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

by T. Hunt Locke

  “Ok, to begin…” Dan Burdett addressed the class trying to focus his attention to the lecture at hand.

  Julia Beckham rushed from her car on to the office porch. Chase & Beckham the sign read. She was happy to see it was weathering the storm no worse for wear. Entering the office, now empty, the staff being given the day off, she settled behind her desk. Tropical Storm Henri showed no sign of abating but one appointment would stand. She looked in the mirror. Her appraisal brought on a smile. Nearing forty she understood she still cut a figure. It was an important tool that she employed wisely. Yes, this deal would be signed and sealed.

  Jonathon Stork, Boston financier, had been shown a Chatham residence. His wife had become enamored with the view of the famous Chatham Light. Along the way through many summer home tours, Jonathon had become enamored with his real estate agent. Julia knew how to read the signs. She often wondered if the wives ever caught wind of what was silently in the air. Perhaps it was of no importance. They were getting a return on their investment.

  Her skirts became ever so shorter with each meeting. Finally, after Mrs. Stork had exhausted the current list of available million dollar plus properties, a deal had been struck. The Chatham Lighthouse had been the final selling point. Mr. Stork, however, was looking in a different direction. One early sunny September afternoon, Jonathon had shown up, unannounced and alone, asking to view the home one more time. Julia understood. They consummated the deal in the upstairs study overlooking the famed lighthouse. Though sixty, he was vigorous. Julia was more than happy to play mistress to this man. Surprisingly, through a discreet flash of signals, he let it be known he was a Freemason. She was stunned. Elated. This fired her passion even more than the healthy commission she would receive. Well, almost.

  If things were looking up professionally, a far more urgent matter beckoned. Julia’s cheerful mood was jolted as she perused the Boston Globe. Westport Couple Found Murdered the headline screamed. This she knew. But no mention of Dan Burdett’s arrest. No mention of a suspect in custody. What had gone wrong? She slammed the paper on the desk. A loud thump on the roof caused her to jump. The winds, tearing through the trees, were beginning to cause damage. A much larger problem loomed. If Dan Burdett had been released, a murder investigation was surely under way.

  Julia sat back down and opened her desk drawer. A bottle of brandy was produced. Two cups were set on the table. An afternoon with Jonathon would calm her nerves. She would need to talk with Anna. What the hell went wrong?

  But first things first. “Papa, hi it’s Julia, when is your next meeting with Dan?” She then texted Dan. Dan, hi! Lunch tomorrow? Brax Landing at noon!!

  The drive from Falmouth to Provincetown along Route 28 was a scenic masterpiece. Chief Nickerson could make it blindfolded. He thanked the weather gods. Race Point, the wind battered sign announced. It was here when, more than thirty years ago, the Chief then a young lawman and Vasco Gomes making his bones in the mob underworld, their paths first crossed.

  Nineteen seventy-four, July 26, was a day the Chief would forever remember as if it was yesterday. The Lady of the Dunes. A shiver still flowed through his spine thinking of the poor lady’s decaying body, her hands cut off, teeth gruesomely removed, laying lifeless in the Provincetown sands. It was a mob hit all assumed. Vasco Gomes was the prime suspect. No charges were brought. The reconstruction of the doomed lady’s face was still tucked away in his office. It was now a cold case but one that was never off Nickerson’s radar. Vasco Gomes was still his main suspect.

  Tropical Storm Henri had brought most Cape businesses to a virtual halt. The Chief would need to head off the scandal which would arise should he be linked to Rebecca. Towards that end, he would not be held to blackmail by Vasco Gomes. He patted his concealed insurance firmly attached to his belt and strode towards the entrance.

  Jimmy’s Hideaway was open. Why not! An establishment like Jimmy’s was as good a place as any to ride out a storm. He walked down the brick staircase which led him into the downstairs bar and dining room. The Chief was known here. And he paid well enough to ensure people looked the other way. There were no cheerful greetings as he marched to the back of the restaurant even if a sniff of surprise as to the guest awaiting him floated through the rustic aroma filled air.

  Vasco Gomes, his graying black hair bound tight to the back of his head in a ponytail, eyed Nickerson suspiciously as the Chief took his seat. Neither addressed the other. Rather, they waited for the waitress to arrive. It was not a long wait. They both knew her by name, Virginia, but didn’t waste time on pleasantries. She looked at them oddly. This was not a table she thought she would ever wait. The orders, two beers, Virginia could have brought without asking. Vasco Gomes and Chief Nickerson were men of habit. Perhaps, she thought as she walked back to the bar, this was the only thing they had in common. There would be no dinner order on this night.

  Neither man wanted to strike the match. De re military, Concerning Military Matters, a book on military tactics written by the Roman Senator Publias Flavius Vegatius Renatus, stated the first general to attack gave away their critical advantage. Chief Nickerson had studied tactics his whole career. An admirer of Publias, he would hold steady.

  After a time it appeared Vasco Gomes had also studied the text. He remained mute. Still, after a sufficient wait, he was ready to make the first move. He held the high ground after all. Across the table Gomes slid two photos. The first showed the Chief and Rebecca sharing an intimate dinner. Nothing incriminating there. The second, a little less clear, saw Rebecca and Nickerson walking into their love nest. Scandalous, sure, but nothing more. The photos were time stamped. The implication was clear. He knew the trail Vasco Gomes was trying to forge.

  “I had nothing to do with the death of your son, Gomes.”

  Vasco betrayed no emotion. He understood many things about Chief Nickerson. A murderer he was not. “I know. I’ll handle that in my own way. These photos, yeah Chief, buy me your help.”

  “They don’t buy you anything,” Nickerson snapped. “But, I will get to the bottom of a murder of a person under my custody. Of that you can be assured.” The Chief would never go in league with a person such as Gomes. Yet, he also understood how to navigate through a tempest. Sometimes you needed to tack into the wind. “Still, as you are the father of the victim, I’ll do my best to keep you apprised of my investigation.”

  Gomes nodded. He could read between the lines. They had a common enemy. A truce, in times such as these, could be cemented. “And then this!” he said in a low hiss with a finger pointed at the photos.

  The Chief relaxed back in his seat. He took a sip of his ale and looked straight at Gomes with his hard stare. “Clever enough I suppose. You may even think it implicates me in some way. We, Rebecca and I, had an affair. That was that. I’ll nab this scumbag as well. You’ve got nothing on me, Gomes. Nothing that will stick.”

  Vasco finished off his ale, called for another round, and laughed. “You will give me what I need. But you got me wrong here. I want to help. You help me, I take care of you.” He slid another photo across the table.

  Nickerson picked it up while eyeing Gomes warily. He turned his attention to the photo. His eyes opened wide in recognition of the person dragging Rebecca away from her car.

  “There you are,” Vasco said evenly. “Your killer. Now give me my son’s murderer, my justice, my vengeance. Then we are even.”

  Nobody on the Cape enjoyed the damage that a tropical storm, much less a hurricane, could visit to their small tight knit community. But there were benefits. The air always seemed fresher and there was a sense of purpose, the old hearty Cape Cod spirit, in cleaning up and moving on. Autumn, the best of Cape weather, was here.

  Dan Burdett appreciated the chill that was delivered by Henri. Today indeed was a new day. The ominous clouds of Wednesday and Thursday had now given way to the crystal blue sky of Friday. His classes finished for the week, he briskly headed for his Jeep. There was a case to run and a mystery t
o solve. He hoped Brick had made some headway with the photos Nola had provided him with.

  There was another avenue he would pursue. During his research on his master degree thesis he had come across the work of a Dr. Callaghan. The academic was a reclusive man. The Professor rarely was heard from except when he published a paper or, every decade or so, a book would emerge. His publisher’s loved him. Professor Callaghan’s books sold. That was a rare occurrence. He was a medievalist after all. His conclusions often stretched the bounds of accepted history. His methods of inquiry were impeccable so he was rarely met with derision. Dan had sought out his counsel. A door was slammed in his face. That was then. Today the stakes were higher.

  “Off so quickly, Professor,” a voice called.

  The voice brought about a smile. “Bess. Good afternoon. My office beckons. Dinner, tonight?”

  “Nah, you should know me better than that, Dan,” she said brushing his arm.

  Dan chuckled. “I should. But I’ve got a pile of paperwork on my desk. A murder to solve after all!”

  “Indeed. Heavy stuff. And I think I can offer a policewoman’s intuition in that work.” Dan raised an eyebrow while Bess hopped in his Jeep. “You’re not sleeping with the enemy, Dan. We can help each other.”

  Dan settled into his driver’s seat. “Where to, Officer Chadwell?”

  “Race Point. Provincetown.”

  He put the Jeep into gear, looked at her strangely, turned left, and set a course for the famous majestic dunes which first caught the Pilgrim’s eye four centuries previously.

  A thought popped into his mind. He noted her dressed in hip hugger jeans and a tight Irish knit sweater. “You have your badge?”

  Now she shot him a curious glance. “Never leave home without it!”

  Anna Chase had planned on catching up to Dan Burdett first. She had been beaten to the punch. Her annoying cousin, Julia Beckham, had texted her earlier. ‘Stay close to Burdett,’ the message read. Julia had encouraged her seduction of Burdett. Anna had not needed much of a shove but after the events of the other evening she now began to question Beckhman’s interest.

  That was a minor irritation. Now jealousy flamed through her heart. She did not appreciate the overly intimate way which Bess Chadwell interacted with Dan. Anna would well stay close. ‘Race Point,’ did not exactly seem like a place to discuss business.

  Her Nissan would also not do. She would make a detour on her way to Provincetown and borrow one of the Chase-Beckham office vehicles. A BMW made much more sense to her on this afternoon of cloak and dagger intrigue.

  Julia’s lusty moans filled the office as Anna quietly crept into the back office. Ms. Beckham, realtor extraordinaire, certainly knew how to earn her commission Anna conceded. She went to open the top desk drawer when something caught her eye. The Boston Globe. Dan Burdett? This was scrawled in red on top of a headline: Westport Couple Found Murdered. Anna gasped. How would her aunt know of Dan’s involvement? She had read the same article earlier in the day. Dan’s name was not mentioned.

  Anna’s heart skipped a beat. The frenzied cries of passion had subsided. She grabbed the keys to the BMW, snatched the newspaper, and ran to the parking lot. Her emotions now took a sudden turn. Jealousy was the least of her concerns and now a sense of dread overtook her.

  The news settled in slowly. The murder of the inn keepers had been carried out as ordered. Rebecca Leary, Chief Nickerson’s whore, had also been dispatched efficiently. Dan Burdett remained a problem. He had evaded what should have been a flawlessly executed plan. This would need to be rectified. A number was dialed the digits memorized securely.

  “I need you to get a tail on Dan Burdett. His whereabouts, activities, need to be followed.”

  “And, like the others, dealt with?”

  “Perhaps. But first, information. Let me know with whom he is meeting. We can use this as a loyalty check. Then, bring him to me. Alive.”

  The phone was hung up. Perhaps Burdett avoiding his fate was a blessing in disguise. Maybe, even, a purpose could be found for him. If not, well then Dan Burdett would also meet a watery grave.

  History could be found in the most unlikely of places. Ancient messages, meaning to convey important information, often lay buried beneath several layers of mundane material. Troubadours occasionally were used for this end. A dispatch in a song.

  Professor Francis George had dismissed the odd etchings he had uncovered some years ago. Roslyn Chapel was full of nonsensical bits of minutiae. But this, the beginning stanza of Lo plazers qu’als plazens plai, stood out. And etched on the inside of a graveslab in the burial chamber of Roslyn Chapel provided his discovery with even more significance. It led him to a startling conclusion.

  “I love it when I see that gap toothed smile.”

  Her rustic voice widened the grin even more. “It is almost as wondrous as making love to you, my love.”

  “Aha! Another piece to the puzzle, I take it. You always get amorous when your research bears fruit.” Vivi came close to him and folded herself into his embrace. “Out with it and then in with me,” she purred.

  He relaxed on the library’s sofa placing Vivi on his knee. They looked out over Boston Harbor with the U.S.S. Constitution, Old Ironsides, set in the distance. “Bernart de Tot-lo-mon,” Frankie began. “You know, his nickname means of all the world.”

  “Now you are teaching a French girl, French?” she teased.

  “Old French to be precise. But, it struck me, of all the places in the world to find my missing link, it would be on a Sinclair tomb. Or, should I say alleged Sinclair tomb.”

  Vivi straddled her legs aside his hips and nibbled on his ear. “Now you are being just a bit cryptic.”

  “Let me be more precise,” he said unfastening her bra. “To the beginning shall we. Bernart was a resident in the court of Count Bernard VI,” Frankie continued while licking her breasts.

  “Great grandson of our very Count turned Templar Bernard III,” she offered while unfastening his belt.

  Vivi was quickly undressed. She slid down causing them both to moan. “And,” he resumed in a husky voice, “Like his illustrious ancestor, he too abdicated his seat.”

  “Why?” Vivi asked beginning to increase her tempo.

  “The, Bernart’s, sirventes, it is a, a, oh oh…”

  Vivi fell into his arms both of them spent. Finally she unwrapped her legs from around him and set out for the kitchen. “Come, I’ve bought some bread, cheese, tomatoes, and wine from the market. I promise not to interrupt this time,” she said coyly as she led him to the kitchen.

  “John Kilkenny. Born in nineteen forty five, Watertown, Massachusetts.” the clerk read in a monotone voice. She looked nervously around the outside seating arrangement at Quincy’s Dairy Freeze. “Now give me my cash, Brick.”

  Brick pulled out a one hundred dollar bill. “What else you got, Mary?”

  “I may not have my job if anybody sees me hear with you for Christ sakes.” Mary Dunn, data entry clerk for the FBI’s south suburban Boston office, knew she was walking on thin ice furnishing Brick Cleary with information from the Bureau’s database. She also had gambling debts to clear.

  “Kilkenny, John, it rings a bell.”

  “It should, at least for you,” Mary shot back. “He was moving up in the Winter Hill Gang back in the late sixties.”

  Brick’s mind wandered back to his youth. His father, Bill Cleary, having his guys over for drinks in their home’s basement. They were a tough lot. Howie Winter, James “Buddy” McLean, Whitey Bulger, Stephen “The Rifleman” Flemmi. They had to be. The Irish Gang War of the early seventies was taking a heavy toll on the rival factions for power. But another memory sprang forth.

  “Poor bastard,” Brick muttered sadly while looking into his plate of fried clams.

  “Yeah,” Mary replied blandly. “His wife, pregnant wife, raped while he was tied up and forced to watch.”

  “Two black thugs from Mattapan.”

  “And the
Boston City Police did nothing.”

  Brick shook his head in disgust. “They figured it was probably pay back for a drug deal gone bad and just sat on their hands.”

  “Well, the nappy headed perverts got some Irish justice. Found dead a couple of months later their dicks stuck in their mouths. A grisly scene. They show it at the Bureau’s academy on how to collect evidence in a sex crime scene,” Mary said with a grim nod.

  “Funny, but the police were gung ho at that juncture. Kilkenny’s fingerprints were discovered.”

  “True, but little else linking him to the crime. It didn’t matter. He copped to it anyway.”

  “Didn’t matter,” Brick stated. “No jury was going to convict him. Remember, F. Lee Bailey took up the case. He walked.”

  “Walked away, completely, Brick.”

  Brick Cleary took a closer look at the photo. “Until now. What are you doing, an ex-Winter Hill Gang tough, living on the Elizabeth Islands?”

  Dan trudged up the dune following Bess. He made his way through the brush, the sea grass, to where she had stopped. There would be few places on the earth he would rather visit than the dunes of Race Point after a storm such as Henri. The pure natural beauty was awesome. To enjoy it with a vivacious lady of Bess’ fit and trim, well live did have its perks. But not today. His plate was too filled to appreciate the finer things of life.

  “Amazing isn’t it, Dan?” She untied her ponytail letting her thick auburn hair tumble into the still stiff breeze.

  Dan nodded in agreement. “You implied we had some business to discuss. I assume it has something more to do than the turbulent weather we are blessed with on the Cape.”

  Bess crouched on her knees and grabbed a handful of the wet packed sand. She handed him a photograph along with a tattered newspaper clipping.

  He reached for his glasses and unfolded the newspaper article. The Lady of the Dunes the old Herald American headline read. Dated July 27th 1974, Dan could see he was standing in the same location where this old photo was shot. He looked down at where the remains of the lady would have lain.