself. In the end, he had found the treasure Captain Mick Beckham had lusted for. Not that the knowledge would do either of them any good. He would take this sad bit of irony to his grave.

  Two heads craned in his direction. The laugh seemed so out of place. He was going to die. They were certainly his executioners. One older and one middle aged. The older gentleman was instructing his younger assistant. The middle aged man held a lantern which lit up the cavernous room. His eyes lit up. The remains of a Viking long boat dominated the center of the space

  The inner chamber of the mound was a revelation for John Kilkenny. Filled with what others would consider treasure, but for Henry Sinclair they were the sacred articles connecting a bloodline, and unbroken legacy of an order which still wielded its secretive power to this very day.

  “So, you see, John, our Viking ancesto
rs forged a path, it was followed by the Knights Templar to escape their persecution. And a new order was established.”

  John sat down on a wooden planked bench which sat in the corner of the dusty room. Henry Sinclair reverentially placed a sword on the table. Kilkenny looked down at it with a mix of awe and fear.

  “A Templar sword, John Kilkenny. Here, at the base, note the intricate carving of the Lorraine Cross. It was presented to one of my ancestor’s long ago, during a Crusade, by the Patriarch of Jerusalem.”

  Kilkenny looked up at his master. “And now, sir, we are on another form of crusade?”

  Henry Sinclair smiled. John Kilkenny had been chosen and sculpted well. Indeed, Sinclair silently complimented himself that he was a fine maker of men.

  The trip to the coroner’s office was predictably dismal. Pete Gomes was in fact dead. “From head wounds incurred being thrashed around his vessel,” Falmouth’s Chief Medical Examiner stated with certainty.

  “Sir, I’ll need your records so please make sure they are up to snuff.” Dan delivered his demand in a cool fashion though his blood was beginning to boil. Clearly Pete had died of head wounds. But how could the Medical Examiner know how those blows were delivered?

  The Chief bristled. “Burdett, any questions, or complaints, will go through me.”

  “As a matter of fact they won’t, Nickerson.” Burdett deliberately tossed any civility and chose not to address him as Chief. “Gomes died in your custody. I now have a wrongful death suit on my desk. You’re the main person of interest. I’ll go through the Assistant District Attorney. You better trim your sails as well.”

  The mood back at the office was just as bleak. He had given Nola the day off to take care of funeral arrangements but she would have none of it. “The work can keep me from tears, Dan. In any case, Mrs. Chase is sure she wants to go through with the divorce. I need to get those papers in order.”

  This did lighten the mood. “Good lord,” Dan exclaimed. “She’s eighty and Mr. Chase eighty-two. Good Lord, they’ve been married for over fifty years.”

  “Cheating at any age, you know the old adage, a woman scorned.”

  “Looking at naked young ladies on the internet does not constitute cheating.”

  Nola flashed her vivacious smile. “I know. But it will make her feel better to see the paperwork in order. Plus, a client is a client.”

  Among her many commendable traits, Nola was a fighter. Dan leaned his elbows on the desk and laid his chin atop his clenched fists. He wasn’t much for solace when action seemed the best reply. “You’ll also need to prepare papers for a wrongful death claim. I’ll submit them at the Barnstable County Courthouse within the week. Brick Cleary, a friend of mine from up in Quincy, is working the docks for information on what Papi and Pete were up to. Get me the information on the Elizabeth Islands. Now, I’m off to teach a class.”

  Nola got up and started out of the office. She quickly turned around and threw herself into Dan’s arms. The sobs came like waves. Dan resisted the urge to follow her into the river of sadness. Pete Gomes was a friend. He held on to his anger.

  Brick Cleary had hung around the docks for a couple of days. He had quietly watched the Monday Night Football game at The Raw Bar and on the next night downed a few beers in a similarly inconspicuous fashion at Grumpy’s Tavern. These were fisherman hangouts. He had been looked at suspiciously. With his size and world-weary face, Brick Cleary was the man you left be.

  When casing out a local in search of information, there were two types of people he sought. The first was the down on their luck crowd. Money talked loud to this bunch. The second type included the birds flying too close to the sun. Luck was on their side and they were eager to keep the winning streak alive. He had already identified two bottom feeders. Both had a bar tab growing by the day. They would lead him to the fat cats.

  Grumpy’s Tavern was a relic from another era. Funky and eclectic were the buzz words for the nouveau chic Cape Cod tourist of the 21st century. Grumpy’s was anything but. The beer was served cold. The suds were accompanied by a solid plate of food the contents of which probably had been swimming merrily only hours before in the deep blue of the Atlantic.

  “What can I get for ya,” the bartender asked in a slightly friendlier tone than the past two nights. Brick had tipped well, but not overly so.

  “I’ll have a Shipyard Dark and a Johnny back. Hey, maybe you can help with something else. Does anybody take any action here?”

  The bartender eyed him keenly. “Not sure what the stranger is referring to.”

  “Fuck you then,” Brick replied with a disarming smile. “I’m trying to lay five hundred on the Patriots but if you don’t know you don’t know.”

  “I know a guy,” came a hushed voice to his left.

  The bait was gobbled quickly. One of the bottom feeders had just bit. The bartender came back with his beer and shot. He leaned in close to Brick’s ear. “Didn’t mean anything by it, pal. Just got to watch out for cops is all. If you are still interested a gentleman will be in later. I’ll make introductions.”

  Brick nodded. In fact, the gentleman was sitting at a table in the corner just by the kitchen entrance. Brick had figured that out the previous evening. Dressed just a cut above the rest, visitors coming to and fro from his table, a few sporting a smile, a couple resigned, and the rest somber, the wiry man with a graying frame came straight out of central casting.

  “In any case, let’s tidy my friend up over here with a drink of his choice,” Brick offered patting the bartender on the shoulder.

  “Be careful of this one though friend. And watch your wallet. He’ll drink it dry,” the bartender added with a wink.

  The bottom feeder nestled closer to Brick’s side. “Thanks for the beer, man. I’m Bobby.”

  The smell of stale whiskey rode past Brick like a wave. He’d need to pump his mark for information quickly as it seemed unlikely the destitute and dissolute fisherman would see midnight. Brick extended his hand which was accepted.

  “How much are you into the local bookie for, Bobby?”

  “What the fuck business is it to you?” Bobby answered. A hint of indignity mixed with a generous amount of fear creased across his face.

  Brick had expected as much. Bobby was living on the edge. “Loosen up. Consider this your lucky day. Perhaps, with the right answers, I can clean your slate.”

  Bobby’s ears perked up. “Depends on the questions I suppose.”

  “Let’s start with Pete and Papi Gomes.”

  Bobby’s eyes darted around the bar. “Geezus man!” he said in a frantic hushed whisper. Bobby got up from his stool and walked over to the last vacant table. Brick finished off his whiskey, ordered another round, and followed.

  “You sound spooked, Bobby.”

  “And the beer tastes flat, mister. Who the hell are you?”

  “A friend of Pete and Papi you might say. I represent someone looking to get to the bottom of this situation. Let me add I tend to be very persistent. Still, nice and easy is my preferred method.”

  Bobby looked at the hulking Irishman and understood the message. “I don’t know much more than anybody. The docks are in an uproar. But quiet too, you know, a bit of fear is running around. Pete and Papi were on to something big. At least they thought so and, rumor had it, they were working for Captain Mick.”

  “Something big? Big like what?” Brick was interested in the what. The who? Well that would be the fat cat and he’d get that information from somebody higher on the food chain than Bobby.

  “How’re you helping me again?”

  “We’ll start with that beer tab,” Brick said leaning his elbows on to the rickety table.

  “Buried treasure big,” Bobby answered excitedly as he drank down another beer. “Out on the islands, the Elizabeth Islands. And, this is the kicker, like I said, they had a big sponsor!”

  Brick had hit the spot. “Thanks, Bobby. You’ve been a big help. Consider that beer slate cleansed.”
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  “Don’t you want to know about the big fish? I mean this is Captain Mick we’re talking about!”

  “I’ll go talk to a big fish about that,” Brick replied. “But, one more question, how much were Pete and Papi into Mr. Smooth behind me?”

  Bobby chuckled. “Papi won big from this weekend’s college slate. But,” he said waving Brick in close to whisper conspiratorially, “Mr. Smooth took a piece of the action on the buried treasure.”

  Brick patted him on the shoulder. “Up to the bar, Bobby! Enjoy your evening.”

  Tuesday morning saw Dan in a better mood as he drove up the pine tree lined entrance into Cape Cod Community College. The Indian summer weather was glorious and the top to his Jeep down. Driving by the Nickerson Hall administrative building he was happy to receive a wave and a gleaming smile from an attractive young lady from the Human Resource Management department. Things were looking up. He had students to nurture, classes to run, a business that was picking up, and a case that was beginning to raise the hairs on the back of his neck. Dan Burdett had a life. He reveled in that. After a few years cut adrift he finally had found a port.

  His first class, The Medieval World, finished, he took a look at his cell phone to see if he had any messages. There were none. No need, at this early juncture, to be worried about Brick. He’d contact Dan when there was something to report. He settled into his tiny yet comfortable office for his appointed 10 a.m. to 11 a.m. period open to his students. While most of the other lecturers in the faculty of Social Science saw this time as a chore, Dan rather enjoyed meeting with his students. He checked his email and saw that Allen Wittenborn had sent a VIP invitation to the upcoming conference at the University of Massachusetts.

  While the opportunity to talk with Wittenborn about Jack Beckham’s situation could prove valuable, it also alerted him that he should become more active in publishing papers to be presented at conference. He’d discuss that as well. Yes, he would invest more time to establish himself as an academic presence. He pondered possible avenues of research before being disturbed by a knock at his door.