by Liz Turner
Hallie smiled. She knew what he meant. The little town, the whole peninsula in fact, seemed to her a balm to any real problems out there. Even when all of Cape Cod was wracked with the fierce thunderstorms that sometimes swirled in from over the ocean, she was calmed by the nature’s beauty. Hanging, dense clouds, flashing lightning, hammering rain, rushing sea water …. All came together to enhance the deep green of the pine trees, the sharp cliffs, the miles of soft sand, and of course, the ocean. “I’m glad you’ve made a good home for yourself,” she said to Truman, and leaned back in her own seat to tilt her face to the sun.
Then their food arrived, and they ate, mostly in silence, until Hallie checked her watch. “We ought to be going,” she said. She was surprised by her reluctance to leave. Just an hour earlier, she had been loath to stop work on the case, but now, the fresh air seemed to have lulled her into a contentment she wasn’t ready to part with.
Truman grunted after he checked the time, too. “You’re right.” He held up the small storage room key. “Let’s hope this gets us some answers!”
The sight of the key sent a thrill down Hallie’s spine, and she immediately motioned for the waiter to bring them their check. No time to lose, now! She thought excitedly, Sunny days be damned. We’ve got to get to the bottom of this!
Chapter 6
The Poetry Book
D etective Truman and Dr. Hallie Malone entered the new train station on the western edge of town. They were hit immediately by the wall of noise inside. The station had been built a few years ago to accommodate the rise in tourism. Every day the main train made three trips back and forth from the Cape Cod peninsula and mainland Massachusetts. Hallie had taken that very train herself when she first arrived. She was no less impressed this time. Despite the small size of Sandwich, the station was a maze of hurried-looking families, couples, and some businessmen. Everyone toted bundles of luggage and was dressed in summer travel clothes. Women with dainty, light-colored gloves and broad sunhats, and men wearing soft linen suits made their way from the open passenger car doors to the back of the train to retrieve their luggage, or to the large screen where the day’s train schedules were posted. The sound of heels clicking on the concrete floor reverberated against the domed ceiling and added as much to the noise as did the endless murmurs of the travelers and the clatter of the trains coming and going. The trains themselves, long, white or red metal contraptions, pulled into the station so quickly they seemed they wouldn’t stop. Hallie was always struck by the monstrous exterior of the passenger trains, even though she knew the interior was usually spacious and modern, like a comfortable hotel lobby. She looked up; the ceiling of the train station was paned glass supported by wrought iron columns throughout the station, giving the impression that one was outside, still underneath the unbroken blue sky.
“Quick—there,” Truman said, striding for a counter which read, COAT AND LUGGAGE STORAGE. Hallie matched his pace and soon they stood before a woman wearing the pressed red uniform of the station personnel.
“Train tickets?” the woman asked, smiling primly.
Truman faltered. Hallie realized he clearly had not thought through their plan. She looked at him questioningly. Perhaps he doesn’t want to let the word get out quite yet about the dead man, Hallie thought. He’s a good, honest detective, determined to find the truth. But he doesn’t understand that sometimes a little dishonesty is the best way to get there. Thinking quickly, Hallie stepped in front of him.
“Hello, we’re from out of town. We got in last night, and we had stored some luggage here while we got settled,” she said. Nudging Truman playfully, she said to him, “You’ve still got the key, don’t you?”
Truman blinked at her for a moment before it clicked. He grunted and pulled the key from his jacket pocket and placed it on the desk silently. Then, managing to crack a grin, he said, “I—long night of travels, I guess. Lack of sleep makes a man slow.”
Hallie relaxed. He might be better at this than she thought. The woman nodded, the professional smile still plastered to her lips. “Thirty-two?” she asked. When Hallie nodded to confirm, she said, “Alright. It’s down the hall to the left. You should remember where it is.”
Hallie couldn’t help but feel a jolt of electricity shoot through her as they walked toward the locker. This could be the clue to everything! She had forgotten how much she enjoyed the complex puzzle of a good case. The long honk of a train pulling into the station echoed behind them, and Hallie felt the sudden breeze from the rushing train muss the back of her hair. After passing a cloak room and a smaller room which read LOST AND FOUND, the hallway widened, making room for two rows of lockers on either side. The luggage lockers were shiny metal, about two feet wide. Hallie and Truman followed along down the hallway until they arrived at the locker with a thirty-two printed on it. It was the top locker; Hallie wasn’t tall enough to reach it. The two looked at each other. This was it. Truman took the key and inserted it into the small key hole.
His expression didn’t change as he opened the door and stuck his arm inside. “What is it?” Hallie asked impatiently.
“It’s—” he said, then heaved as he struggled to pull something from the locker. “Luggage.”
Hallie laughed. Of course. What did she expect to find in a luggage locker? A file containing all the secrets of the man by the tree? “Is it our John Doe’s?” she asked.
“Well I can’t say for certain, but I would imagine whoever’s it is probably has something to do with him. Maybe there’ll be a clue inside.” Truman lowered the suitcase to the floor with a thwomp. It was clearly heavy. The suitcase was large and rectangular, made of new brown leather. It had hardly a scuff on it.
“Boy, John Doe certainly knows how to keep his things nice…” Hallie mused, noting the quality of the leather and the thick gold clasps holding the case closed. She bent down to try to open the thing, but found the clasps locked securely. “Is there a key anywhere to these clasps?” she asked.
Truman strained to look around in the high locker, but eventually shook his head no. “No key,” he said.
“Maybe we ought to check his other shoe for it!” Hallie quipped.
“Another bright idea from the doctor,” Truman joked back. “But I think we had better move along. We can open the case back at the station. Force open the locks. I’d rather not attract attention standing here trying to break open a suitcase in broad daylight.” He lowered his voice as he talked. Two men had just entered the hallway, carrying their suitcases, presumably to store them away.
Hallie stood up from where she was crouched over the suitcase. “Of course, let’s go.” They nodded at the two men and then made their way out, Truman holding the suitcase.
***
Back at the station, they had jimmied open the locks on the suitcase and were sorting through the contents. So far, they had discovered that most of the things were the usual travel items: various trousers, shirts, socks, undergarments, and socks, all of which were eerily without clothing brand labels, and just as strange in style as the clothing John Doe had been wearing when he died. They also found the typical toiletry products like a shaving kit and hairbrush. Hallie was most fascinated by the somewhat atypical items, those more personal. After tossing aside a pencil nearly chewed to bits, she held up a postcard in the light. It had a black-and-white depiction of snow-capped, craggy mountains bordering a shimmering lake. There was no inscription on the card, nor a hint as to where the photo might be from, just a blank space for a personal note. She wondered if the man had been planning to send the card, or if he had taken it along from his home town. The photo certainly didn’t appear to be from any landscape she knew to exist in Massachusetts.
“Say, where do you think this post card is from?” She wondered aloud. Detective Truman didn’t answer; he was engrossed in something else he had pulled from the case. It looked like a book. “What did you find?” she asked. When she got no response, she sidled up next to him to peer over his shoulder. It was
a book of poetry by T.S. Eliot. Truman had flipped the book open to a bookmarked page, to a poem title “Song.” Hallie began to read the small print.
If space and time, as sages say,
Are things which cannot be,
The fly that lives a single day
Has lived as long as we.
But let us live while yet we may,
While love and life are free,
For time is time, and runs away,
Though sages disagree.
The flowers I sent thee when the dew
Was trembling on the vine,
Were withered ere the wild bee flew
To suck the eglantine.
But let us haste to pluck anew
Nor mourn to see them pine,
And though the flowers of love be few
Yet let them be divine.
How strange and sad, Hallie thought. John Doe was clearly a sentimental man. And this poem! Love, life, and time. Is this the reading material of someone about to commit suicide? There were also a series of scribbled notes in the margins as well as strange markings between the lines of the poem. At first, Hallie thought the notes were written in a foreign language, but soon she realized that it was English—but the sentences and phrases didn’t make any sense! Many of the words were spelled horrendously wrong, or they seemed to spell nothing at all. She tilted her head trying to make sense of the haphazard scribblings, to no avail. Then, suddenly, she snapped her fingers.
Now it was Truman’s turn to ask, “What is it?” He seemed startled to see her there beside him.
“Those scribblings!” she exclaimed breathlessly. “I think they’re a code—a cipher of sorts!”
“What?” Truman said, looking sharply at the page.
Hallie reached for the book excitedly. “Look here,” she said. “Poetry is a sort of code on its own. Each poem has a unique meter, with certain words or syllables emphasized. Now, I’m not certain, but I think our John Doe may have been using the poems in the book as way to signal how to read his notes. The words themselves may be nonsensical, but see how his lines curvy and meandering as they are, all have a pattern of syllables? The same as in this poem. Eight-six-eight-six.” She counted off on her fingers the syllables.
Truman pondered for a second and then lit up. “By god, you’re right! I think you’re onto something. Either that, or this man was trying his hand at some poetry and failing miserably.” He chuckled lightly. Flipping through the rest of the pages, they found at least nine other poems with similar marginalia. “I think we’ve got our first real lead of the case, Doctor Malone.” Truman beamed at Hallie.
“Well, as soon as we decipher the code, I think you’re right.”
“I’m going to put my best detectives on the task. Some of those boys have shown themselves to have a real knack for ciphers,” he said.
Hallie felt an excited twinge in her chest, but she continued the job at hand: analyzing every item in the suitcase. She pulled up a pair of the trousers, just like those that John Doe had been wearing when they found him. Carefully, she felt around inside the pockets. She heard a slight crinkle. Reaching inside, she pulled out a folded piece of newspaper, about six inches long. “I found something!” she said.
It was a clipping from the Boston Globe, dated three days earlier. It read, “Beachside Private Hotel and Boarding House. Situated less than a mile from the coast, our boarding house is your beach-side home away from home. Visit Cape Cod today. Only fifteen minutes from the train station.” A large picture depicted a typical Cape Cod home with a grassy lawn, several pine trees, and a family of four having a picnic outside.
“I know that place!” Truman said. “It’s on the outskirts of town, not too far from the east end of the park, actually. Very private, beautiful. I think they attract guests who want to enjoy the nature part of the peninsula, rather than the town.”
“I’ll bet that John Doe was staying there,” Hallie said. “If he was in Boston three days ago, then it stands to reason he could have seen the advertisement in the paper, stuck it in his pants pocket, then changed clothing the next day to take the train out to Sandwich.”
Truman nodded. “I think we’ll have to drive from here. Maybe someone there will recognize him.” After Hallie agreed, he led her to the lot behind the police station where his car was parked.
“I’ve never taken a ride in a police car before,” Hallie said, eyeing the vehicle. It was a Ford, with the distinctive square shape and black and white paint. A red cylinder rested on the roof—the siren light.
Truman chuckled. “It’s nothing too special. We might just get some additional looks when we stop at traffic lights, although it might be because I’ve an ununiformed lady sitting with me in the front seat.” He looked at Hallie sideways.
“Would you prefer I sit in the back?” Hallie asked, putting a hand to her chest in a show of faux demureness. “Like a criminal?”
Laughing aloud, Truman said, “Now, now, I don’t think that will be necessary, Doctor Malone.”
Chapter 7
The Boarding House
T hey arrived at the boarding house just as dusk was approaching. The place was, true to the newspaper advertisement, very private. A long dirt drive led them to a stately three-story house with a lush green lawn, shaded by a group of pine trees. The sound of ocean waves and the salty sea air told them that the beach wasn’t far.
Truman knocked on the door, and shortly, a thin woman opened the door, wearing a light blue collared dress. Her hair was covered by a gray kerchief. “Hello, welcome to Beachside Private Hotel and Boarding House,” she said rapidly, with a thick accent that Hallie couldn’t place. German? Perhaps Dutch, Hallie wondered absently.
“Hello,” Truman began. “I’m Detective Truman, and this is my colleague, Doctor Malone. We’re here investigating a case of ours that we think involves one of the residents here.” He pulled out his badge and handed it to the woman.
The woman’s eyes grew wide as she fingered the metal badge. “Oh dear. Is something wrong? I don’t want any trouble.” Hurriedly, she thrust the badge back into Truman’s hands.
“No, no, trouble, ma’am,” Truman said reassuringly. “We just want to ask you if you have seen anyone—a boarder here perhaps—who resembles this man. He may have had a different color hair.” Truman produced a sketch of the man by the tree one of the policemen had done.
The woman glanced down furtively at the sketch and then said, “I—er, I think I had better retrieve Miss Jameson. She is the owner here. I just do the cleaning and greeting and sometimes the cooking. I have worked here only for this summer.” Hesitating, she opened the door wide enough for Hallie and Truman to enter. “Please…. Come inside. There is a couch in the parlor.”
Hallie thanked her and then proceeded into the parlor. The house was bright, with large windows letting in much natural light. She could see why guests would enjoy staying out here, rather than in a stuffy town home. She and Truman settled in on the sea green sofa. Everything was certainly very modern, Hallie noted. A brick fireplace came low to the floor, and tasteful furniture gave the place a beachy feel. Exposed wooden beams crossed the low ceiling. The woman had disappeared moments ago, but now she came through the door carrying a tray of coffee, cream, and sugar, and a few small teacups.
“I am sorry,” the woman said, placing the tray down on the glass coffee table before them. “I did not introduce myself. I am Eliza. Cook, and house manager here at Beachside. The owner is Penelope Jameson. She is coming shortly, and I am sure she will be able to answer your questions better than I. I have only been here since this summer; Miss Jameson has operated the place since she turned her own home into a boarding house three years ago.” Then, smiling timidly and nodding her head, she ducked back out into the kitchen.
A couple wearing swimming costumes entered the front door. They were giggling and were flushed from the sun. Hallie smiled as she watched them tease each other, the young girl turning bright red with enjoyment. They t
urned a corner and disappeared from sight. Hallie assumed they had gone upstairs to their room. Nudging Truman, she whispered, “It might be a good idea to interview the other guests as well. They might have spoken with him, or perhaps even known his plans, or why he was here.”
“I was just thinking that myself,” Truman whispered back. “And it just occurred to me that perhaps he wasn’t alone.”
Just then, a tall, broad-shouldered woman strode into the room. She was dressed somewhat eccentrically, with her hair dyed a bright red and piled on top of her head messily. She wore patterned green pants that matched much of the furniture in the room.
“Hello there!” she said cheerfully. She took a seat in the arm chair across from Hallie and Truman and immediately poured herself of cup of coffee, adding copious amounts of cream and sugar. Hallie noted her fingernails were painted a vibrant red, even brighter than her hair.
“Hello, Mrs. Jameson—is that right?” Hallie asked. She was somewhat taken aback by her cheery demeanor. Had Eliza not told her why they were here?
“That’s me!” Jameson replied, slurping loudly.
Truman leaned forward and clasped his hands in a serious manner. “Well, you see Mrs. Jameson, we need to ask you some questions about a man who may have been a recent resident of yours.”
“Go right ahead.”
Shooting a sidelong glance at Hallie, Truman took out the drawing of John Doe and laid it out on the table facing Jameson. “Do you recognize this man?”
Leaning over the sketch, Jameson put on her glasses from wearing they were hanging around her neck on a pink chain. She tapped the side of her teacup with a long nail. “I do believe so, yes.” Hallie watched as a drop of coffee spilled out from the edge of the cup and stained the sketch.