by Don Potter
“Suit yourself.”
The next several days were busy for Paul. He had dozens of phone calls with a variety of New York contacts. Between calls, he continued to do research for his book. And, occasionally, he actually found time to write. At the same time, Charlotte worried about everything while not being able to do anything about her concerns. This overwhelmed her. The couple spent evenings together but had little to say.
“I’m off on the morning train,” Paul announced.
“For how long?”
“A couple of days?”
“Guess you don’t want me to tag along?”
“Next time. Promise.”
“What am I supposed to do while you’re away?”
“Do what you always do.”
“I already did the first edit on my new novel.”
“Go back and be brutal with the manuscript. When I attack the words, my work noticeably improves.”
“How many times must I tell you that women don’t attack things? We nurture the concept, blend in the right amount of compassion, and apply a little tender loving care. The result is a more loving story.”
“Oh, brother. Do whatever you want. The important thing is to keep busy and be productive. You’ll end up with a better book. And before you know it we’ll be living in shabby-chic Tribeca. Now, I’m going to bed; the next couple of days will be jam-packed from morning to night.”
“I can’t spend another minute editing,” Charlotte declared. Four hours of concentrated wordsmithing had her head spinning. She decided a walk in the crisp winter air would clear her head and allow her to get back into this important, but not necessarily fun, part of the writing process.
Once outside, Charlotte was drawn to the spot were the charred remains of the barn’s roof and walls lay surrounded by the stone foundation laid many years ago. She noticed a cap from a roadside flare in the shallow trench leading to where the barn doors had been. Using a small branch from a nearby tree to root around the rubble inside, she uncovered the bottom portion of the flare.
“My God. Here’s evidence of arson. Why didn’t anyone tell us about this? Better not disturb anything else. The investigators will undoubtedly come up with more. I’ll call Paul and tell him what I discovered.” She placed the pieces of the flare back where she found them, wiped off her bare fingers, put her cold hands back into her coat pockets, and hurried to the house.
“Paul, you won’t believe what I found.”
“Buried treasure?” He laughed.
“A flare was used to start the fire in the barn.”
“How do you know?” His tone changed.
“I found the evidence while taking a walk.”
“You shouldn’t be nosing around there.”
“I just happened to see the one part of the flare lying there and the other part was almost in plain sight.”
“Don’t disturb the site it could turn out to be a crime scene.”
“Always thinking like one of your characters.”
“No. This is simply common sense. The insurance people will be there sometime soon. Maybe tomorrow or the day after. They won’t appreciate your help.”
“Okay, okay. I’ll stay away from there. Should I call anyone about this?”
“Let them discover it. We don’t want them thinking we set the fire for insurance money, especially since we’re about ready to put the house up for sale.”
“I never thought of that. No more snooping. And I won’t mention selling the house either. When are you coming back?”
“Probably tomorrow night. I’ll know better in the afternoon. I’ll call and confirm.”
“Good. I hate being in this creepy place alone. It’s worse since the fire.”
“Take a couple of those anxiety pills if you’re nervous. They’ll help you relax. It’ll all be over soon.”
Charlotte drank too much again. But she was more uncomfortable being alone than usual. So she took two Xanax left over from before her hospital stay and washed them down with a swallow of wine before retiring for the night. No thought was given to how the pills might interact with the depression medication she was taking or the amount of wine she had consumed.
If she had not been out cold, Charlotte might have heard the activity around the house and in the basement. She might have been able to use the phone to summon help. And she might have been able to escape the blaze that quickly consumed the house with her in it.
“There’s been a fire at your house,” the deputy said. It took some time before the authorities realized Paul was not at home when the fire occurred. Finally, the authorities reached his cell phone. It was a little after midnight when the deputy present him with the news.
“How bad?”
“Pretty bad.”
“Is my wife okay?”
“Sorry, she was caught in the fire that demolished the house. Never had a chance.”
“Char’s dead?”
“Yes, sir. Where are you now?”
“I’m in New York on business.”
“How soon can you get here?”
“The best bet is for me to get a rental car and take the Jersey and Pennsy Turnpikes then head down Route 202. I don’t see any reason why it will take more than three hours.”
“Please get here as quickly as possible. We’ll be waiting for you.”
“Thank you.” Paul was already in a rental car, the one he drove to his home earlier that evening. He pulled off the Pennsylvania Turnpike at the exit just before where the toll way crossed over to New Jersey. Paul took the overpass to the other side and drove back in the direction from which he came.
After going back three exits, Paul got off the turnpike near Northeast Philadelphia. This was far from where he normally exited to go home. He stopped at a diner, pulled into a spot in the back, and tried to grab some sleep. He changed positions several times before realizing that there was little chance of dozing off. So he went into the all-night eatery for coffee and some breakfast.
“Eggs over-easy with hash browns well-done and crisp scrapple.”
“Toast?” the waitress asked.
“English muffin, dry and some marmalade on the side.”
“Coffee?”
“Black, please.”
Paul devoured the meal and had two more cups of coffee while reviewing what had transpired thus far and contemplated the remaining elements of his plan. Less than an hour after he walked into the dinner Paul left and returned to his car. This time he drifted off to sleep. Forty minutes later he was awake.
He traveled on deserted surface streets until he reached the Paoli Pike, which took him to Route 202 where he headed south. Upon reaching the intersection of Route 1, he stopped at another diner and ordered two large coffees to go.
Paul handed one of the coffee cups to the deputy upon reaching the smoking mess that had been his home for the past six years.
“Thanks for being so considerate,” the officer said.
“I hope she didn’t suffer.” Paul replied.
“Found your wife in bed. Either she was a sound sleeper or...”
“She sometimes drank when I was away.” Paul was quick to finish the officer’s statement. “Do you know the cause of the fire?”
“Can’t say yet.”
“Char told me she thought the barn fire was deliberately set.”
“Oh?”
“She found parts of a used flare near the barn and just inside. Maybe she called this discovery into the fire department or to you guys.”
“Haven’t heard anything about it, but the guys in the field are always the last to know. I’ll look into it when everybody gets in this morning.”
“In the meantime, there seems to be strong indications that this particular fire was the work of a person or persons unknown. So there may be a connection.”
“Who would do such a thing?”
“That’s just what I was going to ask you. Do you know anyone who would want to murder your wife?”
“No. She k
ept to herself and had no friends here. If anything, I would think there are some folks in Chadds Ford that would like to see me out of the way.”
“That’s a strong statement. Why do you think there are neighbors who would want you dead?”
“I did not say dead. Let’s just say I’m a thorn in the sides of some people.“
“Why’s that?”
I’ve been working on a book about the connection between the Battle of Brandywine and a serial killer who emerged during the chaos back in 1777. The murderer disappeared as quickly as he came on the scene. Never to be heard from again.”
“That was a long time ago. Don’t see how there is a tie-in with this case.”
“People have discouraged me from pursuing this subject because it might have an adverse affect on their family history and the image of the community.”
“So they killed your wife to keep you from writing?”
“If Char was right about the flares, the barn was the initial warning for me to stop. I did not respond the way they wanted. So they figured the best way to put an end to my work was to burn the house down.”
“And murder your wife?”
“No. That was probably a mistake. Someone must have seen my car leave early yesterday morning and assumed Char was with me. When the car did not return last night, they set my home on fire like they did with the barn. This had the added benefit of destroying my work and the research I had gathered. Plus, with no place to live and the bad vibes that surrounded our being here, we would likely move back to Manhattan.”
“You really thought this through.”
“I had a long drive tonight. Dealing with the facts of the case helped me stay awake and kept my mind from thinking about what happened to Char.”
“I’ll make sure your theory is part of my report.” “Be sure I get a chance to tell this story. If only I had acted sooner, my wife might still be alive. It’s ironic I already called the realtor and put this place up for sale. We just leased a place in New York. Char was looking forward to getting back to city life. But that just wasn’t to be.”
The deputy took a swallow of coffee and said, “Don’t worry; you’ll have your day in court.”
The investigation moved through the system without incident. However, this did not mean it was swift. It was several months before the court ruled on the entire case. Arson was determined to be the cause of both fires on Paul’s property. It also confirmed the earlier findings that Charlotte had a high alcohol level and had drugs in her body when she died. Paul’s theory could not be confirmed and no one was accused of participating in the crime.
Damages on the farm were settled by the insurance company. And the policy on Charlotte’s life was paid in full. A local businessman bought the property at an extremely low price, because Paul wanted to sever all ties with the area and start anew in his newly renovated loft in Tribeca.
“You sure turned a bad situation into a gold mine,” Paul’s agent proclaimed. The two men were enjoying a late afternoon cocktail in a lower Manhattan bar they often frequented together.
“Got to play the cards you’re dealt, Sid.”
“Well you fell into a pile of crap and came up smelling like roses.”
“You get your share of everything I write.”
“As long as I sell it. And speaking of that, I have a couple of offers from Hollywood. They love your story.”
“What’s not to love? I told the story that Char and I lived. But instead of being a historic novel, it turns out to be a case of contemporary murder. It was easy to write, because I just reported the facts as I saw them. And besides making money, I had the chance to stick it to my former neighbors.”
Paul’s story did not tell about renting a car in New York, driving to his home earlier the night of Charlotte’s death, and setting fire to his house just as he did earlier with the barn. He had banked on her getting drunk in his absence; the pills were a bonus.
“You keep writing stuff like this and King, Grisham and Connelly will be looking over their shoulders to see how fast you’re gaining on them.”
“That’s why I like you, Sid. Always the optimist.”
“It’s part of the job, Paul.”
“Got to agree with you, life is good.”
“I almost forgot here’s something that was delivered by messenger earlier today.” Sid handed Paul the envelope. “It’s from Charlotte’s agent and marked personal and confidential. Is she trying to cash in on our success?”
“Whose success?”
“Yours, of course. I was just kidding.”
“Ha, ha. Very funny. Let me take a look.” Paul ripped open the envelope. Inside was an excerpt from Charlotte’s writings expressing fears that Paul was planning to kill her. Also included was a note that said: ‘There’s more. Call ASAP.’
“So what is it? Does she want to represent you?”
“Nah. Just wants to talk about promoting some of Charlotte’s work.”
“Those agents.”
“Yeah. Gotta run. Talk to you tomorrow about the next steps to take with the Hollywood studios.”
“Thanks for meeting with me,” Charlotte’s agent said.
“Your note was too compelling to ignore, Pam.”
“I’m sure you have off-site backup for all your computer files. Don’t want to be like Hemmingway who lost a manuscript and had to re-construct the whole story. Thank goodness those days are history.”
“And what’s the point?”
“Charlotte, being the worry wart she was, backed up everything she wrote. Twice. One to a service and another to a file bucket housed on my computer.”
“Then you have the revisions on her latest book?”
“That and more.”
“Good.”
“Not so good for you.”
“All right let’s stop the games. What do you have and what do you want.”
“As indicated in my teaser to you, I have in my hot little hands all her thoughts about your plans for her.”
“She was almost delusional at the end. What you may have are the wild ramblings of a sick and fearful soul.”
“I considered that possibility. So I did some sleuthing of my own. Women can be good detectives too. I learned that you rented a car the day before Charlotte died. I checked the mileage on the return receipt. Then I and found out the time you received the phone call about the fire.”
“There’s nothing there.”
“At first I thought you needed the car to go to a book signing outside the city but there were none. So, why the car?”
“You tell me.”
“I checked the difference between the mileage from here to Chadds Ford and the totals on the rental receipt. That led me to one particular exit on the Pennsylvania Turnpike. It happens that a friend of mine lives near that turnpike exit outside of Northeast Philly. The mileage discrepancy is about the distance from Manhattan to your home to her town and back to Chadds Ford.”
“Hold it. This is pure speculation. You’re confusing facts with wishful thinking.”
“Am I?”
You obviously haven’t read many detective mysteries. It’s the simple things that solve the crime,” Paul said with confidence.
“My friend knows of a diner near her home that’s open twenty-four hours a day,” Pam continued. “I sent her your photo. She showed it around and came up with a late-night waitress that recognized you. If need be, her testimony can put you in the diner for an hour when you were supposed to be driving south on the Jersey Turnpike. Simple enough? And pretty good detective work, don’t you think?”
“Not bad for an amateur.”
“An amateur that also happens to be a woman.”
“Yeah, that too. So what’s on your mind?”
“I want to work with you.”
“Sid won’t be happy.”
“I don’t want to be your agent. I intend to be your partner. Fifty-fifty. Down the middle. Even Stephen. The way Charlotte would have wanted it.”
<
br /> REDEMPTION
“God, get me out of this, and I’ll do whatever you want,” Rollo Cunningham pleaded. He choked down the words to keep them deep in his gut for fear the others would hear his cry for help.
What emanated from his prison cell sounded more like a painful groan then a prayer. Rollo dropped his already bowed head into his hands as the air exhaled heavily from his lungs. It was the sigh of a desperate man. A man without hope sitting on death row in Michigan City, Indiana.
Sensing a presence, Rollo raised his head and was shocked to see a figure standing over him. He jumped up ready to confront the uninvited guest. The man said nothing and gestured as if to command Rollo to be seated. Although this was contrary to his nature, Rollo complied.
The stranger remained standing next to the stationary bed. His six-foot, slender frame was small in comparison to Rollo’s, a former football player who was two inches taller and at least fifty pounds heavier than the shadowy character with the sharp features and sunken eyes.
“Who the hell are you?”
“Call me Michael.”
“How did you get in here? What’s going on?”
“You’ll know in due time,” Michael answered.
“Yeah, well that time is now, Mike,” Rollo blustered.
“Unless you want to wake up the entire cell block and have the guards come running, I suggest you lower your voice.”
“Okay, okay. But I want some answers. And I want ‘em fast.”
“The first thing you should know is that I’m here because you asked for help.”
“Like you’re God’s messenger?”
“Something like that.”
“Really.” Rollo said sarcastically.
“Would you like me to explain?” Michael asked.
“You better.”
“From time to time people are randomly selected and given the rare opportunity to go back in their lives and make things right.”
“No way.”
“Oh yes. Many wish for this but few are able to experience it.”
“You mean I’m going to get out of the joint and start over?”