9 Murder Mysteries

by Don Potter

  Although Detective Andrews received much notoriety, Tom Scully was scorned by his superiors for not informing them he was helping the Philly detective. Even worse, his ‘shoot first ask questions later’ episode was bad PR for Wildwood. He resigned from the force before the start of the summer season.

  The Fourth of July weekend was celebrated by thousands of tourists staking their claims on the miles of white-sand beaches from the tip of Cape May all the way up to Asbury Park. There were fireworks displays, cookouts and boat regattas galore. Everything imaginable for people to enjoy the outdoors.

  A man anchored his boat near the public dock at Somers Point, across the bay from Ocean City. He piloted a small inflatable dingy to the pier. A large man climbed down the rickety wooden ladder and into the tiny craft. The crew of two returned to the luxury yacht and headed out to sea.

  At dusk, the vessel turned so the shoreline was to the stern. They cracked open a couple of beers and sat back in the deck chairs to enjoy the panoramic view of fireworks up and down the shoreline.

  “This is the life. Never thought you’d do this well when we worked the same lifeguard station for the Wildwood Beach Patrol did ya?”

  “Well, I hoped I might someday.”

  “After you became a big-time architect, I didn’t think I’d hear from you again. That’s why I was surprised when you called.”

  “I’m not the only one doing well. You’re about to be wealthy too.” He pointed to the bag sitting by the chair.

  “For a novice, you sure came up with a clever plan.”

  “I spent a lot of time putting this together.”

  “The scheme was perfect. You lured the vic to the house he was refurbishing. I was waiting and bopped him on the noggin. Gave him a couple more whacks later for good measure. I put his body on the boat, tossed him over the side, and let the Atlantic do the rest. All the while you were sitting home getting ready for your little operation the next day.”

  “I wasn’t sitting around the house. I was sitting on the toilet all day.”

  “Believe me your job that day was easier than mine.”

  “Well, you did a good job.”

  “You had to love my idea of using the disposable cell phone to active the GPS. No one could trace where the call was made.”

  “You were right about that.”

  “And my planting the evidence on the doc’s boat was cool too. The whole thing was perfect from start to finish.”

  “Speaking of finish, what are you going to do with your money now that everything’s wrapped up?” “I’ll be the King of Wildwood.”

  “Not a good idea. You start throwing money around town and people will ask questions. Time for you to leave for places unknown.”

  “I lived there all my life. Where will I go? I like the ocean.”

  “Well, by all means you should get your wish.” The man got up, as if to get more beer. He pulled a blackjack from his pocket and laid several fierce blows across the neck of his visitor, who fell unconscious to the deck. He picked up the bag containing one million dollars in cash and placed it in the wheelhouse before firing up the engines and heading in a southerly direction.

  Early the next morning -- at a point past Cape May away from the shipping lines of the Delaware Bay -- the man wrapped the body in a tarp and added weights to the chains. He struggled but finally managed to push the big man overboard before turning the thirty-eight foot craft in the direction of Stone Harbor.

  A week later, the headline of the community newspaper read: Former local detective missing and feared dead. John Andrews was unaware of Tom Scully’s disappearance; the Wildwood Leader had no circulation in the Philly area.

  ANGELS

  Kurt Mason never gave much thought to angels, which is about how he dealt with anything he did not believe in. Always aware of the facts. Always a direct kind of guy. And always in control. Running his life on these basic principles, as far as he was concerned, made him better at his job. “Digging up history,” he liked to call it. But the more accurate description was that of ‘freelance explorer of antiquities,’ otherwise known as a ‘treasure hunter.’

  The current project was not going well. The ‘Dig’ was near the ruins of an early twelfth century monastery bordering the vast Salisbury Plain situated in central-southern England. Weeks of careful and tedious work produced almost no results; certainly not enough for Kurt to make any money.

  He was contemplating his financial problems as he strolled among the tall grass about a mile from the dig. A will-o’-the-wisp appeared ahead. Undaunted by folklore, charming though it may be, he walked into it. As he did, Kurt stepped on something. It did not have the feel of a hardened clump of dirt or a rock. He picked it up; the object was more like a shell, a casing of some sort.

  Kurt took out his pocketknife and chipped away at the surface until he pried the case open and discovered a virtually uncompromised statuette of an angel. The object had a glow to it as if someone had spent hours polishing the four inch long artifact. Kurt rubbed the angel gently, slid it into his shirt pocket, and buttoned the flap for safe keeping.

  “Hurry it up, David,” he shouted to his foreman upon returning to camp. “We need to shut down for the night and get things covered. It’s a mean looking sky that’s closing in on us. If we’re not properly strapped down when the rain gets here, it’ll take days to clean up the damage before we start digging again. We can’t afford that.”

  He entered the small trailer that doubled as an office and his living quarters, tossed his jacket over a chair, and untied his boots. A slightly dirty glass sat in the middle of the table in the crowded dining area, which was brimming over with papers, maps and piles of clothes. Next to the glass was a half-empty bottle of Jack Daniels. He poured about three fingers worth of the dark amber liquid into the glass and downed most of it before kicking off his boots and settling into a chair. Kurt needed to relax for a few moments before going over the dig schedule, counting the sparse inventory resulting from the crew’s efforts, and then reviewing his financial status to determine if he should keep digging or simply pack up and go home. He knew the answers already, but felt he owed this to his benefactor before scrubbing the whole thing.

  Suddenly, the wind stirred up and howled across the great plain followed just as quickly by a torrential downpour. The trailer shook from the force of the gale, and the rain pounded the roof as if thousands of pebbles had been launched in an attack against this helpless shelter now enveloped by complete darkness. Kurt reached for the pocket over his heart where the angel rested. He patted it through the fabric as if this gesture would somehow keep him safe from outside influences. That was the extent of his faith.

  The door flew open and David tumbled in. It took all the man’s strength to close the door in the face of the storm.

  “Hellavah night out there, Gov.”

  “The way this trailer’s rocking, we might soon be outside looking in,” Kurt said.

  “Early spring is an unpredictable time out here. My teeth are chattering like it’s the middle of winter,” the poor soaked soul said.

  “Grab a glass from the cupboard and pour yourself a drink. That’ll warm you up,” Kurt said, removing a pile of clothes from the only other chair by the table.

  “Got the tarps down and the equipment stowed. We’re about as secure as can be so long as the wind doesn’t find its way under the canvas and blow the whole blasted thing from here to kingdom come. That would put an end to the digging for a while,” David said, and drew in the welcomed warmth of the Tennessee sipping whiskey.

  “I’m afraid we’re going to have to stop the excavation anyway. It’s been slim pickings from the get go. I was hoping that we might find some things today to indicate this was not a lost cause. But there are no signs of the pot of gold at the end of this rainbow. I was going to crunch the numbers tonight to see if we have enough money to keep the project going a little longer. But I think we got bad information; there’s nothing here. Although, I did fin
d this little treasure about a mile from the site.” Kurt took the angel out of his pocket and held it up without allowing the other man to touch it.

  “Pretty little thing she is.”

  “Hope she proves to be worth a pretty price too.” Kurt put the prize back in his pocket.

  “If there’s something, even something as small as the angel, there could be more where that came from –- maybe the rest of the treasure’s only a few shovel loads away. Let’s dig where you found this,” David said, almost pleading.

  Kurt wanted to think for a moment before responding. He poured another drink and was about to explain the financial facts of life to his foreman, when both men froze and listened. There was utter silence. The pounding rain had ceased and the wind was gone. No more shaking, no more noise. It was quiet, morbidly still as if they were incased in a tomb.

  “Look,” David said, pointing to the foggy window with streams of water making crooked paths down the outside of the glass pane. “The clouds have parted and there’s the moon. It’s full. That’s a good sign.”

  “Where did you get that idea? The moon appearing simply means the rain is over, at least for now.”

  “You don’t know these parts the way I do. The wind and rain can come up quickly, but the storms never end that fast. I’m telling ya it’s a sign telling us to keep digging.”

  “Let me review the entire project tonight. Then I’ll assess the damages from the storm in the morning, before calling my sponsor with an honest appraisal of the situation. And we’ll see where we go from there. In the meantime, you better go get into some dry clothes before you take sick and we have to cancel the job because you died of pneumonia.”

  They laughed as David rose and opened the door revealing the star filled sky with the moon’s eerie brilliance lighting the camp site. Kurt patted the angel in his shirt pocket and felt unusually confident as he shut the door on the dramatic ending of a mostly fruitless day.

  Kurt woke to the disturbing sound of someone creeping around inside the trailer. He took a quick look at his watch. The illuminated hands indicated it was 3 AM. Kurt lay still and attempted to make breathing sounds like a man who was sleeping. His eyes were becoming accustomed to the darkness, and he could see the silhouette of a man going through the clothes as the moonlight backlit the scene just a few feet away from Kurt’s bed.

  The intruder held up the denim shirt Kurt wore a few hours earlier and squeezed the pockets. It was obvious he was looking for the angel.

  When the man searched the pockets of the kaki pants slung over the chair, Kurt made his move. He bounded out of bed and made a loud growling noise as he hurled his body at the shadowy figure. The impact of Kurt’s assault pinned the man against the wall. The men struggled and the trailer rocked, much as it had done during the fierce storm earlier that night.

  They wrestled about, separated, and threw some blows before wrestling again. As the skirmish continued, the man pulled a knife from his pocket. Kurt heard the sound of the switch blade opening. Then he saw the flash of steel in the moonlight as the knife was ready to strike. The man lunged at him, but Kurt grabbed the attacker’s arm and threw him to the floor. The knife flew from his hand and Kurt retrieved it. The man tried to escape; he tripped and spun around, then fell toward Kurt and the waiting six inch blade of the knife. He made an ugly sound as the steel pierced his heart. Kurt held the helpless intruder in his arms until the man died moments later.

  He gently dropped the lifeless body to the floor and turned on a light. Even before examining the face of the attacker, Kurt knew who he just killed. It was his foreman, David.

  Kurt gulped down two glasses of water as he stared at the dead man on the floor. He was trembling as he tried to reason through what had just transpired.

  “What the hell was he doing here?” Kurt said out loud, hoping the act of speaking the words would clear his mind.

  “He was after the angel.” Kurt glanced at the nightstand to see if the angel was still there. It was.

  “And to think I trusted the guy. He’s been my right-hand man throughout this whole excavation. Better find out more about his background. Gotta learn about the history of my little angel too. But first I need to get the constabulary out here and put this attack behind me.”

  “Well, sir, it seems to me that your foreman simply went off his bloomin’ rocker,” the area policeman said. “Any idea why?”

  “No. We talked about scrubbing the dig. We weren’t finding anything worthwhile and the money was running out. There’s an old American saying, ‘When you’re in a hole stop digging.’ That’s what I intended to do.”

  “Think that might have caused Davy to go off?”

  “No. He was aware that the project was about to be shut down.”

  “He had a bit of a sorted history in these parts. Drank too much. Instigated fights or joined in when one was in progress. And he was a gambler. It would be an understatement to say that the few friends he had were unsavory.”

  “People who do this kind of work are usually rough around the edges.”

  “I certainly understand that. You sure Davy wasn’t after artifacts or something?”

  “The only thing I can think of is this.” Kurt took the tiny angel from his pocket and showed it to the constable.”

  “Doesn’t look all that valuable. Is it?”

  “I’m not sure. Haven’t had it appraised yet. Don’t see why he would risk his life for this little angel.”

  Kurt was certain the intruder was after the angel. But he did not want the police to confiscate it as evidence, so he did not elaborate further on his belief. The next step was to pack up the camp and get back to the States.

  The police quickly closed the attack case as a random act of violence induced by too much alcohol. So Kurt was free to go and take the equipment and the meager results of the dig with him.

  As he was about to leave for London and catch the Virgin Airlines flight home, he got a phone call from his ‘deep-pockets’ investor in Texas. The patron partially funded some of his recent projects, including this failed one.

  “So you’re calling it quits over there. Gettin’ ready for the long trip back to the good ole U-S-of-A?”

  “Yeah. Guess I have to chalk this one up to experience. I don’t know how we could have been so far off about what we might get out of this area. It cost both of us money.”

  “It may not be as bad as you think. Took the photos of the angel you sent and had the experts look at it. They say it might be a significant find. Of course, carbon testing and other lab studies will confirm this. So pack up that little treasure and send it to me pronto.”

  “I can’t put up any money to start digging again.”

  “No. It appears to be a dry well there. My people tell me there have been reports that a similar angel may be waiting to be found in the south of Africa, Swaziland to be more precise. Get a ticket to Johannesburg. I’ll send you more info as soon as it comes in.”

  “Can’t you be a little more specific?”

  “Sorry Kurt. You’ll know soon enough. Call me when you land. I’ll give you more details and have a vehicle and hotel lined up as well. Have a nice flight. Oh, by the way, there will be a deposit made in the local bank when you get to where you’re going. I’ll finance this one from start to finish. You don’t have to put any of your money into it, just your expertise.”

  “Good thing. I’m really low on cash. I was banking on a big find to get my finances healthy.”

  “If this project delivers what I think it can, we’ll be popping champagne corks and counting the money.”

  The trip from Johannesburg to Mbabane, a city of about sixty thousand, in Swaziland was less than two hundred miles. The drive between the two cities is hardly a straight line. In the rented Range Rover, the trip ended up being an uncomfortable six hour journey.

  Kurt was booked into the Mountain Inn Hotel, the cheaper of the two better hotels in the capital city of Mbabane.

  A large envelope wit
h his name on it awaited Kurt’s arrival. Inside were budget information and maps showing where to dig on the plains not far from the city. While waiting for the luggage to be brought in, Kurt stopped by the hotel bar to have a drink and unwind after his trip.

  “Mr. Mason,” said a large dark man who had been reading a newspaper. “My name is Mbuluzi – the same as our famous river. Welcome to my city. I understand you are in need of a job foreman.”

  “Did you read that in the paper?”

  “No, sir, the news preceded you when the orders came from America for the digging equipment. I am the best construction man in all in Mbabane - in fact, all of Swaziland.” The man’s English hardly appeared to be his second language.

  “Well, this is not a construction job. It’s an archeological dig.”

  “Yes, sir, but no one here has done that kind of work. So people who know how to operate construction equipment are the ones you’ll want to hire. I have taken the liberty to gather trusted workers. They are prepared to start whenever you say so.”

  “You don’t waste any time do you? There’s some training that must be done. We’re not clearing the area to lay a foundation, so equipment operators and the diggers will have to learn to be careful not to damage the artifacts. Do you realize this?”

  “Oh, yes, sir. I believe I know what to do.”

  “We’ll see. Until I see how you work and if you have control over the men, consider yourself hired on a temporary basis.”

  “Very good, sir.”

  “Knock off the ‘sir’ crap. You and the men can call me Kurt. Now let me go get washed up and catch some needed sleep. Be here at 7 AM. Have the men assemble outside at eight.”

  “Yes, sir. Good evening.”

  “Did you rest well, Mr. Kurt?” his foreman asked.

  “I did. How do you say your name?

  “Mbuluzi, but white folks call me Luzi.”

  “Okay, Luzi it is. Had breakfast? I’m starved.”