by MK Alexander
JUMP CITY
APPRENTICE
A Tractus Fynn Mystery
by MK Alexander
Jump City Apprentice
By MK Alexander
Copyright 2015. All rights reserved.
This is a work of fiction. Any similarity between actual persons is purely coincidental.
This work may not be reproduced or electronically transmitted without expressed consent of the author.
Published by KMACK Design, BOX 144, Sea Cliff, NY 11579
Cover design copyright 2015, KMACK Design
Please direct any inquiries to [email protected]
Also by MK Alexander:
Sand City
The Farsi Trilogy
Jekyll’s Daughter
GenreJam, Volume One: Death & Injury
My New World: A Teenager’s WWII Odyssey
Random Sacrifice
PART I
MONDAY
* * *
interlude
If I asked, “where are you?” it’s a pretty safe bet you’d have a good answer. Not so much for me. I am definitely someplace, I’m just not sure where. Sitting in a dark room, there is a light but it barely illuminates anything significant. There’s a table, I can see two glasses, both of them empty. I seem to think there’s a window as well, and an open one, I’d guess, since I can feel a cool breeze across my face. I can also hear a soft rumbling in the distance, maybe the surf pounding a nearby shoreline, or the sound of thunder… I’ve been here before— that’s for sure.
“Patrick, are you even listening to me?” a familiar old man gently admonished.
“Oh sorry, I think I was off daydreaming…”
“What kind of dreaming?” he asked. “Daydreaming, are you sure?”
“Pretty sure…”
I looked across the room and it was a real comfort to see Inspector Tractus Fynn, probably my best friend in the world. As usual he was dressed rather formally in a well-tailored suit, a dark maroon sweater, and one of his colorful bow ties, the corners neatly tucked up under his collar. He pushed back on his thick white hair and gave me a bright smile.
I hadn’t known him even a year though it already felt like several lifetimes. That’s DCI Fynn, newly retired from the Amsterdam Police, and now my would-be partner. That he was an excellent detective was beyond question; that he could travel through time was also undeniable, no matter how much I had tried to in the past. I generally supposed we were sitting in his living room yet couldn’t be completely sure.
“Well, I’m working on a most curious case,” the inspector continued with some excitement. “Perhaps you’d like to hear about it?”
“Sure,” I said and smiled.
“Then you have decided not to move to Colorado?”
“Things are still up in the air…”
“For purely selfish reasons, I for one am very glad you have decided not to take the new job.”
“Why is that?”
“This would be our first case together, officially, as partners.”
I laughed slightly. “Of course… and I’m all ears.”
“You might say, this case is a murder by accident.”
“You mean an accidental murder?”
“Not at all.” Fynn smiled. “I mean murder by falling tree.”
“What?” I wasn’t sure what the inspector was saying. It sounded like some plan hatched by a cartoon character. “Someone was killed by a falling tree?”
“It’s only attempted murder at this point, but yes, a two-hundred year old oak appears to be the weapon of choice.” Fynn relaxed in his chair. “It concerns an elderly husband and wife, in their eighties, Mr and Mrs Dumont, Jacques and Peggy— they attended the Policeman’s Ball. You may remember them?”
“Can’t say I do.”
“They may well be friends of Eleanor, your former editor, or at least her contemporaries. Perhaps you can ask her what she knows about the Dumonts?”
“Of course… though she’s not feeling all that well these days.”
“Hmm, don’t trouble her unnecessarily,” Fynn replied. “I can say the Dumonts have a nice home in Sand City, up on the bluffs, I believe. Quite well-off, traveled, cultured… a happily married couple enjoying their lives to the last.”
“And the curious part?”
“I was approached by one of their many grandsons, who is rather alarmed by recent events. He asked me to look into a series of… let’s call them accidents… which befell this particular couple.”
“What kind of accidents?”
“The usual kind on the surface… a few slips and falls, a mishap in the bath, a small fire, and car troubles,” Fynn said and paused. “Yet there are too many events to be merely coincidence… and now culminating in this terrible tree incident.”
“What happened exactly?”
“The couple was upstairs in their bedroom when a huge oak uprooted itself and fell across the roof of their home. It was sheer luck that they were not injured, or indeed, killed.”
“How can a tree be a murder weapon?”
“That’s the thing, isn’t it? I took the time to examine the scene a few days ago… But I’d like it if you came with me. Perhaps we can go tomorrow morning?”
“Sure… What’s Durbin said about all this?”
“Chief Durbin?” Fynn replied with a chuckle. “I’ve said nothing to him. I cannot be sure that a crime has been committed.”
“Why do I get the feeling you’re not telling me the whole story?”
“You’d like to hear more then?”
I nodded.
“According to the grandson, their first turn of bad luck began last year. The poor woman Mrs Dumont slipped on some icy steps. She took a bad fall while leaving the house and broke her ankle,” Fynn said. “Such a thing could happen to anyone.”
“Naturally. But not an accident? “
“I cannot say.”
“Mr Dumont, a suspect?” I asked with a half smile.
“At first perhaps, though he seems a kindly man. Responsible for clearing the steps, I will say. After a long conversation, Jacques appears rather blameless and swore he spread salt crystals to clear the path.”
“You spoke to him?”
“Yes. They are staying in Fairhaven until the house is repaired… which may be some time.”
“It all sounds sort of routine.”
“Yes, until I heard about the next incident: a broken refrigerator. This is when the case began to take on its curious properties.” Inspector Fynn gave me a smile. “After returning late from their vacation, the Dumonts felt peckish. And still recovering from her injured ankle, Mrs Dumont hobbled to the kitchen to prepare a late-night snack. She took something from the freezer, I’ve been told. A salmon mousse and a leftover zucchini dish, if I recall. Her husband, who has a notoriously healthy appetite, ate heartily, and, one hour later found himself in hospital with terrible food poisoning. He very nearly died.”
“Someone tried to poison him?” I asked. “His wife?”
“I don’t think so… it was just spoiled food. He ate a great deal while Mrs Dumont did not. She suffered no more than indigestion. The point being, the refrigerator stopped and then started again. The food was contaminated and then refrozen.”
“A blackout?”
“I checked with the utility company. No power interruptions. And I had the refrigerator thoroughly inspected. It’s functioning normally.”
“So?”
“Well, it has to do with the grandson’s description of the freezer: A cavern of unknowable things.”
“I’m not sure what that means.”
“He was unable to describe the contents of the freezer. Every item is tightly wrapped in foil, plastic,
or both, or in some frosted-over container. No matter what she chose for dinner that night, it was liable to kill Mr Dumont.”
“Hmm, it almost seems like they’re trying to do each other in.”
“That thought had crossed my mind.” Fynn laughed. “But what I find curious here, is how the nature of the woman, Mrs Dumont, has been revealed.”
“I’m not following.”
“Well, she is enormously wealthy, but this is not at first obvious. Along with her husband, they have amassed quite a fortune through long years of hard work and shrewd investments. They also own a modest villa in the south of France; I think it’s a family legacy… Every year they jet over and spend the winter months there. Yet, I’ve come to learn that Mrs Dumont is an extraordinarily frugal person. More than that, I should say, it is her defining characteristic. Thrifty to the extreme, I would venture to say. I’ve heard tell, she saves old jars, washes plastic wrap and reuses sandwich bags. The foil of aluminum is never recycled but used over and over again. Of course, she loves any sort of bargain: the manager’s special, a red tag sale, a buy-one-get-one-free… The kind of person who refuses to pay full price.”
“I think I know the type.”
“It was told to me that she dutifully drives all over the peninsula employing these coupons people use in your country. It seems like more than just a lifestyle. As I’ve said, she wastes absolutely nothing, especially food; old bones are used to make soup, vegetable peelings saved for stew. And leftovers are commonplace to say the least.”
“Maybe she grew up in the depression,” I commented.
“Where?”
“The Great Depression.”
“As you say…” Fynn paused, alone with his thoughts for a moment.
“So, was she… or, well, her husband, a victim of her frugality?” I asked.
“It would seem so at first glance. But if you consider that someone did tamper with the fridge, it casts a new light on this otherwise uninteresting accident.”
“How so?”
“The saboteur, if he or she exists, must have an intimate knowledge of Mrs Dumont’s thrifty tendencies. The would-be killer knew that leftovers would be on the menu that night, and not an order for a take-away meal.”
“Take-away?”
“A curry or Chinese food, or pizza, something like that…”
“So you’re thinking a family member?”
“Indeed. Everyone in the family is a suspect.”
“What about a close friend?”
“Hmm?”
“A close friend or even a neighbor might know about Mrs Dumont’s extreme frugality.”
“Ah, I see your point… Our list of suspects grows larger then.” Fynn fished out a folder and handed it to me. “All the neighbors and close friends.”
“Where did you get this?”
“I have a man who is very good at gathering information.”
“What man?”
“A police captain, Morris is his name, a very competent fellow and always happy to oblige me.” Fynn paused with a quizzical smile. “Perhaps you will meet him someday.”
“Who?”
“Jamal… if you decide to move to Colorado that is. I can introduce you.”
“Well, I will say he’s pretty thorough. These are extensive files.” I sat a while leafing through the pages. “So, I guess motive becomes the most important thing here.”
“Neighbors aside, I am so far convinced this is a family matter. Four brothers. All of them married and with several children each.”
“Are you saying the grandkids are suspects too?”
“No. Most of them are college-aged… none of them seem to have much motive. They are all rather well looked after.”
“So… Money as a motive?”
“Probably… though, the other side of Mrs Dumont’s frugality is her renowned generosity. The money she so diligently saves is freely spent on everyone in need.”
“What about the brothers?”
“All suspects, yes, and their wives…” Fynn gave me a grim look. “I also obtained a copy of the Dumonts’ will; it’s being checked by a legal expert to see if anything is untoward.”
“And?”
“I’ve yet to hear back… These events or accidents do not end here of course.”
I had the distinct impression Inspector Fynn was being coy. He continued:
“It’s something routine I would say. A typical accident easily dismissed if not for all the other unfortunate events. Jacques and Peggy Dumont lit a fire in their hearth, but later fell asleep in front of the television. The flue slammed shut and the house filled with smoke.”
“They were okay?”
“The alarms went off. Neither of them were grievously injured.” Fynn hesitated. “The next accident however is really quite extraordinary. He turned to face me but said nothing.
“Well?” I urged him on.
“It was a rather strange encounter with some local wildlife.”
“What are you saying?”
“A beautiful warm evening… dusk. The Dumonts were having supper outside on their patio. But inside, suddenly, a blackout. All the power shuts down. The Dumonts hurry to investigate. Mr Dumont goes to the fuse box, as it were, to find all the circuits off… Mrs Dumont searches for a lantern. When they meet back in the living room, they’re are confronted by a very large stag.”
“A stag?”
“A wildhert, a buck— how do you call it? A deer.”
“In the living room?”
“Indeed. Needless to say the creature did considerable damage in such a confined space, not to mention how the Dumonts were quite startled— even to the point of trauma.”
“Were they injured?”
“Thankfully, no.”
“How did it get there?”
“The deer?”
“Yes.”
“This is very odd. A gift basket lured the deer inside, I believe.”
“A gift basket?”
“Most unusual. The basket arrived anonymously. It was comprised of flowers, freshly cut apples and acorns.”
“Acorns? Who eats acorns?”
“Deer, apparently.” Fynn smiled. “I was also told about a musky odor that pervaded the living room that evening, though I’ve been unable to determine its source.”
“When did this happen?”
“About a month before the tree fell. There is of course one additional incident that casts all others in a very sinister light.”
“I knew there was something you weren’t telling me.”
“Ah, but this is most dreadful… it concerns—”
“—Poisoned candles…” I finished the inspector’s sentence. “You did them a small kindness by traveling back in time to save them from death.”
Fynn turned to me with an indescribable expression. “What?” he asked.
“Funny… I just had a massive deja vu.”
“As did I.” The inspector gave me a solemn glance. “Something is terribly amiss,” he said quietly.
“I think you’re right… I’ve been here before.”
“Of course you have, Patrick…”
“No, that’s not what I mean. We’ve been here before, both of us, talking… but there’s something wrong. It feels like some kind of limbo… And I keep returning to this place.”
“Returning? Why didn’t you say something earlier?”
“It’s hard to describe… I think I’m supposed to be somewhere else, maybe out with Suzy.”
“Suzy?”
“My girlfriend.” I paused to think. “Or maybe I should be in Fairhaven.”
“Doing what?”
“The Monday night pickup game… frisbee…”
“It’s raining rather hard,” Fynn said.
“Well, I do seem to remember being here, but… we were talking about something else.”
“How do you mean?”
“A different conversation…” I concentrated in silence. “We were talking about Mortimer.�
��
“Mortimer?”
“You told me his cane was missing… It had been stolen.”
“Did I?” Fynn asked. He was definitely surprised.
“I seem to remember that…”
“All this is terribly wrong,” he muttered. “We should leave at once.”
“Leave? Where?”
“Anywhere but here.”
“Here?” I asked, and suddenly realized I didn’t exactly know where I was.
* * *
chapter one
up calls
I telephoned Inspector Fynn on the way to Fairhaven and gave him my apologies, canceling our usual rendezvous. He told me the Dumonts could certainly wait another day, though I had no idea what he was talking about. Instead, I chose to play pickup. Most likely, it was my last chance for a Monday night game with friends and colleagues. Having just given up my job as a reporter for the Sand City Chronicle, with the weather turning chilly, and me moving to Colorado in the next couple of days, my time here was running out.
I parked, grabbed my cleats and headed across the sprawling middle school sports complex towards the game. Unlike lacrosse, football or soccer, ultimate frisbee had been relegated to a treacherous field at the edge of the dunes. It fell away sharply to a sandy gully along the sidelines. I could see our match had already started, and as I walked, a huge flock of birds, grackles maybe, rose from the forty-yard line in a dark, chaotic cloud. Hundreds of them swept to one side then the other before disappearing into some far off trees.
The light was failing. The game was tied. A cold rain had begun and the field was slippery. I heard someone yell, “Up!” This was my chance to score. I cut to my left and sprinted like a dervish. Jack Leaning followed a step behind. I feigned right and looked over my shoulder at my teammate, Joey. His glance told me everything. I doubled-down on left again and raced to the corner of the end zone. Jack Leaning was only half fooled, but already a full two steps behind me. He raised his arms for a block, though too late. Joey released the disk, a beautiful arching shot, boomeranging, curling towards me. Pure magic.
Half a second later, I knew I’d miss the catch unless I jumped. And I did; I laid out more-or-less horizontal to the ground, flying. I felt my fingers wrap around the plastic rim. It was mine, but I also felt myself falling and braced for impact. I was probably out of bounds anyway.