The Lure: a small town murder mystery (Frank Bennett Adirondack Mountain Mystery Series Book 2)

by S. W. Hubbard

  “Yes, I hope it all works out for Mr. Patel. He’s a nice man and he’s been through a lot.”

  “We’ve arrested Doug Penniman for shooting him. I can’t quite figure what his motive was, though. Meredith and Extrom both swear they knew nothing about it—not that either one of them can be trusted. Still, I don’t see what purpose it served Extrom to have Sanjiv shot.”

  Beth began crumbling a packing peanut, making a mess where she’d just swept. “Is there any doubt that Doug was the shooter?”

  “The bullet came from his gun; his prints are the only ones on it. He had kept it in a locked gun case, then he tried to sell it. He was in town that day.”

  “I think…” Beth’s voice came out raspy and hoarse. She cleared her throat and tried again. “I think I might know why he did it.”

  “You do?” He thought about the night he and Beth had been together when she’d brushed off his questions about Penniman driving by her house. What was she going to tell him now?

  “Do you know who lives down the road here?” Beth gestured behind her.

  “It’s all vacation homes, no?”

  Beth nodded. “And one of them has been rented by Sean Vinson while he’s supervising the work on Extrom’s house.”

  Frank’s blank expression was enough to keep her talking. “Sean let Doug drive Extrom’s SUV, since they couldn’t take the chance of being seen together in Doug’s truck.”

  “What do you mean, ‘take the chance’?”

  Beth took a deep breath. “They were involved. With each other. You know, romantically.”

  Finally the light bulb went on. “Doug Penniman is gay?”

  Beth shrugged. “Well, bisexual, I guess. I often walk down the road to the pond in the evening. I saw them one day, embracing, but they didn’t see me. I kept my mouth shut—I know how difficult these things can be. A friend of mine left her husband for another woman. It was devastating for everyone.”

  “But wait a minute, what’s this got to do with Mr. Patel?”

  “You know that empty lot across from the Mountain Vista? People use it as—”

  “I know—a lover’s lane.”

  “Well, I’ve heard Mr. Patel gets upset because kids leave beer cans, and make noise late at night. So when he sees cars in there, sometimes he goes over and chases them away.”

  “So you think Patel must have caught Doug and Sean in the act? And Doug tried to kill him?”

  “Face it, Frank. His life in Trout Run would effectively be over if that got out.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me this sooner?” Now it was his turn to get testy.

  “I didn’t figure it all out until after you arrested Doug. I didn’t think at first you needed to know about the affair with Sean—it was Doug’s private business.”

  They glared at each other. “You know, you’re as stubborn as I am,” Frank said.

  A glimmer of a smile tugged at her mouth. He stepped forward and took her in his arms. For a moment she stood stiffly, then relaxed into his embrace.

  “Good-bye, Beth. Good luck in Oregon.” He kissed the top of her head.

  She tilted her head back and kissed him full on the lips. “Good-bye, Frank.”

  Chapter 38

  “What are you doing tonight?”

  “Nothing much.”

  “You wanta come to the Mountainside? I’m going to shoot some pool with my cousin Donald and his friends.”

  The no formed reflexively. The smoke at the Mountainside made him cough. The music was so loud he had to just smile and nod when people spoke to him. His eyes couldn’t adjust to the dim light. Then he thought of the TV dinners stacked in his freezer, the books beside his recliner, his bed neatly made.

  “Sure, I’ll come. Thanks for asking.”

  “You wanna drive? My car’s at Al’s for a tune-up. Donald was going to pick me up, but it’s out of his way.”

  They drove in silence, passing through the green and coasting down the long hill that preceded the steady climb to the Mountainside. Things had been a little strained between them since the incident with Anita Veech’s medical records.

  “So, how’s Melanie?” Frank finally asked.

  “I don’t know. We broke up—she’d dating a physical therapist from the hospital now.”

  “Oh—I’m sorry.”

  Earl shrugged. “It’s no big deal. She was a little crazy anyway. A girl who works with Donald is going to be at the Mountainside tonight with some of her friends. I’ll check that out.”

  Frank smiled. So much for the heartbreak of young love.

  “I hear Beth’s moving away.”

  “Yeah, all the way to Oregon.”

  “That’s too bad.”

  Frank could feel Earl’s eyes studying him for a reaction. “I think she feels like starting over in a new place. I can understand that.”

  “Hey, guess who else is moving away? Stan Fenstock—he’s going to Nashville.” Earl elaborated before Frank could ask why. “He wants to be a country singer. He’s sung at bars and fairs around here, but I guess he decided he’s going to try to make it in the big leagues.”

  “Good riddance,” Frank said.

  “Why do you say that?”

  “I think Stan is the person who tried to run you and Katie down, but I can’t prove it. This plan to move to Nashville makes sense. He must’ve wanted his share of the money from Raging Rapids to finance his singing career.”

  “Yeah, I heard Roy and Abe were pretty pissed when they found out Stan was helping Green Tomorrow. But why would he want to hurt Katie—they were on the same side?”

  “I think he just wanted to stir up as much controversy as possible to scare his father into selling. He knew the stunt with the truck would get Katie and everyone else more riled up.”

  A huge full moon was creeping up through the trees. The bare branches of the birches swayed before it. The wind blew hard enough to push the car toward the center line. It wouldn’t be long before the first snow.

  “When do I have to have that letter of recommendation written?” Frank asked.

  Earl’s head snapped to the left. “It’s due in November. I thought you weren’t writing it?”

  “I’m sorry I threatened you like that.” Frank kept his eyes glued to the road. “It’s just… I want you to understand that when you do the wrong thing for what you think is the right reason, it always comes back and bites you in the ass.”

  Out of the corner of his eye he could see Earl studying his seat belt with great interest.

  “But I’m still going to write the recommendation.”

  “Thanks, Frank.” The last vestige of tension between them dissolved. “Say, I wonder who’ll buy Beth’s house? It’s a real pretty spot. Maybe someone from somewhere far away will want to start over in Trout Run.”

  “Maybe. Anything’s possible.”

  Frank and Trudy Massinay sat in Malone’s eating apple-cranberry pie and drinking coffee. They were the only mid-afternoon customers, and Marge had scowled at them for taking a table instead of seats at the counter, but they wanted the privacy.

  “So how did it go when you brought Olivia to Edwin and Lucy’s place?” Frank asked.

  “Lucy fussed all over Olivia and Edwin was stand-offish. I predict Edwin will be the first to break through to her. This placement will work, I can tell.”

  “That’s a relief—maybe I’ll go and check on them tonight.”

  Trudy shook her head. “Keep your distance for a while, Frank. Olivia feels a lot of guilt over her mother’s arrest. You’re all tied up in that. Give her a chance to get her bearings before you visit.”

  “She shouldn’t feel guilty—it’s not her fault her mother is a drug dealer.”

  “She’s seven, Frank. A very bright seven, but she still thinks like a child. In her mind, she’s responsible for everything that happens in her world.”

  Frank gave a half-laugh. “When do you outgrow that? I’m forty-seven and I think that way. Now that I’ve got Olivi
a settled, I’m dwelling on the Sheehans. Seems like there ought to be a way to get them to help Sanjiv with little Sarah.”

  Trudy paused with her fork poised over her pie. “Don’t worry about Sanjiv. He’s doing fine. They threw a baby shower for him over at the church–twenty-five Presbyterian ladies, one Hindu man, and enough pink onesies to clothe every baby between here and Albany. And his cousin in New Jersey has introduced him to a nice Indian widow with two little boys.”

  “I’m not worried about Sanjiv, I’m worried about the Sheehans and Sarah. If Sarah’s going to be raised in Trout Run, how can they go around pretending she’s not their grand-daughter?”

  Trudy’s eternally affable expression slipped, and Frank saw a darkness he didn’t think she was capable of. “The same way they pretended not to know their daughter was pregnant.”

  “But they didn’t know,” Frank protested. “I saw how shocked they were when I told them.”

  “I don’t buy it, Frank. Maybe Joe didn’t know, but Ann sure as hell did.”

  “How can you be so positive?”

  “Ann’s an obsessively clean housekeeper. You mean to tell me she never noticed that there were no wrappers from tampons or pads in the trash anymore, never a drop of blood on Mary Pat’s panties when she did the wash?”

  “Mary Pat was an adult—she must’ve done her own laundry.”

  Trudy rolled her eyes. “I’ve worked with Ann at church functions, Frank. She was always boasting that she did all the wash herself. She has some arcane methodology that has to be followed. The woman irons her dish towels, for God’s sake.”

  Frank smiled. From the condition of Trudy’s blouse, it was pretty clear the iron was used as a bookend at the Massinay house. Trudy’s argument made sense, but he still wasn’t entirely convinced. “But if Ann knew Mary Pat was pregnant, that would mean she knew Mary Pat was planning on having the baby with no one but Constance to help.”

  Trudy’s shaggy eyebrows went up in an inverted V. “Exactly. I think Ann Sheehan knows she’s ultimately responsible for her daughter’s death, Frank. That’s why she can’t bear to see her grand-daughter.”

  Frank sat in a rocking chair at the Mountain Vista Motel, right behind the curtain that divided Sanjiv’s living quarters from the main office. He’d taken to dropping by the motel several times a week after work, to see if Sanjiv and Sarah needed anything. He’d even eaten dinner there once or twice, after Sanjiv convinced him that not all curries were spicy hot.

  Tonight, after much persuasion, Sanjiv had agreed to leave Sarah with Frank while he shopped in Verona. The baby had sucked down her bottle, let out a tremendously unladylike burp, and now lay sleeping in Frank’s arms. He knew he could put her in the crib without waking her, but he enjoyed watching the rapid rise and fall of her chest, the occasional flutter of her long lashes against her cheek, the way her clenched fists gradually unfurled as she sank into a deep sleep.

  The bell over the motel door sounded and Frank sighed. Now he would have to put her down, while he checked in the guest. He rose and peeked through the curtain. Joe Sheehan stood on the other side of the counter.

  Frank opened the curtain and stepped into the office with Sarah still in his arms. Joe’s mouth dropped open. “What are you doing here?” he asked Frank, but his eyes were already focused on the baby.

  “Baby-sitting.” Frank moved out from behind the counter. “Is this who you came to see?” He shifted the baby so she faced outward in his arms.

  Joe came closer to study the sleeping baby, but didn’t touch her.

  “You can hold her,” Frank said, offering Sarah up.

  Gingerly, Joe took the baby into his arms. But his hands and jacket were cold from the outside air, and Sarah’s eyes opened. She studied her grandfather solemnly with big, dark eyes.

  Frank watched them. “She hardly ever cries.”

  “Just like Mary Pat,” Joe whispered. He cradled the baby’s dark head in his pale, freckled hand.

  “What made you come over tonight?”

  “Ann’s at bingo,” Joe said.

  Did the man think he could just sneak over here and see his granddaughter on the sly whenever his wife’s back was turned? Frank was about to lash out when he caught himself. It wasn’t for him to decide—Sanjiv would have to determine what was best for Sarah. He tried to be more conciliatory. “You know, Sanjiv has wanted to get in touch with you, but he was afraid you were angry with him.”

  Joe merely shook his head, his gaze never leaving Sarah’s face. “Not angry.”

  “So then why don’t you—”

  Joe raised his eyes to meet Frank’s. “I can’t,” he said softly. “It’s time to go get Ann now.” He handed the baby back. “Don’t tell her father I came.”

  Frank stood at the door staring until Joe’s taillights disappeared into the night. Sarah had dozed off again in his arms, oblivious to the way her life—all eight weeks of it—had changed so many others.

  He thought about Alma organizing everyone to keep the Mountain Vista open when Sanjiv had been in the hospital, and the ladies at the church throwing that shower. He thought about Dr. Galloway and Trudy looking out for Diane Sarens, and Lucy and Edwin taking Olivia. There was a lot of goodness in this town. Too bad Mary Pat and Sanjiv hadn’t trusted in that—things could have turned out so much differently.

  As he watched out the door, a car on the road slowed to turn–probably Sanjiv returning. But instead of making a right into the parking lot, the car turned left into the empty lot across the street. Another pair of lovers.

  Maybe he should put Sarah in her crib and go roust them out of there. He’d be doing them a favor, even if they didn’t recognize it. Then he smiled at his own foolishness. Whatever drama was underway across the road would play out without his direction.

  He sat back down with Sarah in his arms and rocked.

  THE END

  ***

  Scroll the page to read Chapter One of the next Frank Bennett Adirondack mystery, Blood Knot.

  Blood Knot

  Frank Bennett Adirondack Mystery #3

  Chapter 1

  Irene Delafield was dead and Frank Bennett was glad.

  It wasn’t the first time he’d been happy to hear of someone’s passing. When Ronald Beemis, serial child molester, had been shanked in the exercise yard of the Missouri state prison, Frank couldn't help but feel that the world was a better place. And when Osvaldo Merguez and Tyrone “Teeko” Mills had taken each other down in a blaze of semiautomatic gunfire over contested drug turf in Kansas City, Frank had joined his fellow cops in a genial celebration at their local bar.

  Irene Delafield didn’t have a rap sheet; she was the organist at the Presbyterian Church in Trout Run, New York—but what she did to the fine old melodies in the Presbyterian Hymnbook was positively criminal. Under Irene’s inept fingers, “Jesus Christ Is Risen Today” became a dirge. She was so flummoxed by the syncopations of “A Mighty Fortress Is Our God” that she lost the entire congregation before the first verse ended and left each person valiantly singing whatever he thought best.

  As the widower of a very fine church musician, Frank couldn’t bear to listen to Irene play. When he occasionally got in a churchgoing mood, he headed down to the Congregational Church in Keene Valley, where the organist put on a creditable show. Frank’s flagrant disloyalty did not go unremarked in his adopted hometown. He was, after all, the police chief of Trout Run and should set an example.

  So he had chosen the first Sunday in November, All Saints’ Day, to rejoin the fold now that a heart attack had taken Irene off the organ bench for good. And it hadn’t been bad. The service had ended with a rousing rendition of “When the Saints Go Marching In” that made sitting through Pastor Bob Rush’s meandering sermon worthwhile.

  He was still humming under his breath when Reid Burlingame and Ardyth Munger cornered him during fellowship hour.

  “Good to see you here, Frank,” Reid said. As chairman of the town council, Reid was his bos
s, so Frank was glad his attendance had been duly noted. “What did you think of today’s music?”

  Frank swallowed the last morsel of his crumb cake. "Terrific. Stepping outside the hymnal with that last number, no?”

  “Matthew wanted to play it, and Bob said it was okay,” Ardyth explained.

  “Matthew?”

  “Matthew Portman. That was him playing the piano during the service.”

  “Ah, that Matthew.” Matthew Portman was only fourteen years old when he had filled in on piano last year while Irene visited her sister in Toledo, and church attendance had risen dramatically. After that, Pastor Bob had thoughtfully encouraged Irene to take more vacations, but she had clung to her organ bench with barnacle-like tenacity, and Matthew hadn’t gotten another shot.

  “Did you see this?” Ardyth tapped the back page of her bulletin, which proclaimed in boldface print: Hymn Sing and Pie Social, Saturday, November 14. “It’s a fund-raiser so we can send Matthew for organ lessons.”

  Reid beamed. “We’ve had a real stroke of luck. Oliver Greffe, the music teacher at the North Country Academy, is quite an accomplished organist. He’s agreed to instruct Matthew. It’s another example of the good things that school is doing for our town now that it’s under new management.”

  Frank braced himself for another one of Reid’s rah-rah speeches. He’d hardly had a conversation with the man lately that didn’t revolve around what a boon to the local economy the new North Country Academy was proving to be. The academy used to be a third-rate boarding school catering to kids who couldn’t get into—or had been kicked out of—better institutions. But its remote location and indifferent academic reputation had finally driven it out of existence at the end of the last school year. Trout Run greeted the news with a big yawn—although technically within the town limits, the school had never seemed like part of the community. Only one person from Trout Run taught there, and all the local kids went to Trout Run Elementary, then on to High Peaks High School.