The body turned up in the alley behind the flower shop eight hours later. I know because I found it. In case you’re wondering what I was doing at ten o’clock at night on a Saturday night, stumbling upon a dead philanthropist, the answer is simple enough, innocent enough. Mr. Lawson, my seventy-two-year-old landlord, had just had knee surgery. Confined to his second-floor apartment by his leg brace, he was unable to take Mindy, his Maltese, out for her late night tinkle.
I was more than happy to help out, since Mr. Lawson had been decent to me ever since I moved into the third-floor rabbit hutch. He owned the Book Atelier and often asked me to fill in for him here and there, when he needed a break and I needed cash. What I loved was that he didn’t mind if I perused the shelves. He thought the more I read, the better able I was to help his customers. It was a nice give-and-take, and I considered him not only a good landlord, but a decent part-time boss and a kind friend.
After chatting a few minutes about the weather, the Boston Celtics, and the Big Dig, I slipped on Mindy’s little sweater and harness, carrying the tiny pooch down the back stairs and out to the alley. The spotlights were on along the way, offering an eerie, almost mystical glow in the chilly winter night. I wrapped my coat a little tighter around me as I waited for the six-pound bouncing hairball to finish. Mindy sniffed several spots before she finally found one suitable for relieving herself. As she squatted, I noticed a dark glove hanging out of the Dumpster about twenty feet away. Stepping closer, I realized to my horror there was also a hand attached to it, a very human hand, and when I raised the lid, I found Paul Darlington’s bloody body.
Chapter Two --
His face was no longer recognizable as the handsome scion I had seen earlier in the day, although he wore the same clothes. I even recognized the Rolex watch on his wrist. His cheeks looked like pulverized hamburger. With a horrified gasp and an unexpected wave of nausea, I quickly shut the lid of the Dumpster, grabbed the dog, and made a beeline for the back entry to the building. Taking the stairs as fast as I dared, I quickly made it to the second floor landing.
“Mr. Lawson!”
“Is something wrong, Riley?” He sat up in his recliner.
“I...I just found a dead body in the alley.”
“What?” He seemed genuinely frightened. “Who?”
“Paul Darlington.”
“Oh, God!”
“What should I do? I should call the police, shouldn’t I?” I dithered about my next move, thinking about how I would have to tell the police about Ares Papadopoulos. “I should call.”
“Wait, Riley. Just a minute. Did you actually see anyone?”
“No,” I admitted. “It was just me and the dog. Why?”
“Nothing you can do for Paul, is there?” I could hear the fear in Mr. Lawson’s voice. “And you weren’t a witness. Why don’t we just let someone else find it? No need to get involved.”
“Yes, but what if the trash collectors take the body?”
“Maybe you didn’t see what you thought you saw. Maybe it was just a big trash bag that you mistook for a person.”
What was going on? Mr. Lawson was normally a very caring and decent man.
“That man was very dead,” I insisted. “I saw his face.”
“Please don’t do this, Riley. I’m begging you. It’s not safe.” The elderly man’s hands shook as he took mine in his. “People disappear when they know too much, see too much. I don’t want anything bad to happen to you.”
“What are you saying, that Paul Darlington’s killer will come after me if I report finding his body?”
“It wouldn’t be the first time,” Mr. Lawson told me, “Five years ago, Lucy Warren disappeared. Her body was found in a shallow grave up behind the high school three years later, when they were changing the fencing. She went to the police station to report some suspicious activity at the dock.”
“Oh,” I said. I still had my doubts. I still thought the Darlington family would want to know. What if Paul’s cadaver ended up in a landfill, never to be found? What if Ares Papadopoulos got away with the killing? What if this wasn’t his first murder? It suddenly occurred to me that I might be in danger, even if I didn’t report it. What if the pizza man decided I could connect the dots back to Apollo Pizza and that conversation he had with Darlington?
“And when Donny Killiham reported some questionable happenings down at the dock, he disappeared at sea. Nothing the cops could do about it. Not that they would,” he told me. “There are things happening beneath the ocean that we never see, Riley. We don’t always know when the sharks are hungry until the blues start flying into the air.”
Sharks love bluefish. The fishermen in town know this and do their best to avoid losing their catch to the ravenous predators. I’ve since learned that bad guys like to dispose of a body at sea by knocking out the victim, stitching his lips together, and dumping him into deep water to where the blues are running and the sharks are chasing. It’s a matter of tracking the fish on radar. There you have it. Technology kills. When the victim hits the frigid water, he’s usually stunned into consciousness and he rips the stitches out in his futile effort to breathe. That bloody mouth attracts the sharks. It’s said to be such a successful method of getting rid of the evidence, the DEA and the FBI have never found any sign of thirteen missing informants and witnesses. That’s a lot of people to be “disappeared”. It’s really why the Department of Justice convened a federal task force to investigate. Too many indicators that things were really dangerous in Hambleport. And it only got worse after Paul Darlington died.
In case you’re wondering, I was truly torn about what to do. I considered going to the cops. I even started down there a few times. But Mr. Lawson’s words stuck in my mind, conjuring up all kinds of scary scenarios, so in the end, I did something I can’t believe I had the courage to do. I grabbed my digital camera at 4 in the morning, crept down the stairs to avoid arousing Mindy, the barker, and I let myself out. As quietly as I could, I lifted back the lid of the Dumpster to reveal the ghastly sight. With the flash on, I snapped five decent shots of the indecently dead body from several angles, and then I slipped off Paul’s Rolex. I figured it was engraved on the back, and I was right. To Paul, Harvard graduate. Do us proud, son. Mom and Dad.
Making sure to silently close the lid back down on the makeshift casket, I hurried to the back door of the building. Once in the tiny hallway, I let myself into the Book Atelier with the key Mr. Lawson gave me. The back office was a windowless room, but I took no unnecessary chances. Pulling the office door shut, I used the flashlight Mr. Lawson kept on the shelf and I got busy. First, I loaded the photos on his computer and then I printed them on 8”x11” paper. I stuffed the copies into a manila mailing envelope, along with the gold watch. I wrote out the brief details, the time I found the body, and its location, but I gave no personal information about myself. I wanted to remain anonymous. Sealing the package with tape, I threw on enough stamps on to cover the cost of postage and addressed the envelope to the Special Agent-in-Charge of the Boston FBI field office.
At quarter to five, I slipped out of the bookstore and got into my Hyundai Sonata, parked at the community lot on Sherborn Street. With little traffic on the road at that time of the morning, it was a quick trip to the New Hampshire border. I tossed the package into the mailbox at the closest post office, feeling a huge sense of relief. Maybe the local cops couldn’t be trusted, but I knew I had to do something. If that body wasn’t found, at least the FBI would know what happened to Paul Darlington. Who knew that the long history of corruption in Hambleport reached all the way into that federal office?
I got home just after five-thirty, furtively tiptoed up the back stairs and into my apartment, and got back into my pajamas. I flopped down on my bed, set the alarm for two hours, and drifted off to sleep, thinking I had made it all right with the world. Oh, what a foolish dreamer.
At eight, I stopped by Mr. Lawson’s to pick up Mindy for her first walk of the day. He was still con
cerned about me, but I told him not to worry. After all, I handled it. Why bother him with the details? Let him think I had taken his advice to drop the matter.
I spent the day huddled over my computer. After a break for lunch and another walk for Mindy, I finished two chapters of my young adult mystery on the Underground Railroad myth, Echoes of Lacey Harmon’s Tears, and went to the grocery store to get a few things for both me and Mr. Lawson. I wasn’t gone more than an hour.
I returned to find the police had closed off the alley behind my apartment on both ends. Unable to drop off the bags of groceries, I was forced to circle the block to find a parking spot, never an easy task on a busy winter weekend. I could see the police cars in front of Howland Flowers on Cardon Street, along with a fire engine and its crew, as I passed. Thick, black smoke poured out of the broken display window. Two firefighters aimed a hose at the base of the fiery opening. The owner of the shop was huddled with a couple of uniformed police officers by the curb, angry and upset.
Once more around the block rewarded me with a spot just shy of the door to the Book Atelier. Forced to go through the bookstore to reach the back stairs, I stopped at the front desk to ask Terry what was going on. He grabbed a couple of bags from my overburdened arms and escorted me to the back staircase.
“You won’t believe me when I tell you,” he said confidentially. “Becca Howland’s store was firebombed!”
“What?”
“It’s true, Riley. Someone tossed a Molotov cocktail at the display window, from a passing car.”
“At a florist’s? Why?”
“Don’t know. Odd, isn’t it?” He shook his head. “You don’t think it had anything to do with that Chamber of Commerce thing, do you?”
Three weeks earlier, there was an ugly shouting match over efforts by the Chamber of Commerce to require mandatory participation in the merchants’ circle. The Chamber wanted to issue Hambleport discount dollars to shop locally and there were a handful of very resistant, resentful shopkeepers, including Mr. Lawson, who thought the twenty percent-off coupon cut too far into their profit margins. Becca was one of the more vocal protesters.
“Setting fire to her building seems a bit drastic. Besides, someone could have been killed.” I thought about that body in the dumpster. For a moment, I thought it was an amazing coincidence that there was not only a dead body in the alley, but a burning building right next to that Dumpster. And then I saw the first responder crowd suddenly rush into the alley. Terry saw it, too.
“What in God’s name....” He moved to take a closer look. Leaning past him, I put my face up to the back door glass. “Riley, is that a body? Oh, I can’t believe it!”
Sure enough, there was the lid of the metal box, leaning against the wall, as a group of police officers in uniform and firefighters in their waterproof gear gathered to examine its contents. Even as I stood there, I had a unexpected panic attack. I had touched that lid several times and I wasn’t wearing gloves at the time. How foolish was that? It never occurred to me that a forensic team would ever dust the surface of that giant trash receptacle for evidence. My dumb.
“Terry,” I said, anxious to get a better look from my bathroom window, “I’ve got to run. I should get these groceries up to Mr. Lawson. Let me know if you find out anything.”
“And I expect the same of you,” he insisted. “Give me the blow by blow.”
“Will do.”
It took me two trips to carry all the packages. I unloaded mine in my tiny kitchen and then went back down for my landlord’s groceries. Once I had them in hand, I knocked. Mr. Lawson was beside himself as he answered the door.
“Come in, come in. Hurry up.” As soon as the door was shut, he half-dragged me into the kitchen, even as he limped. “Do you know what’s going on? They found the body!”
“I know,” I told him, setting the groceries on top of his kitchen counter. Gazing out of the window above the sink, I could see now that the police had stepped back to unroll the yellow police line and cordon off the area, no doubt in anticipation of the state investigators arriving to take over. Paul Darlington’s body was even more ghastly in the daylight. Or maybe it was that my companion was clearly distraught when he saw it.
“This is bad. This is very bad,” he groaned in a hushed, conspiratorial tone. “There’s going to be big trouble, big, big trouble.”
“Terry says that Howland’s was hit by a firebomb. He thinks it’s got something to do with that heated Chamber of Commerce meeting a few weeks ago.”
“Oh, that will never fly,” Mr. Lawson decided. “It certainly doesn’t explain why poor Paul was stuffed into the Dumpster.”
“You know, it really doesn’t, does it? Why would someone do that to him?” Maybe I had my suspicions, but it couldn’t hurt to kick the subject around with my landlord. He might know more of the local history than I. That could come in handy, should I become a suspect.
“You know that Paul comes from one of the wealthiest families in town. His father and grandfather were presidents of Darlington Trust before he was. Maybe this is about money.”
“Possibly.”
“You know that his sister, Patience, is married to the owner of North Shore Technologies. They make LCD modules for a number of companies. Bob Franzen. Nice guy. Donates a lot of money to the local food bank and the Little League.”
As Mr. Lawson waxed on about the potential motives for Paul’s murder, I kept my mouth shut. I didn’t want to tip him off about Ares Papadopoulos or Apollo Pizza, given that it was his favorite choice for deep dish pepperoni. I couldn’t afford to let the elderly man tip off a killer.
Chapter Three --
“Riley, babe,” came that smarmy voice I knew too well as I was bent over the non-fiction reference section at the Book Atelier two nights later. I was filling in for Terry, who had a concert performance. As a part-time cellist, he often participated in a string quartet with some old pals from Berkeley School of Music. Mr. Lawson was a music lover, more than happy to allow Terry the flexible hours needed to follow his true passion. Usually the group set up at churches or small school auditoriums, playing Bach and Beethoven with a modern edge.
Just my luck that Tristan Dunlop wandered into the shop that Tuesday night. It was the fourth time in less than a week that he popped up and it was starting to make me very nervous.
I’d met him soon after I moved to town. We had dated all of three times before I decided I really didn’t like his presumptive attitude and the obnoxious way he had of trying to make other people look small. I really didn’t give a rat’s patootie that his great-great-great-great-whatever came over on the Mayflower or that his cousin three times removed married a British earl. He was a security software developer with a company out in the industrial park, Dunlop Threat Tech, and he made sure everyone knew how well the business was doing at every turn.
Kathy Lindstrom, one of the fourth grade teachers at Wexler, introduced me to Tristan. We were out one night at the Lucky Lady pub, chatting over Cobb salads and wine, when he sauntered over like local royalty, expecting all of us to stop our conversation and hang on his every word. Ah, the arrogance of the rich and famous.
Given that I am frequently criticized for making snap judgments about people and turning down eligible men too frequently, I gave the jerk a chance to show me his winning ways. Turned out he doesn’t have any. It also turned out that he didn’t like to take no for an answer, and he had proven his determination to pursue me over the last several months. It was well past the point of irritating now. It was downright obnoxious.
Slowly rising to my feet, I moved the box of paperbacks to the side and turned to face the bad penny. “Tristan. How are you?”
“Quite well. You seem to be managing.” He leered at me, no doubt transfixed by the view of my rear end bent over in my quest to restock the shelves. The man is a total pig when it comes to women. He actually believes he’s God’s gift and there’s no dissuading him.
“Can I help you find somethin
g?” I put on a bright smile.
“No, thanks. I’m just here to browse. Perhaps you’d like to join me for a drink when you’re done here.”
“Oh, sorry. I’ve got an early day tomorrow.”
“One little drink won’t kill you.”
“Unfortunately, I won’t be able to test that theory out, since I have to decline.”
“You do realize that every time you turn me down, I’m just all the more tantalized.”
“No point in that,” I said, blocking his maneuver to corner me by pulling out a chair and rearranging it to stand between us. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to grab something at the desk.”
“You know, you really should wear your hair that way more often, Riley. It’s very becoming.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” I assured him. I felt my nerves beginning to fray as a sharp note fell onto my tongue. “Excuse me.”
“But I don’t want to let you go,” he leered. I heard the dingle of the silver bell above the shop door, a warning that a customer had entered.
“You’ll have to,” I insisted.
“Come on, Riley. You know that I can show you a good time. Just one drink.”
“Afraid I can’t agree, Tristan.” Now I was starting to steam. My emotions bubbled just beneath the surface. Enough already.
“To the fact that I am a fun guy to hang out with or the drink?”
“Both. Now, if you’re not looking for a specific book, excuse me,” I told him firmly. I stepped away, as if repelled by some magnetic force.
“You’re blowing me off?” The edge to his voice was a new note in the conversation. I was beginning to think it was no accident that Tristan Dunlop had come in fifteen minutes before closing.
Run for Your Life, Riley Horton!: A Page 2