Murder on the Brewster Flats

by Aaron Paul Lazar

  “Gus…This chowder is the best I’ve ever tasted.”

  My eyebrows went up. “Really? Better than mine?”

  “Sorry, honey. Here. Take a taste.”

  I took a spoonful and realized she was right. Thick and creamy, it had just the right amount of potatoes and clams. “I’m getting this tomorrow.”

  She laughed. “Told you.”

  “And you’ve never tasted anything so light and delicious as these onion rings. Look how flaky the coating is.”

  She picked one up, ate it with moans of pleasure, and placed both hands on the table, leaning forward. “We can never leave this place. I’m already in love.”

  “Well, at least we have a month to enjoy it.” I watched a little gray bird with a pert tail feather. He hopped along the ground, cocking its head, and eyeing us. “I think he wants to share.” I found a small onion ring—there was no way I could finish the whole plate—and tossed him a piece. Immediately, he hopped over, picked it up, and flew off with it.

  “What kind of bird is that?” she said.

  “Never saw one before. We’ll have to look it up.”

  She took out her phone. “No need to wait. Let me see.” She found a site to identify birds, typed in “gray,” “tail upright,” and “Cape Cod.” “Here it is. He’s a little cat bird.”

  “What? Really?”

  “Yes.”

  “I hear them squawking all the time at home, but I’ve never seen one up close.”

  “Me, neither.”

  The bird—or its close cousin—came back and cocked its head at us. I tossed it another piece, and then dove back into my fish.

  An old green tractor pulling a hayride wagon drew up to the curb and parked.

  “Hey,” Camille said. “Isn’t that Albert?”

  “It is,” I said, waving to him.

  He nodded, then dismounted and began to collect money from the families that queued around his wagon.

  “We should go for a ride, Gus.” With eyes shining, she touched my arm.

  I quickly finished the last of my fish and wiped my mouth. “Let’s do it.”

  In three minutes we sat in the back of the wagon, having received a welcome smile and handshake from Albert. The tractor started up, belching a plume of smoke, then trundled down Paines Creek Road toward the beach.

  Chapter 3

  The next morning I woke at six, excited about the prospects of walking on the beach in the early hours before the rest of humanity rolled out of bed. I checked the tide chart on my phone and found out it would be low tide. The idea of padding through soft sand and tide pools propelled me out of sleep and into full awake-mode.

  I sat up and smiled. I still couldn’t believe I was actually on a real vacation. The last time we’d tried to get away—for our honeymoon, to be exact—had ended with us captured in cells in a remote neo-Nazi compound in Austria. (Mazurka, book 3)

  We found our way out of that mess, but I hadn’t wanted to chance leaving home for the last few years.

  I shook off the bad memories and glanced at the sparrows chirping on pine branches outside the window. They sounded deliriously happy. The underlying sadness that persistently loomed due to the loss of my dog seemed to dissipate—just a little.

  I leaned over and kissed Camille’s cheek. “Baby?”

  She pulled the covers higher, snuggling into her pillow. “Go ‘way.”

  I chuckled. “Too early for you?”

  “Mmff.” She rolled away from me.

  “Want me to go alone?”

  “Mm hmm. See ya later.”

  I shrugged. “Okay. I’ll be back in an hour or two.”

  Her soft snoring made me smile. I got up, changed into clean denim shorts and a tee shirt, and padded down the stairs.

  Coffee could wait. The shower could wait. I desperately wanted to feel the fresh sea breeze on my face.

  The drive to Paines Creek Beach was quiet. No cars, no people, except a few older citizens who strode with serious expressions on their faces, baseball caps drawn down and hands pumping their fluorescent-colored weights.

  The quaint houses along the way could have been featured in a travel magazine. Who knew? Maybe they had been. Cedar shake sidings, pink and white roses tumbling along fences in clouds of petals, bright blue hydrangeas waving in the breeze, and wherever they could manage to grow, thick clusters of orange daylilies lining the roads.

  I pulled into the empty parking lot, making a mental note to head over to the Town Hall today to buy our beach sticker for the month. I also had to get the fridge stocked and figured I’d try to do that early as well, before the crowds swelled into the aisles of Stop & Shop.

  Putting aside the thoughts of paper towels and strip steak, I opened the door and kicked off my sandals. I locked the car, snapped my keys onto a belt loop, and turned to face the azure ocean.

  I breathed deeply, inhaling the tangy scent of the sea, and as I did, a sense of letting go washed over me, mingled with a feeling of simple celebration of the earth.

  A flock of seagulls whirled overhead, their bellies reflecting the amber blaze of the early morning sun. To my right, colorful ocean kayaks sat in their wooden berths, awaiting adventurous tourists. Cherry red, lime green, fluorescent orange, and sunny yellow crafts gleamed in the early light.

  I started toward the horizon, walking in the creek that meandered through the sand. It moved swiftly with the outgoing flow, and was about calf-high now. I almost fell a few times; the current was so strong. On either side were rippled expanses of damp sand and beautiful pools of water reflecting the scudding clouds overhead. In the distance, the aquamarine line of the ocean waves curled with lacy whitecaps.

  I stooped to pick up a shell for Camille, admiring the pastel colors and mother-of-pearl-like sheen on it. She’d love this one.

  I pocketed it, and then squinted in the distance, where I saw a figure ambling along the beach further out. I continued toward the end of the low tide area, and as I grew nearer, I recognized Albert.

  He walked with his head down, holding a metal detector in his hands. When he heard me sloshing toward him, he glanced up and issued a brief wave. “Mornin’.”

  “Morning, Albert.”

  “Fine day for prospecting.”

  “I’ll say. What’re you looking for?”

  “Treasure,” he said solemnly.

  “I see.” I wasn’t sure if he meant lost pocket change or pirate’s gold. “Any luck today?”

  In one hand he carried an empty bucket. “Nope. Been looking for forty years. Can’t give up.”

  “Are you searching for a particular treasure?”

  He narrowed his eyes. “Guess I can tell you, since you’re an outta towner.” He stopped for a moment and sighed. “I’m looking for the treasure that was stole from my great, great, great granddaddy.”

  “Wow. The one who built your house?”

  “Yes sir. Mr. Zebediah Cook himself.” A far off look glazed his eyes.

  “Cool.” I waited for a few seconds, but when he didn’t say more, I started to walk away. “Well, good luck today.”

  He glanced at his watch. “Almost time to head in. You don’t wanna get caught when the tide comes in. Folks get stuck out here all the time. Have to swim in with their fancy iPhones held high in the air.”

  I automatically patted my pocket where my iPhone six plus resided. “Er, thanks. I’ll turn back then.”

  “See you tomorrow.” He continued to play the device back and forth over the sand.

  I wandered back by a different route, alternately splashing through tide pools and padding across moist sand. Hermit crabs scuttled busily around my feet and razor clams squirted water in the air when I stepped near them.

  Feeling serene and satisfied, I began to climb the bank toward the parking lot when the sound of squealing tires came from the road above.

  Seconds later, a silver Corvette sailed over my head, landing nose down in the cold water of Paines Creek.

  Chapte
r 4

  I stood in shock for a few seconds, and then hurriedly slid my phone out of my pocket and set it on a nearby rock. I’d have to report the accident, but if I waited to make the call before I got into the deep part of the creek where the car now bobbed, the driver wouldn’t have a chance.

  There were no signs of life. No cries for help. Just a sullen, dark pool of water engulfing the half-submerged convertible.

  With heart pounding, I leapt from the rocks, landing several feet from the vehicle. I went under, surprised at how deep it was, and then pushed up to the surface. The current was strong here, and I had to fight against it to move upstream. After a few minutes of near panic, I managed to swim against it and around to the driver’s side door.

  Thankful that the car was a convertible and there wouldn’t be any pressure pushing the door closed, I took a deep breath and went under again, reaching for the door handle. To my surprise, it swung open easily. On the same breath, I tried to release the driver’s seatbelt buckle, but I couldn’t see it. What I did see in the murky green glow was a young man slumped over the steering wheel. A bloom of red stained the water near his head.

  After a few fumbled attempts, I found the seat belt latch and lifted the boy out from the car, floating him up to the surface. With his head above water, I dragged him toward the shore and turned him onto his side, where he instantly began coughing and spewing seawater.

  I held him while he sputtered and sucked in air. “Are you okay, son?”

  He held up one hand as if to ask for a minute, coughed some more, and took in several ragged breaths. “I think so. My head hurts.” He raised a hand to his head and came away with blood.

  “I’ll call for help.”

  “Thanks.” He looked about twenty, with long brown curly hair and pale blue eyes.

  “Here. Sit against this rock for a bit and I’ll grab my phone.” I helped him stumble toward the breakwater rocks and reached up for my phone. “Got it.”

  I dialed 911, told them what happened, and hung up. Above me, Albert stared down at the boy.

  “Why the hell’d you go and save that little bastard?” He spit, turned around, and stalked away.

  Chapter 5

  I started after Albert, but before I could corner him the paramedics arrived. Either they’d been just around the corner at Dunkin Donuts, or someone else in the neighborhood had called 911 while I was pulling the boy out of the Corvette.

  I waved the men over, pointing to the young man on the beach. “Over here.”

  The boy was standing now, staring at his car and moaning. “My father’s gonna kill me.”

  Two men in crisp uniforms skidded down the hill, and as they checked him out, one by one, people began to gather around to watch.

  A girl carrying a dark-haired baby boy approached me at a run, unabashedly crying. “Oh my God. It’s Beckett.” She fell to her knees, almost dropping the little boy, who looked as if he’d just woken up. The child fussed a little, and then clung harder to her neck.

  She pushed messy strawberry blonde hair away from her eyes. It was long and curly, and I suspected she’d just rolled out of bed when she heard the crash. I wondered how old she was. Seventeen? Eighteen?

  Her glance shifted to the Corvette, to me, and then back to Beckett. “Are you the one who saved him?”

  I nodded, although I didn’t really feel like any kind of hero. I didn’t have to perform CPR or anything, and he’d started breathing all by himself. But how she knew about this was beyond me, unless she’d passed the sputtering Albert as he’d stomped away.

  Again, the convulsive sobs came. “He’s okay?”

  I was going to tell her to go talk to him when Beckett started screaming at the emergency workers.

  “Let go of me, for God’s sake. I’m fine.” He scurried backwards with wild eyes, and then looked up and caught sight of the girl staring at him, tears staining her cheeks. Instead of running to her with love flooding his face and throwing his arms around her and the baby, as I’d expected, he went sheet white. “Jane?”

  She wailed louder this time. “Beckett, oh my God, are you okay?”

  He stared at the child in her arms.

  “Beckett?” She cried.

  He crumpled to the ground.

  “Help him!” she cried, and then turned to me as if I would rescue him again. “I love him.”

  I felt like I’d been transported to a soap opera.

  While the paramedics revived him, I heard a few of the gawkers begin to gossip about the “unmarried teenager” and her baby, and my protective instincts kicked in. “Come on, um, Jane, is it?” I put an arm out to guide her back up the beach. “Let’s move away from the crowd.”

  She nodded, still sniffling, and we dropped onto a bench at the edge of the tiny parking lot. The baby began to fuss, and Jane automatically slid a sippy cup out of the diaper bag that was on her shoulder.

  “It’s okay, Mason.” She cuddled him to her, still staring down the hill at Beckett with wide, frightened eyes.

  About eighteen months old, the beautiful baby greedily pulled at the cuppy, settling into the crook of her arm.

  “Will he be okay?” she whispered.

  Before I could answer her, a Land Rover pulled up beside us. The man behind the wheel rolled down his window, looking worried. Blue eyes peered out under shaggy silver eyebrows. “I’m looking for my son. Did a boy come through here in a Corvette?”

  Jane shrank against the back of the bench, and I wondered why she seemed afraid. The guy looked harmless.

  “Yes, and he’s okay.” I approached him and quickly explained what had happened. “He’s down on the beach,” I said. “The attendants are with him.”

  “Oh my God.” The man’s face went gray, and in seconds, he swerved into a nearby parking spot. He stepped out of the car and for a minute, lost his balance, leaning on the vehicle. I noticed the aristocratic look about him—the aquiline nose, the square jaw, the wavy hair. He looked like someone who’d own a silver Corvette.

  I ran to help him, but he waved me off and hobbled toward the beach.

  “I’m fine, thanks.”

  “Get him away from me!” Beckett yelled, pointing at the man who was apparently his father and batting at the air as if evil birds were attacking him.

  The man addressed the paramedics by name. It was clear he knew each one and I wondered if maybe this wasn’t the first time they’d been in this situation. They spoke for a few minutes, while the boy frantically pulled away from them.

  Is he on drugs? Mentally unstable?

  They finished their discussion and the father straightened. His powerful voice rang out, almost as if he was addressing the milling crowd from a Shakespearean theater. “My son needs to come home. He’s not well.”

  Beckett backed up again. “You can’t drag me back to that prison. You can’t force me.”

  A tired look passed over the man’s face. “You’re legally under our care, Beckett. Now please, cooperate. The medics have cleared you to leave. You’re overdue for your meds.”

  “Let me go!” Beckett struggled against the paramedics, yanking his arms away and stumbling onto the sand. “NO!”

  One of the workers injected him with something, and in seconds, he stopped struggling.

  “He doesn’t need any damned meds.” Behind me, Jane scowled. “Let him go! You’re keeping him prisoner. It’s not right.”

  With all the commotion, no one heard her except me.

  We watched as the two attendants escorted the subdued young man into the ambulance. One of them turned to the father. “We’ll get him home for you, Mr. Waterford.”

  “Thank you, Ty.” I saw a flash of pain in Waterford’s eyes and his shoulders dropped a fraction of an inch.

  Was it from relief? Or exhaustion?

  He climbed back into his Land Rover, gave a feeble wave to me, and followed the ambulance to the road.

  The crowd began to dissipate, and soon the only people left on the beach were Jane, Ma
son, and me.

  “So, I take it you, er, dated him?” I asked.

  “Yeah. I did.” She stroked the baby’s hair. “But he’s not sick. He’s fine. He’s perfectly fine. And they just want to keep him in their big, fancy mansion forever. It’s his mother, she’s a—”

  “Jane.” Albert appeared out of nowhere, blocking the sun. “You need to get on home now.” His features softened. “Sorry, honey. But it’s almost time for your shift.”

  She checked her watch and jumped up with Mason wiggling in her arms. “Oh, no. You’re right, Gramps.” With a quick kiss to his cheek, she handed him the baby. “You okay carrying him home?”

  Albert nodded. “Sure thing. Go ahead, now.”

  I watched in surprise. “Jane’s your granddaughter?”

  Albert nodded. “Uh huh.” He started to walk away, again with no goodbye or social graces. At the last minute, he turned. “You shouldn’t have saved him. He’s a monster.”

  I stared after him, watching grandfather and great-grandson disappear down a nearby white-shelled driveway.

  Chapter 6

  I stopped by the Dunkin Donuts—which I discovered really was just around the corner—to get some iced coffee for Camille and me. When I noticed the coffee cake muffins glistening with honeyed glaze, I gave in and bought two of them. Just as I was checking out, Jane rushed in the back door and ran to the counter. She didn’t notice me in the checkout area, but presented a ready smile to the long line of coffee-deprived zombies.

  With windows open, I drove slowly down the road, carefully avoiding the bicyclists and joggers. At eight in the morning, the exercise buffs had tripled in numbers.

  On Run Hill Road, I crawled around the one-lane curves, careful not to end up in a crash with the nonchalant drivers who made these hair-raising turns every day.

  Back at the house, I found Camille just coming down the stairs, still in her sleeping shorts and tank top.

  When she noticed the cups and bag in my hand, a broad smile crept over her lips. “Oh, Gus. You’re my hero.”