Graveyard Bay

by Thomas Kies

  “Geneva Chase?”

  I turned at the sound of the voice behind me. “Yes?”

  “I’m Lorraine Moretti.” She was studying me from behind her silver cat-lady glasses.

  I could see that she was about five six in height and wearing a very professional, long-sleeved white blouse, simple gold necklace and earrings, brown knee-length skirt, black hose, and black flats. It was impeccable office attire but entirely out of place in cold weather.

  I, on the other hand, was wearing a sweater, jeans, and my calf-length leather boots.

  I noted that she was curvy in the bust and hips. I’d bet that in a few years she’d cross the border from zaftig to obese.

  Meow.

  I stood up. “It’s nice to meet you.”

  She smiled but it was forced. “Can we talk in my office?”

  I sighed and followed Lorraine into the cubicle that, up until twenty-four hours ago, had been mine. She sat behind the desk, and I plopped down on one of the two beat-to-hell leather chairs used for visitors.

  She folded her hands on the desktop and began. “First of all, I want to tell you how much I’ve enjoyed your work over the years. Whenever the Associated Press picked up your stories, we ran it in all our Galley affiliates.”

  Good start.

  “Thank you.”

  “The work you did on that missing fifteen-year-old high school girl back in October was exceptional. And the series you did on those six people cut to pieces on that island was very impressive.”

  I repeated myself. “Thank you.”

  She took her old-lady glasses off and let them hang from her neck. “You’ve had a very interesting career. A little bit like a roller coaster—a lot of highs and lows. I understand that Robert had a chat with you yesterday.”

  I felt my face flush. I didn’t like the way this fledgling relationship was headed.

  The smile on Lorraine’s face was gone. “Let me be blunt. I won’t stand for any drinking on the job. Period. It’ll be grounds for immediate dismissal. What you do on your own time is your business, but I would strongly suggest that you exercise moderation at all times. Oh, yes, I know about the drunken incident in which you were arrested for punching a police officer.” Her voice carried a tone of disgust.

  My face went from a flush to a total burn. “Is that all?”

  She attempted a smile again. “Genie, look, I want us to all be a team. You have talent and instinct. When you’re on your A-game, there’s no one better. I need you to be part of what we’re going to build here at the Sheffield Post. I’m willing to work with you, but you have to do the same.”

  I nodded and felt the searing heat of tears pooling in my eyes and hoped that this bitch couldn’t see them.

  She put her glasses back on again, all business. “Where are you with the Graveyard Bay murders?”

  I cleared my throat. “You mean Groward Bay?”

  Her grin broadened, genuine now. “Yes, but Graveyard Bay is so much more colorful, don’t you think? So where are we?”

  I folded my arms. “Cops are looking at the marina’s video footage.”

  She interrupted. “Video? Have you seen it?”

  I sensed a trap. If I told her that I’d seen it but hadn’t mentioned it in the story, it was a potential black mark. I’d kept it out of the story, for now, at Mike’s request. She’d think I was too cozy with the cops. I lied. “No.”

  She stared off into space. “We need to get our hands on it.”

  I nodded wordlessly.

  She refocused on me again. “I hear that you have a good relationship with the assistant chief of police.”

  Not as good as it used to be.

  I answered, “If you’re on the crime beat for any length of time, you’re going to have a relationship with the cops. Depending on what you’re writing about, sometimes it’s good and sometimes it’s bad.”

  Lorraine arched an eyebrow. “Yes, I know. It’s not like you’re sleeping with them.” She shook her head slightly. “And you’re not supposed to be.”

  How much does she know?

  I changed the subject. “The ME is doing the autopsies today. The cops are running the female victim’s prints to see if they can ID her. In the meantime, they’re reviewing missing-person reports. Mike Dillon told me that they’ve talked to Judge Preston’s wife and his staff. Nobody recalls hearing about any death threats.”

  “What’s your next step?”

  “I’m heading out to talk with Judge Preston’s wife. See if I can get a statement.”

  She turned her full attention back to her computer screen. “Don’t let me keep you.”

  Am I dismissed?

  I stood up and walked out of the cube. I didn’t have a warm, fuzzy feeling about the team-builder from Galley Media.

  Before I left to interview Eva Preston, I went through the rest of the incident reports I’d gotten from Mike. Nothing warranted anything more than mentions in the Police Log we ran every day on page two, one of our more popular features. Our readers loved looking to see if a friend or neighbor had been arrested for driving while under the influence or busted for indecent exposure.

  I did some digging on the overdose fatality from last night. Her name was Holly Dickenson, twenty-two years old. She was a student at the community college and lived with her parents on the east side of town.

  I found a photo of her on Facebook. Brown eyes, freckles, auburn hair brushed away from her face, earnest expression, pretty smile. Her last post was, “Ladies night at Lando’s, bitches. It’s gonna’ be kickin’. See y’all there.”

  Lando’s was a nightclub in South Sheffield, the part of town where all the restaurants and trendy bars had settled. That particular club catered to a demographic of twenty-one to thirty. The last time I stopped by, I felt positively ancient.

  According to the report, the cops were called around eleven when her friends found Holly comatose in the ladies’ room. The EMTs arrived and administered Narcan, the brand name for naloxone, used to block the effect of opioids and reverse an OD.

  But Holly was too far gone. She was pronounced DOA at Sheffield General.

  Her friends didn’t know what she’d taken that night, and the police were awaiting a toxicology report from Doctor Foley.

  I mused, sadly, that Holly seemed like a nice holiday name.

  That is so goddamn sad. Every Christmas, her parents will be thinking about how their daughter died.

  Then I stole a glance at the photo of Caroline I kept on my desk. She was wearing a Boston Red Sox baseball cap and smiling at the camera. I’d taken that photo last summer at Cape Cod where we were vacationing together.

  And where I started drinking again.

  I glanced at the time on my computer screen and wondered if she’d landed in Colorado yet. Her plane was supposed to have taken off at ten and it was only coming up on noon. Flight time from gate to gate, New York to Aspen, was four and a half hours. She wouldn’t be landing until about 2:30 my time.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Bill from advertising slide up to my desk and sit down next to me. He straightened his bow tie. “Want to hear something interesting?”

  “Always.” I rested my chin on my hand. “Whatcha got?”

  He glanced around him. “All that property someone’s been buying up out by I-95?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Somebody’s building a mall.”

  “What? I thought malls were as yesterday as newspapers.”

  He rolled his eyes. “I know, right? I got a phone call from a rep from Nordstrom about an hour ago. They want a rate package. He said they’re going to be one of the anchors in an urban mall that should be finished in about two years.”

  The gears turned. “Wait a minute. Isn’t that a game-changer as far as the profitability of this newspaper?”

 
; He cracked his knuckles. “I’m pretty sure that if Ben had known about this, he wouldn’t have sold us out.”

  “Holy shit. Does he know now?”

  Bill gave me a toothy smile and shook his head. “I’m on my way to deliver the news.”

  I glanced at the closed door to his office. “I’d love to be a fly on the wall when you do, Bill.” I peeked over at Lorraine, who was watching me. “But I’d better get back to work.”

  He patted my arm. “This may all have a happy ending after all.”

  “From your lips to God’s ear.”

  I watched him get up and lope out of the newsroom in Ben’s direction.

  An urban mall. Who builds malls anymore?

  I picked up the phone and punched in Judge Preston’s home phone.

  To my surprise, Eva Preston answered and said yes when I’d asked if I could come by for a statement. We set the time at 1:30, which gave me time for lunch.

  And a quick drink?

  I took a glance at the Wicked Witch of the West sitting in my old office.

  Okay, coffee instead.

  Chapter Seven

  Passing on the vodka tonic, I opted for a grilled chicken Caesar salad delivered from Pete’s Deli just up the street.

  While I picked at my lettuce, I did a little net surfing. Eva, the judge’s second wife, was originally from Slovenia, formerly Yugoslavia. There wasn’t much about her life before she came to the United States. Once here, she managed to land a job with the Patricia Wallace Modeling Agency. She was best known for her work for SeaNet Swimwear.

  I looked at some of her photos wearing some mighty daring bikinis. Bronzed skin, long golden hair, sky-blue eyes, high cheekbones, toned legs, a tummy firm enough you could bounce a quarter off it—she must have been in her twenties when those were taken. Eva was staring into the camera, her rosebud lips slightly apart, a smoky, seductive expression on her face.

  She gave new meaning to the term “making love to the camera.”

  I could easily see what Judge Niles Preston saw in her.

  But what did she see in the man who was more than twice her age?

  Doing another search, I saw that the judge and his wife owned a home at 13 Branson Ridge Trail in Wilton, only about fifteen minutes from the newspaper office. The judge had purchased the property three years ago for $815,000.

  I quickly looked up what a Connecticut Supreme Court judge makes a year—$170,000, on average.

  I guess someone with that salary could swing a house with that kind of price tag, but it would be a stretch.

  The twenty-five-hundred-square-foot white two-story Colonial was situated on an acre of land on a quiet wooded cul-de-sac. It boasted four bedrooms, four bathrooms, three fireplaces, a gourmet kitchen, nearly two acres of fenced-in backyard, and an in-ground pool.

  I studied a series of photos that had been on the Realtor’s website from when it was for sale. Ironically, the Realtor of record was Vicki Smith, Mike Dillon’s new squeeze.

  I did a fast calculation. If she received the full six percent commission, then she earned over forty-eight thousand dollars on just that one sale. That’s about what an average newspaper journalist makes in an entire year.

  I glanced back at Lorraine Moretti in the editor’s cube and silently seethed.

  * * *

  Before I drove up to Wilton to meet with Eva Preston, I decided to drop by the house owned by Holly Dickenson’s family. I wasn’t so much fishing for a statement from them as I wanted to express my condolences. Unfortunately, overdoses like Holly’s had become so common that they didn’t always warrant a story in the newspaper.

  Not unless there was celebrity involved.

  A paid obituary. That was what the twenty-two-year-old college student would get, if her parents could afford it.

  And if you read the obits carefully, you can generally spot the ODs and the suicides. The age is a giveaway, of course. But the words died suddenly or died at home were the tell.

  Holly died in the filthy bathroom stall of a loud nightclub.

  What a waste.

  Don and Alyce Dickenson lived on the east side of Sheffield in a neighborhood of small, one-story homes on tiny tracts of land. It was where the teachers, the blue-collar laborers, the nurses, and the people who didn’t make six-figure salaries lived. It was kept neat and clean and people took pride in their homes.

  That’s why I was so surprised when I parked on the curb in front of 148 Norris Street and saw garbage strewn across the front yard. Empty cans, plastic packaging, newspapers, coffee grounds all marred the white-gray snow covering the lawn. A woman in tan slacks, sneakers, and a heavy winter coat was stooped over, gingerly picking up what she could and dropping it into a black trash bag.

  I got out of the car and she straightened up, noticing me as I picked my way toward her. “Hi, I’m Genie Chase.”

  “What can I do for you?” The woman was in her fifties, wore no makeup, had thin lips pressed together, and her expression was one of suspicion.

  “I’m looking for Mr. or Mrs. Dickenson. Are you Holly’s mother?”

  She shook her head slightly. “They’re both at Franklin’s making arrangements for Holly’s funeral.”

  Her voice caught in her throat and she stared up at the sky for a moment.

  “I understand. Are you a neighbor?”

  She jutted her chin to the house next door. “I’ve known the Dickensons since they moved here when Holly was just a baby.”

  I nodded. “I just wanted to tell them how sorry I am. I can come back another time.”

  “How did you know Holly?”

  I gave the woman a sad look. “I didn’t. I’m a staff writer for the Post. I saw the incident report this morning. I’m raising a girl not much younger than Holly. I just I wanted to stop by and offer the parents my condolences.”

  She blinked her eyes. “But not do a story?”

  I slowly shook my head. “No. I’m not sure the Dickensons would want one.”

  “No.” The woman looked past me, staring at something she could only see in her mind. “You know, up until a couple of years ago, when she broke her leg, I don’t think Holly took so much as an aspirin.”

  “Oh?”

  “Broke her leg playing soccer when she was seventeen. Doctor gave her some pain pills and Holly got hooked.” She reached down and picked up an empty Campbell’s soup can. Dropping it into the bag, she continued. “Over the last year or so, she got really bad. Stealing money from her folks, getting arrested. Don told me that Holly had moved on to heroin. Half the time, they didn’t know where Holly was living. I heard her boyfriend was a junkie too.”

  The woman stepped closer to where I was standing and glanced up and down the street. “I think she was dealing. When her parents would go off on business or vacation, I’d see car after car drive up here and go inside. They’d leave again a few minutes later.”

  Old story. Pain pills to heroin to dealer. Often that was the only way to pay for the habit.

  The woman returned to picking up garbage. I gestured toward the tiny yard. “What happened, dogs get into the trash?”

  The woman quickly straightened up. “No,” she snapped. “After the Dickensons left for the funeral home, I saw two men in a van pull up. They got out, opened the trash can, and tore open the two bags that were in there. Then they quickly started picking things out of it.”

  “Like what kind of things? Did you see?”

  The woman grimaced and glanced around the garbage-covered snow. “There’s something missing now, isn’t there? Holly did heroin, but she was also a pill junkie. What’s not here?”

  Plastic pill bottles and needles.

  The woman didn’t wait for me to answer. “I think those men were addicts. They probably thought that Holly’s parents took the drugs she had stashed in her bedroom and th
rew them into the garbage. They were looking for Holly’s drugs.”

  When I sighed, steam escaped my lips and drifted toward the sky.

  The neighbor said one last thing before I turned and left. “Animals. They’re goddamned animals.”

  * * *

  The woman who met me at the door was about five nine and swimwear-model thin. Eva Preston wore a black silk long-sleeved top, gray slacks, understated gold hoop earrings and gold rope necklace. Her long, lustrous platinum hair cascaded over her shoulders and down her back. There were red rims around her blue eyes, her mascara was smudged, and her cheeks were flushed a bright pink. She was holding a tissue in her hand that was little more than a moist wad of ruined paper.

  I immediately felt sorry for her and ashamed for thinking that because she’d married an older man, she might be a gold digger. She was obviously grieving. “Mrs. Preston, I’m Geneva Chase. I am so sorry about your husband.”

  She nodded. “Please come in.”

  I stepped into her expansive living room. The wainscoting was a dark brown balanced against the light blue color of the walls. Bright splashes of colorful Oriental area rugs dotted the parquet hardwood floors. The furniture was an eclectic combination of cloth and leather chairs and couches, accented by throw pillows with a Middle-Eastern flair.

  A twelve-foot Christmas tree dominated the room, displayed in the wide bay window overlooking the snow-covered lawn. The holiday scent of pine filled the air. Tiny multicolored lights twinkled past dozens of ornaments and through silver strands of tinsel.

  A small, ceramic nativity scene sat on the fireplace mantel.

  “Thank you for seeing me, Mrs. Preston.” That was when I spotted the drink in her hand.

  “Please call me Eva. Can I get you something? Coffee? Tea? Cocktail?”

  Cocktail.

  She led the way into the kitchen, and along the way we passed a massive grandfather clock standing at attention against the wall. It told me that it was only slightly after one in the afternoon.

  Too early for a cocktail?

  “You have a lovely accent. Is it Eastern European?” I already knew the answer.