Murder on the Brewster Flats

by Aaron Paul Lazar

Robbie turned to Mr. Pompey and Lana. “Pretty darned amazing, right?”

  Mr. Pompey cleared his throat. “I don’t think there’s a word strong enough for this, young man.” He edged forward, one hand running lightly down a gold and black onyx cat figure. “It’s…absolutely remarkable. And this, by the way, is the Goddess Bastet.”

  “Outta sight.” Lana sank to her haunches and raked her eyes from side to side. “You say all this stuff was likely stolen off a ship by the Waterfords’ ancestors?”

  Robbie said, “The vessel was the Montezuma. It was lost en route to Boston; it left Cairo in 1877.”

  Albert sat next to her. “Yeah. But it wasn’t the Waterfords’ ancestors, that’s just Marla’s married name. It was from Marla’s side. The McNabb family.”

  Lana blinked. “The McNabbs? I’ve got some history on them.” Her smile slid away. “It isn’t very nice, either.”

  I wasn’t sure how much she actually knew, but I decided to put her off for Beckett’s sake. “We can’t share more at the moment, Lana. Albert or Robbie will show you the diaries and maps and documents they found in good time. But right now, for Beckett Waterford’s sake, we’re asking for your patience.”

  “Of course.”

  I sensed eagerness in her voice and curiosity sparkled in her eyes.

  “He’s been through so much, Lana, we’re trying to help him beyond the trauma. But we all felt it was important for you to be here today, to document this event. Quietly. Privately. Until Beckett and the Cooks are ready to let their story go public.”

  She raised one hand, as if she were making a Girl Scout pledge. “I promised Dr. Cook I’d be completely discreet about this until he gives me the go ahead.” She looked to Robbie for confirmation.

  He nodded. “That’s right. You certainly did.”

  She grinned again. “But I’ll sure as heck document the hell outta this day for the Village of Brewster. It’s huge.”

  Albert spoke up. “And you know, we’re still searching for the Cook’s lost treasure.”

  Mr. Pompey joined us, listening to Albert’s story. “It wasn’t hidden somewhere in the tunnels?”

  Albert looked down. “No, sir. We’re still searchin’ for three gold crosses that were cast from the melted down treasure in 1767 after Zebediah Cook’s wife was murdered. The ship sank out there…” he pointed to the general direction of the ocean, “…and the treasure was never found.”

  Both Mr. Pompey and Lana emitted empathetic clucks.

  Albert stood. “Well, it is what it is. Might as well get started.”

  Mr. Pompey unpacked a fancy digital camera, one of the newer digital SLRs with a gazillion megapixels. “I’ll need a video crew to do this properly when we move the collection out. But for now, I’d like to capture images of the most important pieces.”

  He and Lana wandered side by side, discussing each piece and stooping to examine the details carefully. From time to time, the curator would stop, run his fingers over some hieroglyphic characters, and read aloud inscriptions warning of disaster if anyone dared to pillage the tomb of the great King Asiri.

  “King Asiri,” I said to Albert. “I wonder if his spirit still lingers here.” I smiled at him. “Maybe he knows what happened to the gold crosses.”

  Albert shot me a look that said he thought I was nuts. He shrugged, and then laughed. “Sonny, you never know.”

  Mr. Pompey stopped by the tall golden figure of the man with the falcon’s head. “Meet Horus, protector of the pharaohs, and son of Osiris and Isis.” He ran a white-gloved hand lovingly down the body, lingering on the pronounced abs. “And isn’t it a wonder how these gods stayed in such wonderful shape?”

  I laughed and wondered if he meant the statues’ condition or their physique.

  We wandered back to the most important item in the collection. Asiri’s wooden sarcophagus stood on a golden pedestal with delicate columns stretching up to a golden roof crowning the casket. The top of the coffin was shaped like a human figure, with a depiction of the king fashioned in fine inlaid stones. On the sides were drawings of the gods and goddesses, as well as symbols of the ankh and slinky feline eyes.

  “Is the mummy inside this?” I asked.

  Pompey’s eyes went dreamy. “Oh, yes. But before we see the mummy itself, there should be a smaller, very special gold sarcophagus inside this wooden shell.”

  Albert came up beside me. “Can we look inside now?”

  Pompey vehemently shook his head. “We need to open this in a controlled environment. We’ll need special tools to unseal the top of the box so we don’t damage it. And we will document the entire unveiling with a video for posterity.”

  Lana joined us. “So, this is him, huh?” She examined the figures on the side of the coffin. “He must’ve been a pretty important king.”

  Pompey nodded. “He was, at that.”

  By one o’clock that afternoon, we’d finished. With solemn promises to keep the exciting discovery to themselves, both curator and historian departed. A security guard was assigned to the burned mansion and Jack and his extended family offered to keep a close eye on the barn entrance to the tunnels.

  We returned to the Cooks’ house to check in on Jane and Mason. Over a quick lunch of tomato soup and grilled cheese sandwiches, we waited for Camille and Beckett to return from the funeral home.

  It wasn’t a long wait. They showed up at two. Beckett looked subdued, and Jane hurried to his side, throwing her arms around him. They stood together for a long time.

  Camille joined me in the living room and we sat on the couch.

  “You hungry?” I asked.

  She shook her head. “No. We picked up a sandwiches between meetings.” She glanced at Beckett. “It was pretty hard on him, the poor kid. I think it’s all just sinking in now.”

  “He’s got a long road ahead of him.” I kissed her and drew her close.

  She leaned into me. “He met his executor—a local banker who knew his parents for years—and now he understands a little about what to expect. The lawyer read him the will, and, as expected, everything goes to him. There’s a considerable fortune, frankly. So it needs to go through all kinds of rigmarole before it’ll be settled.”

  “At least he knows what’s ahead now. What about the funeral home?”

  “The coroner finished his examinations and the Waterfords will be cremated tomorrow. Beckett decided to forgo a cemetery burial. He said someday he might just scatter the ashes over the ocean. Maybe while he’s out on his family boat.”

  “Is that even legal?”

  She shrugged. “I have no idea. But I don’t think Beckett really cares. Nobody would probably see him way out there in the ocean, anyway.”

  “True.” I mused about that for a while. How strange it would be for a descendent of the McNabb clan to be put back into the sea in possibly the same place where the Cooks’ ship went down.

  Robbie thumbed off his phone and sat beside us. “Thanks for taking care of Beckett today, Camille.”

  She gave him a half-smile. “It was the least I could do.”

  “No. You’re supposed to be here on vacation. You have no obligation to all of us.” He gestured to the others in the room and then turned to me. “You, too, Gus. You guys have been amazing. If it weren’t for you, I’d probably still be locked down in that dungeon.” He shuddered. “Anyway, I’m going over to the mansion to meet the Fire Marshal. You’re welcome to join me if you want to come along.”

  I sank back into the couch. “Thanks, but I think I’m done for the day. I need to practice for the concert.”

  Camille squeezed my hand. “It’ll be good for you. You’ve missed playing, haven’t you?”

  I nodded. “Yeah. More than I thought possible.”

  “I think I’ll take the afternoon to lie on the beach. I haven’t done that yet.”

  Robbie shook his head. “You’ve been here how long? And you still haven’t had any beach time?”

  “Since a week ago today, last Sa
turday.” She smiled. “It’s okay. We’ve still got three weeks left. I plan to take full advantage of it.”

  We both stood and said our goodbyes. As much as I knew I’d miss this family, it was time to back off and let them have some privacy.

  Albert shook my hand at the door. “You’ll come back again?”

  I gripped his hand. “Sure. And, hey, I’m only a phone call away.”

  Camille hugged him. “Your daughter and son-in-law are arriving tomorrow, right?”

  “Yep. I’m picking them up at Logan at noon,” he said. “Not lookin’ forward to that drive, for sure. But it’ll be good to have Lorraine and Manny home again.”

  Jane tore herself away from Beckett and ran to Camille. “Why don’t you come for dinner next week? You can meet my parents and we can just talk and relax. Won’t that be strange?”

  Camille trilled a laugh. “Strange and nice.” She looked at me for agreement. When I gave her my “why not?” shrug, she said, “Sure. We’d love to.”

  With more hugs and a final wave as we backed out of the driveway, I started to relax, just a little. I called Jack to let him know I was on my way and turned down Paines Creek Road.

  Chapter 47

  The following days were filled with vacation. Real vacation. Camille and I ate at famous local restaurants known for their chowder, lobster rolls, and fried clams. We took a day trip to Provincetown, where we wandered the streets, enjoyed the colorful scenery, and spent far too much money in the shops.

  We even got sunburned one lazy afternoon—having fallen asleep on the sand. I wasn’t proud of it, like some folks are, but it did represent one of the nicest, laziest afternoons we’d had in a very long time.

  We’d prowled through the shops in Chatham, Yarmouth, and Harwich on various afternoons, enjoying the unique view of the “ocean” side of the cape as opposed to the “bay” side where the Brewster beaches are situated. The waves were massive on Thursday, and we took dozens of photos of seals and surfers.

  We visited Woods Hole, and even took the ferry to Martha’s Vineyard for an afternoon of bike riding around the island.

  For the first time since we arrived on Cape Cod, I felt sated and rested.

  I practiced for two hours every morning, and was feeling pretty good about the upcoming concert. Soon, Jack and I would rehearse the duet together. And in one more week, we’d be ready to hold the concert which would signal the beginning of the end of our vacation.

  We called home every night, speaking to as many family members as we could manage. I could tell my grandson, Johnny, was a bit anxious about my return. He’d been the most long-winded of everyone, and we’d spent many hours talking about his day’s adventures. I missed him dreadfully, and decided that this whole “month-long vacation to get away from it all,” was for the birds.

  Never again. Maybe a week. Maybe two. Maybe never.

  We arrived at the Cooks’ house at six Thursday evening. As soon as we knocked, Jane flung open the front door and pulled us both into hugs, gushing and proudly introducing us to her parents.

  Lorraine, with beautiful caramel-colored skin courtesy of her Moroccan mother, embraced us immediately and led us to her towering blond husband, Dr. Manfred Wright. Jane strongly resembled her father, except for his prominent, beak-shaped nose. Both physicians seemed exhausted, even though they’d been home for four days now. But I imagined traipsing through the African jungles searching for a lost son might have taken its toll on everyone.

  Lorraine took Camille’s hand, glancing at both of us. “We can’t thank you enough for what you did. The way you stepped in to help my children…” Her eyes puddled with tears. “And finding Robbie like that, when we’d been looking for months…”

  Manfred slid an arm over her shoulders and gave us a warm smile. “Lorraine’s right. We’re ever so grateful. You went above and beyond.”

  Their attention made me uncomfortable, so I found a good place in the conversation to excuse myself and wandered over to Robbie, who was setting the table in the adjoining dining room.

  “Hey,” I said. “Want some help?”

  He looked up with a smile. “Sure.”

  I took the silverware from him and began to lay it out beside the plates. “How’d it go with the Fire Marshal?”

  “We did a complete search of the place and got a construction crew to come in and tear down the dangerous half-walls that were still standing.”

  “Wow, already?”

  “This guy had some connections, so yeah. They did it in two days flat. Now it’s safe to poke around over there. He gave us the okay.”

  “Were you able to get down to the cellar?”

  He opened a buffet drawer and bobbed back up with a package of napkins. “We were. The cellar staircase was undamaged. We’re going to make a trap door out of plywood with a padlock on it for Beckett tomorrow. That’ll be his entrance from now on. No more ladders or long journeys through dark tunnels to access his stuff.”

  “Wow. Nice.” I placed napkins around the table while he took down fragile etched goblets from behind glass doors in the buffet. I wasn’t sure I’d dare use such beautiful glasses on my own table at home. No. I knew I wouldn’t dare with the little ones sitting beside us.

  He inspected them for spots, nodded his approval, and began to set them out. “Yeah. And remember the giant ring of keys that unlocks all the cells that we lost?”

  I nodded. “Yeah. I never knew what happened to those.”

  “Well, we found ‘em. We locked the rooms with the treasure inside them, so that even if someone does get in there somehow, they won’t be able to steal anything.”

  “Good,” I said, leaning down to study a dinner plate. “This looks familiar.”

  Robbie laughed. “You’ve got a good eye. It’s from the treasure. Beckett let us bring it up for tonight’s meal. Remember it was packed in one of those sea chests? We thought it would be fitting.”

  “Very cool,” I said.

  Back in the kitchen, I cracked open ice cube trays and he readied a glass pitcher of water for the table.

  Robbie’s phone rang. He answered it immediately. “Dr. Cook here.” His face registered surprise, then understanding. “I see. Beckett asked you to call me? Ah ha.” He listened for a while, and then hung up and leaned back against the wall. “Well. Now we know.”

  “Know what?” I said.

  He motioned for me to follow him into the living room. “Come on. I’ll let you listen while I fill in Beckett.”

  We corralled the boy and brought him into the library, where Beckett and I sat on one side of the long table.

  Robbie skirted the table and sat across from us. “The medical examiner just called me, as you requested.”

  “Oh, good,” Beckett said. “I couldn’t understand a word the guy was saying. It was gobbledygook to me! I hope it’s okay I asked him to talk to you?”

  “Sure. The ME’s lab just finished testing the weeds you provided. And you were absolutely right.”

  Beckett leaned forward. “Really? Were those weeds what she used to make me sick?”

  Robbie nodded. “They were. They’re called Jimsonweed, and their Latin name is datura stramonium, if I remember right. Anyway, that’s close enough. But the Jimsonweed grows throughout North and South America. The samples you picked didn’t have the typical tubular blossoms or resultant seedpods—it has to be spring or fall, I believe, for those to be present. But the seeds and leaves have alkaloids in them called hyoscamine and hyoscine that cause hallucinations.”

  Beckett and I listened attentively, ignoring the sounds of the loud chatter in the living room.

  “Native people have used it as a deliriant, to encourage spiritual visions. But it’s a miracle it didn’t kill you, because it’s extremely dangerous if you use too much.”

  “How did she learn about this, I wonder?” I asked.

  “It’s hard to say. It’s possible the information was passed down for generations, who knows?”

 
Beckett said, “My great, great grandmother was a witch.”

  I spun toward him. “What? Really?”

  Beckett nodded nonchalantly. “Sure. My mom was kind of proud of that. She talked about Gramma Minerva and her potions all the time.” He emitted a sad laugh. “Weird, huh?”

  Robbie’s eyes flashed. “Well, maybe she knew about this Jimsonweed. I suppose you could use it to manipulate people, like Marla did to Beckett. It can cause terrifying hallucinations and paranoia.”

  Beckett released a long sigh and his shoulders dropped. “So I’m not crazy after all.”

  Robbie reached a hand across the table. “Hell, no. You’re absolutely sane, Beckett. But that’s not all.”

  “What else?” I said.

  “They found traces of hyoscamine in your mother’s bloodstream.”

  His eyes clouded over. “What?”

  “She ingested some Jimsonweed extract the day she died. It might explain why she went so mad on that last day, stealing your son…jumping from the roof.”

  Beckett looked from Robbie to me and back to Robbie. “Do you think she used it all the time?”

  Robbie shrugged. “Hard to say. She may have been getting more and more desperate toward the end, especially when she learned about your father’s, er, affair, Beckett. Perhaps he threatened to leave her, I don’t know. And when she realized you wanted to be with Jane, to get to know your son, she knew she might lose you, too. So it all began to tumble down around her.”

  “She may have turned to the Jimsonweed as an escape from reality?” I asked.

  “Right.” Robbie stood up and came around the table. “But now we know. And I might suggest plowing that patch of weeds under and planting something much more benign, like some benign wildflowers.”

  “Yeah.” Beckett pushed back his chair and rose. “Good idea. I’m going to do that soon. Because Jane and I have some grand ideas for the property next year. I might even plant wildflowers in the entire lawn, across the grounds, and under the trees. And we’re going to have the most beautiful playground you’ve ever seen in your life.” His eyes shone. “Just you wait.”

  “Sounds outstanding,” I said. “And it’ll be kind of therapeutic, too, to put away all those difficult memories of your childhood and replace them with something so joyful.”