Dead Drift: three small town murder mysteries (Frank Bennett Adirondack Mountain Mystery Series Book 4)

by S. W. Hubbard

  Earl had Frank’s full attention now. “Who was the car registered to?”

  “Jeff Rayborn. He told me his dad bought it for him.”

  “His dad? His dad can’t afford to pay his bar tab at the Mountainside.”

  Earl looked fit to explode. He pulled a folded copy of the Mountain Herald from his back packet and unfurled the weekly newspaper with a flourish. “Trout Run Man Wins State Lottery,” the headline read.

  Frank scanned the article. Apparently Tom Rayborn had won a hundred thousand dollars on a ticket purchased at a convenience store on the Northway just outside Albany.

  Frank sat holding the paper, his eyes no longer focused on the type.

  “What’s the matter?” Earl asked. “Don’t you think it’s nice something good finally happened to someone in the McGrath family? “

  “Yeah. Looks like their luck has turned.” Frank stuck the newspaper under his desk blotter. “I wouldn’t peg Tom as a guy who’d buy his son a foreign sports car. Or Jeff to want one, for that matter. Wouldn’t a new pick-up be more useful?”

  “For hunting, yes.” Earl leered as he headed back out. “But maybe Jeff has his sights set on something nicer than a six point buck.”

  Once Earl was gone, Frank pulled out the paper again. The rag’s motto was “The North Country’s Good News Paper,” but Frank thought it should be “Yesterday’s news, next week.” There were still old ladies who liked to clip out wedding announcements and stories about their grandkids starring in the class play, but once those old gals passed on, the Mountain Herald would probably die too, no doubt replaced by a High Peaks Twitter account. By the time news appeared in the Herald, it had already been thoroughly discussed at Malone’s, the Store, and the Presbyterian Church fellowship hour. How could it be that Tom had won the Lottery and Earl hadn’t known anything about it until he’d read it in the paper?

  He called the Herald and got Greg Faraday, editor, reporter, photographer, designer, ad salesman, and receptionist.

  “Quite a story about Tom winning the Lottery. How’d you get the news?”

  “From Tom, how else? You can see I took his picture with the winning ticket.”

  “It’s just a Lotto ticket. How do you know it’s really a winner?”

  Greg spoke with exaggerated patience. “Tom told me the name of the place where he bought it and I called to verify. Kwik-Valu, right off Exit 24.”

  “And they said they sold Tom a ticket worth a hundred grand?”

  “They don’t know who they sold it to. They just said they sold a big winner last week.”

  “They confirmed the sale of a hundred thousand dollar ticket?” Frank pressed.

  “The guy was foreign—Indian or Chinese or something. He just kept saying, ‘Yes, yes, big winnah.’ You don’t believe Tom really won? Call the Lotto Commission if you want proof. I got another line ringing here.” And he was gone.

  Frank took Greg’s advice. But tracking down the right Lottery bureaucrat to squeeze for information was no easy matter. No, he didn’t have a warrant. Please hold. No, he wasn’t a state officer. Please hold. As he listened to the canned hold music for the third time, Frank gazed out the window. The Nativity statues had finally been taken down for the season, so the Green looked forlornly empty and would stay that way until the garden committee began their ministrations in May. The recent warm snap had melted a lot of snow, and gray slush formed a dismal ribbon around the park. The only bright spot was the cheery red door of the town library. As he watched, the door opened and Penny stepped out, accompanied by another woman even more slender than she. Together, they wrestled a large sign out the door and set it up at the end of the sidewalk. Frank knew what it said: After School Story Hour with Miss Penny. Before Christmas, at Penny’s behest, he’d used his jigsaw to cut a large piece of plywood into the shape of an open book. Penny had painted it and launched her initiative to get the kids of Trout Run out from in front of their TVs. The usual naysayers had insisted the program wouldn’t work, but now, two months in, Penny had more kids at the library than she could ride herd on. Apparently she’d found a helper.

  With the Lottery Commission hold music still playing in his ear, Frank squinted and realized the other person was Sophie Moran. Of course—at dinner she’d asked about volunteering. Now Frank could see Penny gesturing. An SUV with New Jersey plates pulled up to the curb. Mike Moran hugged his daughter. Then he raised his left hand toward the small of Penny’s back. Frank tensed. Moran’s hand dropped without making contact. All three turned and went into the library.

  The hold music stopped. The line clicked.

  Dial tone.

  Frank fought an uphill battle to like his son-in-law. One of the qualities that annoyed him most in Caroline’s husband was Eric’s boundless circle of connections. If you told him you needed a two-headed unicorn with a purple tail, in a few clicks of his iPhone he’d track down someone who knew someone who knew someone else who could get it for you wholesale. Nevertheless, that network might come in handy right now. Surely Eric—Mr. Wall Street—would know someone with the inside scoop on Michael Moran and his high-tech start-up.

  That night, after fifteen minutes of small talk with Caroline and the requisite unintelligible chat with his toddler grandsons, Frank finally got to ask Eric what he knew about Mike Moran.

  “Word on the street is he wants to step down as CEO of DataVergent and get into politics. You know—become the next Mike Bloomberg.”

  “So why move up here?”

  “Probably figures it’s cheaper to buy a seat in Congress in an upstate New York district than in New Jersey. The northern New Jersey media market is astronomical.”

  Frank was glad Eric couldn’t see him making faces on the other end of the phone. After all, he’d called his son-in-law precisely to get this kind of information, but he couldn’t help being irritated that Eric actually knew all this stuff.

  “So if he’s planning a run for office, he’d naturally want to avoid any hints of scandal,” Frank continued. “But it seems his son was kicked out of this fancy prep school—Moorewood Academy. You heard of it?”

  Eric made the sound that never failed to raise Frank’s hackles—a cross between a snort and a laugh that managed to convey contempt and pity and superiority without resorting to words whatsoever. “Of course. It’s one of the most prestigious prep schools in the country. Right up there with Choate and Sidwell Friends.” He paused. “You know, where the president’s kids go.”

  Frank took a calming breath.

  “But the kid’s flunking out of Moorewood wouldn’t be enough to damage his father’s political prospects,” Eric said.

  “He didn’t flunk out. According to the PTA lady, there was some sort of ‘aggressive incident’, but she wouldn’t share the details.”

  Again with the snort. “I got this. A guy I work with is an alum. Call you back in a few.”

  Frank got up from his easy chair and allowed himself a rare treat—half a glass of Jim Beam, neat. One good thing about Eric—he was so disinterested in his father-in-law’s boring, small-town job, he never even asked why Frank wanted to know so much about Mike Moran. By the time the warm glow of the bourbon unkinked the knot in his neck, his phone was ringing.

  “Listen to this. Drew Moran attacked the lacrosse coach who was having an affair with his mother.”

  Frank’s heart rate kicked up. This was it. He tempered the excitement in his voice. “Ahh—poor kid. His coach was nailing his mother. A double betrayal.”

  “Not his coach. His sister’s coach. Loretta Kolb.”

  Frank nursed his bourbon by the dying the fire in his living room, twisting his glass this way and that, studying the refractions of firelight. Surely what Eric had told him gave Mike Moran a motive for murder. It would have been bad enough for Moran to have discovered his wife’s infidelity. But to know your wife was cheating on you with another woman—a man would have a hard time recovering from that. Yet the Morans had decided to stay together. Still, co
uld Mike ever feel truly confident that he’d won his wife back?

  And then there was the complication of Mike Moran’s political ambitions. With a lesbian affair not very neatly tucked in the closet, the possibility for scandal would always be there. How could he launch his political career with that hanging over his head?

  Frank swirled the remaining bourbon in his glass. Maybe it wasn’t such a big a deal. After all, voters had forgiven far worse: Bill Clinton, Elliott Spitzer, Mark Sanford. But even if Renee’s affair didn’t keep Mike from getting elected, it would certainly be dredged up during the campaign. He wasn’t just anyone running for Congress. He was Mike Moran—handsome, brilliant, software wunderkind multi-millionaire. The whole family would have to cope with a media machine that loved finding dirt on people who seem too good to be true.

  Frank knocked back the last of the Jim Beam. Mike Moran was an entrepreneur, a problem-solver. Maybe he saw death-by-tragic-accident as a way to wipe the family slate clean.

  Friday morning, Frank woke eager to share his new information with the state police. But the day started off with not one but two knocked-down road signs, continued with a shoplifting incident, escalated to a domestic disturbance, and wound down with the usual end of the work-week rowdiness at the Mountainside Tavern.

  Frank swung by at ten to find trouble already in progress, courtesy of Tom Rayborn.

  “Get him outta here,” the bartender said. “He’s messed up on something real bad.”

  “What?”

  The bartender shrugged. “He was high as a kite when he came in. I wouldn’t serve him, but then it got crowded and some guy from Verona started buying rounds. Turned out he was using Tom’s money to buy shots and beer for Tom and ten other people. I want him outta here before he starts something.”

  George Strait blared from the jukebox and a few people danced near the pool tables. Tom lurched spastically across the dance floor, crashing into tables, knocking over chairs. One man shoved Tom away from a woman, causing him to careen toward another couple. Frank stepped in just as the man was about to take a swing.

  “Hold up, buddy. Let me get him out of your way.” The crowd parted, and Frank grabbed Tom by the belt and collar and prepared to haul him out to the squad car.

  “You finally got a partner to two-step with you,” a wise-guy at the bar shouted.

  Tom struggled to free himself. “You a-holes don’t want me dancin’ with your women ‘cause I’m too hot.”

  The crowd roared, enjoying the show.

  “But my money’s good enough to buy you drinks. You mothers gonna miss me when I’m gone.”

  Frank dragged him a few steps closer to the door. “You planning a trip?”

  Tom’s knees wobbled and he steadied himself against the side of a booth. “I’m thinkin’ I’ll fly somewhere warm. Sick of this damn snow.”

  “You still have money enough for that?”

  “Sure, man—I gotta hundred grand.”

  “Seventy grand after taxes,” Frank said. “Sixty for that fancy car for Jeff. And all these rounds at the Mountainside. Seems to me you might have to take the Greyhound to Florida.”

  Tom’s laughter ended in a defiant shout. “I ain’t payin’ no taxes, man. An’ there’s plenny more money where this come from.”

  Someone opened the bar door and Frank and Tom stumbled out into the cold night.

  Tom was quiet during the ride back to the office, but Frank had a hell of a time hauling the semi-conscious man into the holding cell. He briefly considered calling the EMTs, but he doubted they’d be willing to drive Tom to the hospital in Saranac Lake to have his stomach pumped since the drunk’s pulse was strong and steady. Frank dumped his charge on the bunk and straightened his legs out. In the process, Tom’s cell phone slid from his pocket and clattered to the floor.

  Frank cradled it in his hand.

  What had Tom meant when he said he didn’t have to pay taxes on his winnings? What had he meant when he said there was plenty more money to come? Frank wished he’d been more persistent with the Lottery Commission. Had Tom Rayborn really claimed a hundred thousand dollar winning ticket? If Tom’s new wealth hadn’t come from the Lottery, there was only one other plausible source. Frank checked the phone’s contacts list—no Mike Moran listed. He pulled out the bookmark where he’d written Mike Moran’s two phone numbers and compared them to the numbers in Tom’s recent calls list. There were no matches. But one number showed up repeatedly on Tom’s recently called list. It had the same 908 New Jersey area code as Mike Moran’s numbers. It even had the same exchange as Mike’s private line. Only the last digit was different.

  Another private line. One that Mike Moran used to contact Tom Rayborn.

  Frank tried to shake Tom back to consciousness with no success. Finally he held a cold soda can to Tom’s temple and the man’s eyelids fluttered.

  “Where did you get the money, Tom? I know there was no winning lottery ticket.”

  Tom’s pupils were as huge and black as a night-prowling cat’s. He twisted his head, searching for the source of the question. “I hadda ticket. He givva to me.”

  “Who?”

  Tom’s jaw gaped and he collapsed in a heap. This time there was no reviving him.

  Frank studied the pathetic drunk sprawled on the cot. Moran had hired this man to kill the mother of his children. Not a crime of passion, one of cold-blooded calculation. Moran was accustomed to success. His wife had made a dangerous mistake when she humiliated him.

  Clearly a few hours needed to pass before anyone could interrogate Tom Rayborn. Frank turned the man on his side so he wouldn’t choke if he vomited. But before he summoned the state police, there was someone he needed to talk to.

  Frank cruised down the tiny side street where Penny lived. Lights glowed in the first floor windows. In their golden radiance he could make out a car parked in the driveway. A large black SUV with New Jersey plates.

  He pounded on Penny’s front door. The steps that had brought him from his car to this spot melted into a white blur of anger.

  Inside, he could hear movement. The porch light came on and the living room curtain twitched. A moment later, Penny flung open the door.

  “Frank! What are you doing here? Is something wrong?”

  He pushed past her into the hallway, searching for Moran.

  Penny tailed him into the living-room. “Frank?”

  Moran rose awkwardly from the low, soft sofa. His hair looked disheveled. Two glasses with puddles of red wine in the bottoms stood on the coffee table, next to a plate with a half-eaten wedge of cheese.

  Frank knew his emotions were war paint smeared across his face.

  Penny stood with her hands on her hips, somewhere between irritated and amused.

  “Rough night, Frank?”

  “As a matter of fact, I have had a rough night. I had to haul Tom Rayborn out of the Mountainside. Drunk as a skunk, talking crazy, and making a scene. He’s been nothing but trouble since he won the Lottery.”

  Frank watched Moran for a reaction, and was rewarded with a look of bland boredom. He kept talking. “Old Tom seems to be running through his prize money pretty quickly, but tonight he kept insisting there was plenty more where that came from. But I don’t think he meant he was going to win the Lottery again.”

  Still no reaction.

  Penny’s expression darkened. “Why are you telling us this, Frank?”

  He turned to face her. “Do you know why Drew and Sophie dropped out of their fancy private school?”

  That got a reaction from Moran. “Look Bennett, what right do you have to snoop in my—”

  Frank kept his eyes glued on Penny. “Do you?”

  She took a step back from the two angry men. “Drew was bored. Sophie was having some trouble with mean girls.”

  “Do you know why they were mean?”

  “I went to boarding school--teenage girls don’t need a reason. They’re hungry sharks.”

  “These particular sharks were
feeding on some juicy gossip. Do you want to know what it is?”

  “No! No, I don’t. What’s gotten into you, Frank? You’re being outrageously cruel. You need to leave.”

  “Listen to me, Penny. I’m only trying to protect you. His wife was having an affair…an affair with Sophie’s female lacrosse coach. Drew attacked the woman, and both kids were driven out of that school by the scandal.”

  Penny glanced at Moran. His jaw was clenched. He wouldn’t meet her eye.

  Penny whirled back to face Frank. “What difference does it make? Why are you digging into his personal life?”

  “Don’t you see? He had a motive to kill his wife. And he paid Tom Rayborn to pull the trigger. That’s where Rayborn’s money came from. He used the lottery ticket as a cover to explain his sudden wealth.”

  “You’re the one who’s talking crazy,” Moran said. “My wife and I worked out our problems. I would never have hurt her. And I don’t even know this local man you’re talking about.”

  Frank pulled Tom’s cellphone from his pocket. “Then why does this number show up over and over in Tom Rayborn’s recent calls? 908-555-3738—that’s one digit off your personal cellphone number, isn’t it? This is another one of your lines.”

  That brain--the brain that had blasted through MIT, the brain that had seen a problem and invented a product to solve it, the brain that had led a company and earned millions—that brain made the connection.

  A second later, Frank’s brain made it too: Drew’s phone, Drew’s plan.

  A second too late. Moran lunged for Penny, catching her neck in the crook of his left arm. With his other hand, he snatched up the small knife lying on the cheese plate. He pressed it against the throbbing vein in Penny’s slender neck.

  Frank reached for his gun and Moran pressed the knife into Penny’s skin. A tiny bright drop appeared at its tip.

  Frank looked at what he was up against: a dull little paring knife. But the knife was ready and his gun would take precious seconds to draw. Plunged into a jugular, that knife could kill. An hour on snowy mountain roads to an ER—the risk was too great. His hand fell away from his gun.