by Shelly Frome
As near as he could figure, it started out by just doing Hacket, Martin Gordon’s silent partner, a favor. Among his other properties, Hacket owned a high rise in Washington Heights back in the Big Apple. Hacket gave him free rent in return for security services, keeping an eye out for burglars and second-story men casing the neighborhood and stuff like that. But it turns out that that was the least of Hacket’s worries.
“Look, Bernie,” the wiry, little guy had said, pointing with his index finger in that annoying way of his.
“Doc. I told you, just make it Doc.”
“Anyway, I’ve got this development project pending in a village up in northwest Connecticut.”
“Like always,” Doc said. “Little village, big score, right? One where you stand to make a lot of coin?”
With his close-set eyes twitching away, Hacket jumped right into the bind he was in. “At any rate, you wouldn’t believe what I’ve sunk into prep work on this one. Architectural plans, surveys, you name it.”
“Up front, you mean.”
“Out in the open? Hell no, never. I invest and stay in the background. All that PR stuff and glad-handing the locals—all that politicking gets on my nerves.”
At that point, Hacket switched to putting his hand in the pocket of his suit pants and jingling some loose change, a nervous habit Doc had the worst time putting up with.
“So,” Hacket said, “it all comes down to whether or not this dowager, this Harriet Curtis, comes through with a quitclaim deed for a right of way. The only option is a skittish lady, a Mrs. Ryder, who owns a B&B on the other side of the site we’re after, who, if you ask me, doesn’t know whether she’s coming or going.”
“You’re saying you need this right of way, is that it? On the double. And you thought it was in the bag.”
“Of course that’s what I’m saying,” Hacket said, getting even more antsy. “There’s no other access onto the site. But I just learned that the Curtis property is under threat of foreclosure plus a suit for tax evasion. Not only that, an environmentalist, a Chris Cooper, is at the head of the Planning Commission and may have found a loophole that would kill the whole deal. If that isn’t enough, an adulterer is on the verge of scandal and divorce proceedings. But not just an adulterer, oh no. This Brian Forbes is a prominent member of the Commission, the chief backer of the project, head of the Business Association, and a prime candidate for conflict of interest. Could there be a bigger godawful mess?”
“Whoa, easy. How am I supposed to take this all in?”
But Hacket didn’t slow it down. “This is what I get for trusting Martin to hawk the package. He said it was pre-sold. He had the Planning Commission in his pocket. He was putting the cart before the horse, that’s what he was doing, and it’s liable to go all to pieces. In a nutshell, I need you to take soundings before I invest another cent. I need assurances. I need you to nail this Harriet Curtis down and get a line on this Cooper guy.”
“Hey, I don’t know. This is not my thing. I don’t do so good with dowagers and WASPs and uppity types from New England.”
“Don’t give me that. You’re retired from the force and climbing the walls. Burglars and the rest of the lowlifes in Washington Heights have moved on. You have nothing better to do than hang out at your old precinct, swap stories, and work out at the gym.”
“Now I wouldn’t say that.”
“Oh, really? What cases have you lined up since you got your PI license?”
“I got a lead on tracking down a paper trail on some insurance fraud. They’ll let me know.”
“Exactly. You’ve got zippo, zero, zilch. And you can forget any more free rent. Well? Are you in or out?”
It didn’t take any more persuading before Doc said he was in.
But it had taken Doc a while longer before he was able to pick up the thread. Not only did he have to stay on Harriet’s tail to nail her down about the quitclaim deed, Martha Forbes had hired him to put the kibosh on Miranda Shaw. Armed with some photos and letters Martha had found stashed in Brian’s bureau drawer, with Hacket naturally turning a blind eye and keeping his fingers crossed, Martha used Doc to get Brian Forbes under the GDC’s thumb and Miranda swept permanently under the carpet in the UK. Besides, as far as Doc could figure, there was no way Martha could move Miranda’s McMansion anyway, a white elephant that was Miranda’s excuse to keep coming back to keep her hooks in Brian. And the commissions on the condo sales looked really juicy if Martha could use some leverage and wangle an exclusive the minute the sales office opened its doors on the Lydfield Green. So, from the get-go, Doc’s job was to keep tabs on Harriet as the owner or whatever of the Curtis property, plus this Chris Cooper guy, and get to Miranda somehow and keep her out of the way.
However, as Doc had predicted, he was a fish out of water. Part of it was the communication gap, and part of it bad luck. Some people in the village gave him grief because they didn’t like his brash tone. The raincoat he borrowed from some guy on the GDC staff because of the weather didn’t fit, wild turkeys attacked him, and Emily—though he tried to be friendly and even offered her his card—wouldn’t give him the time of day. His guess was it was his streetwise tone again, plus Chris Cooper meant something to her. All of which got more convoluted when Hacket called when he was up on the site, wanting to know whether Cooper could be taken care of, wanted to know right away, and when Doc repeated it, Emily must’ve picked up on it.
Anyways, the more Doc thought about it, the more he was convinced he really had stepped into one of them WASP nests prejudiced against New Yorkers and regular, standup guys. After all, why did Martha Forbes say just the sight of him would shake Miranda up? Why did she keep saying, “You have that nasty look and manner from the city streets that will certainly give her pause and do the trick”?
But then again, the money she was offering for this shakedown while the iron was hot was hard to refuse, on top of the per diem from Hacket, keeping his rent-free pad in Washington Heights, expenses covered, and a bonus after the smoke cleared. What was not to like?
So it was kill two birds with one stone, everybody back in place, cut the static so Brian was free and clear to close the deal. But how was he supposed to know the shakedown had no legs? That when he caught up with Miranda in Bovey Tracey, she shook him off and was going to cut out anyway? That she and Brian had the hots for each other even ice storms wouldn’t cool off, and there was no way to keep her from scooting back to her McMansion as her excuse to getting back together?
Which wasn’t the half of it. There was that first accident off the McMansion roof and then Harriet, who had bought it overseas. One accident at what they call an opportune time, maybe. But Harriet Curtis after he tracked her down? No way. And that was when, after he delivered the photos to Miranda Shaw in Bovey Tracey, he tried to warn Emily to wise up and quit sticking her neck out. Because, no matter how much she kept giving him a hard time, he liked her spunk and was getting worried about her. Plus, in so doing, he was starting to feel more like his old self—keeping the good guys out of harm’s way, being much less of a gofer on the take.
To put it all in a nutshell, it was no wonder some people—especially Emily—didn’t know how to take him.
And so, after wrestling with all this and getting it straight in his mind, he drove to the Sharon hospital the very next day to make sure Emily was okay. But he found her down on herself for not seeing it coming. He tried as best he could, but he couldn’t talk her out of it. She kept saying how sorry she was for taking him at face value.
He went down to the hospital gift shop, got hold of some stationary, wrote her a note, and left it with the nurse in charge of her ward.
Listen, the thing of it is, you hung in there. Your half-baked moves aside, you deserve some points. I mean, it looks like you put a lot of stuff together. And maybe with a little coaching—I mean no way you can get worse at it, right? Fact is, I wasn’t the sharpest pencil in the box. A real fish out of water myself, a bull in the china shop, words
like that. On top of it all, oversleeping after losing five hours because of the time difference, letting Cyril sneak off on me. Not picking up on those two characters sitting by that church wall, all broken up when their act got cancelled but not a peep about their sister who just got carted off . . .
Anyways, I hear from everybody you drive real good. What I’m saying is, when you get back on your feet and since your tour guide thing is down the tubes, you could maybe give me a ring. I’m talking around your neck of the woods and up the Hudson—who knows?
Besides, seeing how I don’t ever want to be stuck again with lowlifes like Cyril, you would be a definite upgrade. And I can help you quit taking things personal and to steer clear of psychos. But hey, give it some thought. Whatever.
Doc
In point of fact, the charges and incriminating evidence against Silas continued to mount. There were the contents of the burlap sack, the deadly assaults with the .32 on both sides of the pond, and Emily’s, Will’s, Doc’s, and Cyril’s sworn statements.
For his part, Silas claimed that his stepsister goaded him, both before and after Chris Cooper and Harriet Curtis were out of the picture.
“Not really my fault, you see,” said Silas, giving his statement. “Pressured into it. Victim of circumstance and timing. Duty-bound, of course, a matter of heritage and preservation. Oh, and didn’t I say? It all started with Harriet. ‘Don’t you see, something has to be done. What if Chris Cooper ruins everything? What if? What if?’ Then it was Pru hounding me. ‘Time is of the essence, Silas. Forget your stupid little warnings. Get cracking.’ Rush, rush, everyone in such a rush. Yes indeed, constant pressure. And did I mention duty? And heritage? Mustn’t forget that. No, no, not ever.”
In turn, Pru resorted to a childlike façade when giving her account. “I really don’t understand what all the fuss is about. I’m so tiny, like a Devon pixie, sprinkling a bit of pixie dust. Like Puck in A Midsummer Night’s Dream. Like a will-o’-the-wisp. Like Tinkerbell. Goodness, I was only humoring Harriet who, as Silas must have told you, kept moaning, ‘What if?’ Silas too. Actually, Chris Cooper flying off a roof came to me in a dream. Sailing away, out of sight, out of mind. And what happened to Harriet was like hide-and-seek. That just came to me too, out of the blue. Played in the rain around a dingy old castle. Don’t you see? Make believe is what I’m all about. A fountain of fantasies if that’s what you want of me. So why not call the whole thing ‘Let’s pretend’? That’s really all it was.”
As a result, incorporating Emily’s testimony and incriminating evidence, Pru Curtis was charged with counts of conspiracy and accessory before and after the fact. Silas was charged with multiple counts of assault, reckless endangerment, and murder. The issue of Silas’s and Pru’s sanity only compounded the case against them as the judicial systems here and abroad were brought into play, more charges brought to bear, and, as one counselor put it, “the time-honored wheels of justice began to turn.”
As for Emily, between the time Doc and Will saw her safely to the emergency room and the time she was consigned as a physical therapy patient on crutches, more things began to unfold.
Piecing things together, she learned a great deal after getting back in touch with Hobbs. It seems that Cyril had officially implicated Trevor as an eyewitness. Hobbs then had no trouble identifying the bloke with the grey wooly hair who had been hanging around the tea-and-crumpets marquee. The very spot where Hobbs had milled around ingratiating himself while doing his best to avoid Silas’s mutterings about the history of the sister village in Connecticut. Hobbs knew full well who “that sod Trevor” was Cyril was going on about. Always put off by Trevor’s preening and supercilious ways and armed with Cyril’s testimony, Hobbs was more than happy to break Trevor down at the Teignbridge station and take his statement vis-à-vis spotting Silas (one of the guests on Trevor’s estate) running away from the ramparts and, together with Cyril, watching Silas as he hastily tossed his gun in a nearby ditch.
All the while, Trevor had pleaded with Hobbs not to let it be known he was in any way implicated with withholding evidence and obstructing justice. He begged for some assurance that Constance would never find out. Needless to say, Hobbs promised no such thing. In practically no time, the details were out to all and sundry regarding the smuggled gun and Silas and Pru’s residence at Trevor Vane’s manor house. Silas, the selfsame prime suspect, had last been seen in the company of Trevor Vane leaving the mortuary and driving off in Vane’s vintage Rolls Royce. Trevor Vane, in effect, thus aided a prime suspect to abscond scot-free.
In short order, Constance resigned as chairperson from her various committees and withdrew from local society altogether. Even more conspicuously, while awaiting possible charges, Trevor hadn’t frequented the pub. Rumor had it that the manor house was listed with an estate agent in Lustleigh, and the Vanes were no longer covertly taking in lodgers.
All told, Hobbs did get to “dash about with a warrant card, fancying his reinstatement in a proper uniform.” He got in touch with Emily at the hospital and apologized for being “thick and, as it were, dragging me heels.” He wished her a speedy recovery and promised to do his best to get them both reinstated after Trevor had issued his complaint to the British Tourist Authority and packed off her remaining clients.
She told him how much she appreciated his news of the past few days, brushed aside his apologies, thanked him for his well wishes, and took his offer of interceding on her behalf with the British Tourist Authority with a grain of salt. She did, however, accept his standing invitation for a hearty meal at the pub next time they chanced to meet.
While in the hospital, Emily was also duly apprised of the details of Silas and Pru’s arraignment, the docketing of incriminating evidence, and Emily’s future appearances as a material witness. She was also handed a clipping from the Wall Street Journal by a nurse she knew on her ward she couldn’t help reading aloud:
“A spokesman for the Gordon Development Company of Newark, New Jersey, stated that the company has withdrawn its application for site approval in Lydfield, a historic village in the northwest hills of Connecticut. The timing of this move is surprising in view of the recent assurances the GDC had given its investors that the venture was certifiably sound. Those assurances were predicated on the potential of this project to tap into the retiree market from the Manhattan metropolitan area, especially those buyers wishing to take advantage of the attractions offered by the Southern Berkshire corridor.
“CEO Martin Gordon was unavailable for comment. R. J. Hacket, Mr. Gordon’s associate, cited health issues and the fluctuations in the housing market for his sudden departure from the firm. However, reliable sources note that the Lydfield Planning Commission’s bylaws forbidding transactions with alleged felons and the refusal of Mrs. Ryder, owner of an adjacent B&B, to provide an alternate right of way to the site as the main factors necessitating the GDC withdrawal. In any event, the GDC storefront office on the Lydfield Green is now vacant.”
On a more intimate note, Will visited Emily every day she was in the hospital.
To try and cheer her up, Will let it slip that Lieutenant Neill, Dave Roberts’s superior at Troop L, had called Dave on the carpet for a number of things, including his preoccupation with petty vandalism at the high school and sloughing off the statements of two key informants—one of whom he was infatuated with—all of which had clouded his judgment. As a result, Officer Roberts’s duties would be severely limited and his status was under review for disciplinary action.
Will then limited their conversations to small talk about the weather, how the restorations he was making at the B&B were going, and the way the leaves were showing a touch of crimson and amber that would soon brighten into something really special. He did this taking into account all the painkillers she was taking and her need for rest and peace and quiet to get over her ordeal.
When she felt up to it, the only thing left for Emily to do was write Doc a note. Once again, she wanted to let him know that
for all the right and wrong reasons, she’d misjudged him and would always be grateful for his coming to her rescue at the last minute. But she didn’t respond to his proposition. At this stage of the game, she had no idea how she was going to pick up the pieces, let alone become an ex-cop’s sidekick.
But even after asking the duty nurse to post the letter, even after all that had transpired, there was no closure. Babs had sent text messages, indicating that she, herself, was at sixes and sevens. Moreover, with the leaf-peeping season almost upon her, there was no telling what Emily’s mother’s plans were or how in the world she’d take Chris’s passing and murder when she returned from her scouting expedition of vintage B&Bs in two weeks. Lastly, Will had been extremely attentive and helpful but hadn’t given Emily any indication they had any future together, and Emily was too prideful to ask.
Chapter Thirty-Three
A week after her torn ligaments were set in an above-the-knee cast, and a few days after the service for Chris Cooper atop Mohawk Mountain under a cloudless sky as she wished him peace and a safe journey, Emily was still in limbo. She still hadn’t come to terms or, as the Brits would say, “truly sorted it.”
And so, around midmorning, she hauled out a lawn chair and foot stool outside the cottage door and propped up her leg. At this point, the only thing for it was to bask in the sunlight and wait for Will to appear.
However, as luck would have it, in practically no time she found herself contending with Babs as she came scurrying down the drive and across the back lawn, ahead of schedule.
“Tell you what,” said Babs, trying to catch her breath. “I’ll tuck the kiddie trek which is about to transpire into a sidebar and lead with In Harm’s Way on the High Meadow. I’ll set it up, sketch in what I saw and heard, and guess what led up to it. All you have to do is nod for yes and shake your head for no. What do you say? I know all bets are off, and I’m in no position to ask, but this is the proverbial point of no return.”