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

by T. Hunt Locke

  “No, I was thinking the sofa,” Dan replied as they unpacked their backpacks.

  He looked up to see her traipsing, naked, into the shower. Anna looked over her shoulder, her face partially obscured by her long locks and crooked her finger in the come hither fashion. “You are joining me.”

  It wasn’t a question. Her voice had the ability to issue a velvet command.

  “After you, me lady.”

  “You are sure this is necessary,” the man stated standing ankle deep in the outgoing tide.

  “Yes. And by tonight. Time is of the essence and the timing could not be more perfect.”

  “Master Sinclair, you ask a lot.” In fact the man, born into the privilege of high society, was accustomed to issuing his own orders. But in this case, as a Freemason, he was in the subordinate position. Although difficult, the task was clear. “But, sir, I will have it handled to the best of my ability.”

  Sinclair put the phone down. The wheels of action were beginning to move in motion. He placed another call. “Yes, Master,” the sultry voice answered.

  “Otis Thatcher House. I don’t want Burdett at that conference.” He looked at his watch which read three thirty. “You’ve plenty of time if you leave now.”

  The line went dead. Sinclair walked down to the dock where John Kilkenny was preparing his boat for its journey to the mainland. “Is everything prepared, Sir?”

  “We cannot be sure, John. I do, however, have confidence that everybody will carry out their duty. I have no use for Mick Beckham. But his murder would raise too many red flags. Best just to rid him of his ill-gotten gain and to leave his henchman in a pool of blood. Be sure to leave a message for our good Chief Nickerson.”

  Sinclair did not wait for a reply and turned for the sacred mound. Prayers were in order.

  “I’m not going.”

  “Nor did I expect you to,” Professor George replied pulling his unruly brown hair back into a ponytail. “Still, while a longshot, something may come out of it.”

  Vivi pulled the sheets over her chest and sat up in the bed. “A map you say? They always seem to lead to nowhere other than folly.”

  George shrugged his shoulders. “I’ll be able to tell that straight away. But, this Jack Beckham said, ‘it is what is contained in the map.’ Look, a quick speech to debunk all the Dan Brown nonsense is always fun. Throw in a nice romantic colonial inn, a view of Plymouth Harbor and, who knows, maybe fortune will shine again.”

  “Again?”

  “The charter I pored over today. Château Comtal was a center for the Cathar movement. Bernard the Third, Count of Comminges, a Knight Templar, back from the Holy Land to serve as a witness for the land transferal to the Templar keep, this is compelling.”

  “When supposedly he had died in battle the previous year. Compelling indeed.” Vive leisurely arose from the bed. Her thin curvaceous body always made Frankie lose track of thought no matter the topic. “I’ll go,” she stated. “And drop that schoolboy stare. It is not becoming a forty something Harvard professor.”

  “It was just that fortune shone on us I suppose,” Pauline reminisced as she led Anna to the rusted out shell of a 1963 Volkswagon van which now served as a glorified metallic garden overflowing with various wildflowers.

  Anna marveled at the story as she looked over the sunset glistening over a Buzzards Bay dotted with sailboats enjoying an early fall afternoon. “The engine skipped out right there at the end of the driveway. We had visited, this is Bob’s hometown, to lay his dad to rest. After a month or so back to the road it was. The road, the hippy’s home back in the late sixties. Didn’t take us far. But we had a bit of inheritance, a for sale sign hung right where Lola breathed her final breath. We took it as fate.”

  The strumming of guitar hummed through the autumn breeze. “I met her in a club down in old Soho,” Bob sang bringing a smile to his wife.

  Pauline and Anna walked back to the picnic table where Bob and Dan sat. “Truth is we could have brought Lola back to life. The Otis Thatcher was a bit run down but grabbed our soul on sight.”

  “Serendipity.”

  Anna smiled. She loved the word and the love Pauline coated it with.

  “A baby was on the way and our first home, Lola, led us to our second, Otis Thatcher.”

  Dan raised a glass. “Well put, Bob. And, I for one, am glad you did. Otis made my grad school stay a pleasure.”

  “I should say,” Pauline exclaimed with a laugh. “If those walls could talk!”

  Anna giggled.

  Bob looked at his watch. “You two should be off to Horseneck Beach. A bit of a skinny dip does the blood wonders.”

  Pauline agreed. “Take it from two graying hippies. Keeps you young.”

  Dan relaxed in his wicker chair and enjoyed the peaceful atmosphere of good friends framed by the picturesque background of the bay. Horseneck Beach. Skinny dipping. His move from the rigors of being a prosecuting attorney invested in a loveless marriage was finally beginning to show a profit. Cape Cod, life as a community college professor, a shingle hung in the village, was his fountain of youth.

  Burdett stood up and polished off his beer. “Let’s go, Anna.”

  Anna jumped up and saluted. “Yes, Sir! A skinny dip and a conference. My type of evening.”

  She waved as Dan backed out of the driveway. “Bye Pauline, Bob, and you too Lola!” Burdett maneuvered his Jeep around a pick-up truck making its way up the driveway. The pick-up, with stacks of cranberries piled neatly in the back bed, came to a halt.

  “If it isn’t my old running mate, Dan Burdett!” the driver shouted through his rolled down window.

  “Sweetest cranberries on the Cape. Charley Boyce, how are they hanging?”

  Charley waved and continued up the driveway. Dan smiled to himself and turned on to the bay road with the knowledge that the friendships he had forged on the shores of Buzzards Bay had indeed provided a sturdy bridge connecting his old life with the new one he had managed to build. A sense of satisfaction flowed through his veins.

  Nola carefully collected the papers she had assembled. Her desk was cleared. The Sinclair file was put in the upper right hand corner of the sturdy antique bureau which had come with the office and the Beckham file on the upper left. The names Chadwell and Nickerson beamed up at her.

  True Pilgrims. They essentially constituted one clan. One very successful clan. Nola herself had voted for Bill Chadwell in the most recent Congressional election. This was old Cape. The family tree stretched back nearly four hundred years. The Chadwell’s and the Nickerson’s hung tight.

  “No,” she murmured to herself. “The Chadwell Nickerson Clan were many things, mostly puritanical, but they were not given to throwing in their lot with strangers. Ruthless in their dealings, yes, underhanded no.”

  Nola slid the file she had coined Chaderson aside. Now her attention to Sinclair. “This should be interesting.”

  Sail boats bobbed up and down in the distance glowing in the late afternoon sun. It was high tide. Dan and Anna sprinted into the incoming waves. Dan admired her athletic trim.

  “Are you a good swimmer, Dan Burdett,” she called as she emerged from beneath the frothy surf.

  “Former Bank Street Beach lifeguard I’ll have you know.”

  “Long time ago, old man! Catch me and we’ll see what happens. How’s that for a challenge?” She then took off with long powerful strokes cresting over the small waves.

  Dan wasted no time and went in pursuit. Anna Chase wasn’t playing hard to get and he quickly overtook her. Anna wrapped her legs around his hips. They let the lapping waves control their movements each enjoying the building sensation in silence. She began to moan. Softly. Then her intensity increased. Screams filtered through the salty air. Dan focused his energy on her lusty energy. Then she collapsed onto his shoulders. Her legs went slack in the water. Lusty groans tuned to heavy breathing.

  Another sound began to crest from the shore. At first they paid it no attention. But the
high pitched whistle persisted. Dan turned his gaze to the beach off in the distance. An officer stood by waving her arms for Dan and Anna to return. Immediately. The uniformed officer pointed to the clothes they had left behind.

  “We are busted, Miss Chase.”

  “Totally worth it, Professor.”

  A Toyota Camry slowly pulled into the Otis Thatcher Bed and Breakfast driveway. The crunch of the tires rolling over the gravel served the purpose of alerting Pauline and Bob that a guest had arrived. The driver got out of the vehicle and surveyed the premises. It was a quiet afternoon. The plan would be carried out discreetly. The work of a master. And with the calm and confidence of a seasoned practitioner the artist slowly walked onto the brightly flower laden porch. A moment was taken to admire the lilacs.

  Pauline greeted her newly arrived guest as she had all guests over the last thirty years. A beaming smile offering the warmth of home. Bob joined his wife offering the same folksy New England charm. “Welcome to the Otis Thatcher House. I’m Bob. This is Pauline. Boy did you choose a nice time to visit and let me get your bags.”

  There was no luggage. Instead, their guest levelled a pistol at Pauline’s head. “Dan Burdett. Please lead me to his room, Bob.”

  There was an airy, almost chipper tone to the voice. But, Bob knew, the gunman was deadly serious. Bob and Pauline were pacifists. Guns were, naturally, strictly forbidden on the premises. This was a stance that was now considered in a different light. Reason was his only weapon. He chose his words carefully. “Dan has left. Surely, whatever problem you have with Dan does not involve us. We are simple lodge owners. Now please, I beg you, take that gun away from my wife.”

  The gunman obeyed Bob’s plea. It was a reasonable request and one a gentleman should make. The gun was dutifully adjusted towards Bob. “On to Dan’s room shall we.”

  Pauline stumbled out of the reception area and unsteadily walked up the flight of stairs. Bob followed feeling the steel of the pistol pushed into his lower back. Bob wasn’t a fighter. Never had been. He could, however, read people. Identify intent. The eyes that bore into him in the reception area provided more dread than the pistol trained on his back.

  They walked into Dan Burdett’s guestroom. The gunman’s gloved hand closed the door. The right index finger flashed the ‘quiet’ sign. Pauline and Bob complied and sat nervously on the bed. He grabbed her trembling hand and watched as their assailant made a phone call.

  “Burdett is gone. Off to the conference I suppose. How should I proceed?”

  The mobile phone was placed back in the holder attached to the belt. Two shots were fired. For a second, Bob and Pauline sat suspended, holding hands, a look of unbelieving dismay on their usually cheery faces. Then they slumped over. Dead. A stream of blood beginning to trek down their foreheads then onto the slope of their noses.

  There was something poetic in death the gunman thought. A sense of artistic achievement. But it could only be appreciated for so long. This was a beauty that quickly faded and then, the artist, must just as swiftly fade into the scenery. No signature was required. The true artist would always be named Anonymous.

  The University of Massachusetts at Dartmouth, nestled between America’s Hometown of Plymouth and the Rhode Island border, just off of Narragansett Bay, had quietly been building a solid reputation as a haven for historical research. To buttress its reputation, conferences such as this, Templars in America, were organized to entice the public to come and participate. This worked on a number of levels. First, it allowed the University to garner funds which could be put towards further scholastic research. Secondly, it made the event more attractive to academics. Publish or perish was the rule in academia. Still, it would be nice to sell a book now and then.

  It was not a formal affair. Nonetheless, Anna and Dan did their best to freshen up after a scintillating romp in the waves. Anna applied a dusting of makeup and asked, “What time is Professor George scheduled to talk?”

  “Eight o’clock.” Dan had committed the first night’s roster to memory. He was more interested in speaking with his former mentor, Allen Wittenborn, during the cocktail hour. “We’ll be there in plenty of time.”

  He hadn’t been back to his grad school alma mater since the defense of his master degree thesis. Dan Burdett didn’t feel good about this. This place mattered. Not just for him, but for his kids as well. He wanted to implant the importance of accomplishment in them. Their Dad, after divorce, had not given up. Rather, he had added to his resume.

  Anna walked beside him silently. She sensed him receding into his thoughts. It kindled something inside her as well. She had foregone her university career to help her ailing mother and now, sadly, with her mom’s passing, she was free to jump into the academic cradle. A rush overcame her. Tonight was a beginning.

  “Dan Burdett,” a voice came from across the room. “Haven’t lost your touch with the ladies it seems!”

  “Professor Wittenborn, Allen, a pleasure. This is my student, and friend, Anna.”

  Wittenborn raised an eyebrow and offered his hand. “Miss Anna, the pleasure is all mine.”

  Anna accepted his greeting and looked anxiously at her watch. “I hope to introduce myself to Professor George.”

  “Well then, young lady, you must be off to his talk.”

  “I’d like to catch a bit of that myself,” Dan added. “And, if possible, Henry Sinclair’s talk as well.”

  “Then, by all means, follow me,” Wittenborn directed as he started down the hall.

  The new World History Center included flourishes from many of the great empires which held sway over the world stage. Dan and Anna were led down a hall which featured a Sino-Portuguese architectural style. The famed Gregorio Lopes portrait of Vasco de Gama, drawn in the Northern Renaissance style, hung prominently outside the first conference room which they were led into.

  Quietly they took a seat in the back as Professor Francis George was being introduced.

  “Good evening fellow scholars and history buffs,” George began. “Thank you for entertaining me tonight and, of course, my greatest appreciation to this fine university. Special thanks to a colleague and longtime friend, Professor Allen Wittenborn, for organizing this event.”

  Wittenborn acknowledged the greeting and stood up. “The honor is ours, I can assure you, Professor George. Responsibilities will bring me elsewhere, but as we have a full house here, please continue.”

  With a genuine salute, Frankie George went on. “I guess, for all Medievalists, a nod must be given to Dan Brown. Not for any historical breakthrough nor for great writing even, but we must admit he has shone a bright light on the area of research academics such as myself toil in. Now, on to the topic at hand. Indeed, the Cathars have much in common with the Templar Knights. For one, they both, it seems, detested sex. Such a pity.”

  George’s easy presentation and wit brought a gentle laughter. Dan glanced over at Anna and could see she was already enraptured. Professor Frankie George had style.

  “Like the Templars, the Cathars were supposed to have a grand hidden treasure. Sadly, like the valiant soldiers of Christ, they were ruthlessly wiped out. In the current day, thanks to the aforementioned Dan Brown, they have been drawn into much historical speculation, what we academics refer to as pseudo-history. We will all be familiar with the Holy Grail. For tonight however, let us focus on who the Cathars really were and their connection with the Knights Templar.”

  Wittenborn nudged Dan. “This might be a good time to break away.”

  As much as Burdett would have liked to have taken in the complete talk, he knew he was on the clock. “Sure, I’ll meet you in the Charlemagne Café. Give me fifteen minutes. I would like to take a seat in Sinclair’s reading.”

  Certain things are meant to be accomplished under the cover of darkness. John Kenworthy IV stood nervously over the rock which lately had attracted so much attention. He could not make heads nor tails out of the writing though his grandfather had tried to hammer the runic
alphabet into his brain at such a young age. “It is your heritage, Son,” Papa preached.

  This section of the Rhode Island coast had been in his family for over two centuries. It was said that his great-great grandfather stopped cold when, in 1805, as a surveyor for John Hancock’s thriving trade business, he came across this massive two and a half ton slab of stone. The land was purchased on the spot. For years, what became known as the Narragansett Rune Stone had been a source of family pride. A curiosity to show off on a leisurely stroll at the water’s edge. John Kenworthy, the family’s patriarch, knew different. The knowledge was passed down through the generations. So was membership as a Freemason.

  The rumblings of a front end loader became ever louder as the machine climbed over the dune. Luckily work on a new cottage was being conducted on the property. He had enlisted the services of two young men eager for some extra cash.

  “Delicately now,” he urged. In fact this wasn’t delicate work. This also wasn’t the first time the stone had been moved. Some twenty years before his father had been advised to move it further down into the surf so it would not be visible even at low tide. Prying eyes, nosy historians, had arrived. They weren’t welcome.

  Finally the sturdy slab was secure in the machine’s clutches. The Narragansett Rune Stone would forever be shuttered from the world.

  John Kenworthy IV laughed as he washed down another gulp from the bottle of Hennessey which dangled loosely in his right hand. He stumbled up over the dune. Perhaps this was just another game. After all, wasn’t that what he adored about Freemasonry? The mystery, the secrecy, the rituals. “Bravo, good man,” he saluted himself. His grandfather would be proud. Time to call Sinclair. Mission accomplished!

  “Now, let us look into the background of the Westford Knight.” Henri Sangreal, amateur historian, bestselling author, and academic rogue, truly enjoyed telling the stories of the clan of which he claimed descent. His father had encouraged a career in law. The family law firm, with offices in Boston, New York, Washington D.C., Hong Kong, and London was a gateway to the world. But, he reasoned, so was a career in academia. He had recently returned from a year of teaching and research at the University of Singapore.