Frank nodded as he shook the near-solid contents of an ancient quart of milk. “Still, people have been known to get a little over-eager waiting for opening day of deer season.”
Earl wasn’t buying it. “You don’t poach in broad daylight, Frank. Why shouldn’t it be Green Tomorrow? After all, they’ve blown things up out west.”
Frank sat back on his haunches amid the sea of trash. “They could be retaliating for what happened to Nathan Golding and the attempt on Katie Petrucci. But why go after Mr. Patel? All the poor man said was that closing Raging Rapids would be bad for business.”
“He explained it himself—because he’s Indian.”
“That doesn’t fit,” Frank answered. “Green Tomorrow’s a bunch of ultra-left wing types. They’re more likely to go after a red-neck white guy like Roy Fenstock.”
“Wasn’t Nathan Golding staying at the Mountain Vista the night before he was shot?” Earl asked. “Maybe they had an argument.”
Frank shook his head. “Mr. Patel claims he didn’t know who Golding was at the time.”
Earl sank his gloved hand into a tangle of cold spaghetti in a carryout tin. “Here it is!” He held up what looked to be a 9 mm bullet.
Frank stared at it. “That’s not from a hunting rifle—that’s from a pistol.” So it definitely wasn’t a hunting accident. Had the gunman really been trying to kill Patel or just scare him off?
Earl glanced back at the woods. “You'd have to be a very good shot to even hit a man shooting from clear over there with a revolver.”
The arrival of two state troopers ended their speculations. Together, they searched the woods until the fading light made it useless to continue. They found nothing.
THERE WAS NO QUESTION now about waiting for Katie to uncover information about Green Tomorrow’s motivations. The attack on Mr. Patel moved the talk with Stan Fenstock to the front burner. But as Frank headed out to Raging Rapids on Monday morning, Doris stopped him in his tracks.
“They’re going to be too busy to talk to you,” she said. “Stan took off for a long weekend and they’re really short-handed. April called my house last night wondering if my Jeff could fill in.”
Frank pivoted and returned to his desk. He sat staring at the phone, considering whether to call Abe now or wait for Stan to get back.
“Remember there at the end of the meeting, Abe Fenstock said something about passing up another opportunity to sell Raging Rapids?” Earl asked. “I wonder what he meant by that?”
Frank had forgotten all about it, but now he could picture Abe up at the podium, right before the whole meeting had dissolved in an uproar, making his “over my dead body” speech.
“Maybe it’s nothing,” Earl said. He still had trouble distinguishing between Frank thinking and Frank ignoring him.
“No, it’s not nothing. It’s a very good observation.”
Earl beamed as Frank snatched up the phone.
“Say Abe,” he began after April had put him through, “Earl just reminded me of something you said at that meeting the other day. Something about another offer to sell Raging Rapids that you didn’t take. When was that?”
“Last year. Some lawyer called me from the city. Said his client was some company that wanted to buy my land. He offered me a million dollars. I said no.”
“Just like that? Did your, uh, family agree that was the right thing to do?” Frank could imagine quite a family showdown over a million-dollar offer.
“I didn’t even show it to them, but that wasn’t the end of it. Then the guy wrote me a letter doubling the offer. Stan opened that, and he thought we ought to consider it. But Roy and I talked him out of it.”
“How come? Two million’s nothing to sneeze at.”
“Not after you pay taxes on it and divide it three ways—it’s not enough that you’d never have to work again. I’m only fifty-five, the boys are in their thirties. We’re used to being our own bosses. And Raging Rapids is a great business–you get to be outside, meet folks from all over. I told my boys, you ain’t going to find another deal like we got here. Best to just sit tight. So we turned him down.”
Had Stan been in complete accord with the decision? “And you all agreed that was the best thing to do?”
“Yeah. Why’re you asking me this?” An edge was beginning to creep into Abe’s voice, so Frank let the matter drop. There was more he needed to know.
“Do you know who the client was who wanted to buy it, and what they wanted it for?”
“The lawyer wouldn’t say. Why? You think this has something to do with what’s going on now?”
“Could be. Someone wanted your land. You wouldn’t sell. Now all of a sudden Green Tomorrow wants to close you down.”
“But they want me to sell to the state. The other offer came through some fancy New York law firm.”
“Do you remember the name?”
“I have the letter here somewhere.” Frank could hear the sound of file drawers opening and papers shuffling. “Here it is. Arthur Noble. Levine, Noble, Howe and Findlayson, on Park Avenue. You gonna call?”
“Yeah, I think I’ll see what I can turn up.”
Frank took the direct approach first. He called and asked for Mr. Noble, explained that he represented Abe Fenstock, who had changed his mind and might be interested in selling his property, and was told in no uncertain terms that the buyer was no longer in the market. Who the buyer was, Mr. Noble was not at liberty to say. Good-bye.
It was what he expected. He checked his watch. Only three o’clock—people worked late in New York, so it would be at least another three hours until he could put Plan B into effect. He’d do the routine afternoon patrol and then try. It was a long shot, but it might give him something to work with.
Frank set out on his normal loop, which eventually took him past the Rock Slide. He didn’t bother to stop—he already knew that Diane Sarens’s friend had no further information on her whereabouts. In fact, the search for Diane had turned into a big bureaucratic tangle. Despite Trudy’s report that the mother had been concerned, Mr. and Mrs. Sarens now maintained a unified front that Diane had simply taken off for a few days, as she had done before, was likely staying with friends they wouldn’t approve of, and would eventually be back. They flatly refused to file a missing persons report. Consequently, the state police declined to get involved, despite Frank’s urging. “You don’t think the parents murdered her, do you?” Meyerson had asked, with no attempt to disguise his sarcasm.
“No, I’m afraid she might end up like Mary Pat Sheehan.”
Frank remembered that conversation as he drove toward the Cascade Clinic. His conversation with Dr. Galloway about Diane had been interrupted by the call about Mr. Patel’s assault. He was determined to find out what Galloway knew about Diane and her plans for her unborn baby.
He pulled into the clinic parking lot and found it empty except for one car. Odd—normally the place was packed. He walked in and found only the receptionist at work, with a large sign taped to her desk:
Dr. Galloway will be on vacation October 14-18. For emergency coverage, see Dr. Eggert in Lake Placid.
The receptionist was entering data from a large stack of charts into her computer. She did not look up until Frank spoke.
“Galloway’s gone? This sign wasn’t up two days ago when I was in here.”
The receptionist eyed him strangely. “He got an opportunity to meet his girlfriend in Chicago. She lives in California, so it’s halfway for both of them. We all told him he should go—he needed a break.”
“Where in Chicago?” Frank demanded. More likely Galloway was quite nearby, delivering Diane Sarens’s baby.
The urgency in his voice made the receptionist’s brow furrow. “How should I know? Some hotel—his girlfriend’s at a conference. I have his cell phone number, but we’re only to use it in case of extreme emergency.”
“This is an emergency—let me have it.”
“I really don’t think—”
“Now.”
&
nbsp; Reluctantly, she wrote it out and handed it over. “He deserves this time off. I wish you wouldn’t—” were the last words Frank heard as he left the clinic.
Back in his own office, he dialed Galloway’s cell phone number and immediately got a recorded voice. “The subscriber you have dialed is not available.”
Wherever Galloway was, his cell phone was turned off.
At 6:15, he called the law office again.
As he hoped, this call was answered by an automated system. “Our regular hours are 8:30 AM to 5:30 PM. If you know your party’s extension, you may dial it at this time. For a directory of employees, dial 4.”
Frank dialed 4, then entered different combinations of letters. The first three times he tried he got various people’s voicemail. On the fourth try, a woman answered.
“Yeah?” she snapped. He hoped the surly voice meant he’d reached a secretary forced to work late, not an over-achieving young lawyer.
“Hi, I work upstairs. I was just on the elevator with someone who got off on your floor. I realized after the doors closed that he’d dropped this sealed envelope. It might be important.”
“Well, bring it down when you leave and slide it under the main door.”
“Gee, I hate to do that—I’m not positive it’s yours.”
“Look, I don’t have time for this. I gotta finish typing this brief.” He could hear her keyboard begin to clatter as she spoke. Good. The more exasperated and stressed she was, the less likely she’d be to notice how lame his ruse really was.
“What if someone you work with really needs this? I’m just trying to be helpful.” Frank tried to sound wounded.
“Well, open it and see what’s in it,” her voice echoed over the line. She’d put him on speakerphone so she could keep working as she talked.
“Oh, I could never do that. It could be very sensitive material. I’m a lawyer, you know.” He’d encountered so many nit-picking lawyers in his career that it was surprisingly easy to imitate one.
“So whaddaya want from me?” Irritation rising—just what he hoped for.
“There is a logo on the envelope. It looks so familiar, like it’s from a well-known corporation. Maybe if you named some of your big clients, I’d recognize it.” He held his breath.
“Gandalf Corporation, United Messaging, Crosby and Cole,” she rattled them off without hesitation. Frank scribbled frantically to keep up. Who knew if this would even lead to anything useful? He foresaw an insurmountable load of research.
“Rheim Pharmaceuticals, CynaQuest,” she nattered on. “Extrom Communications...”
Pay dirt! He let her name a few more, then interrupted when she paused for a breath. “Oh, this isn’t working. I guess I’ll just have to come down in the morning and show it around.”
“Fine,” she barked, and hung up before he had to lie any more.
The next morning, Frank dialed the law firm again to perform the necessary crosscheck. “I’m trying to decipher a message left on my voicemail. I think it says to call a Mr. Knoll about the Extrom Communications deposition.”
“You must mean Mr. Noble,” the receptionist said helpfully. “He handles Extrom Communications.” When she put the call through, Frank hung up.
Frank sat at his desk and stared at his calendar. The sound of phones ringing and Doris’s relentless cackle faded away. Extrom had tried to buy Raging Rapids, but why? Could he have wanted to build his house there, beside the river? But surely he already owned the property at the top of Beehive Mountain at the time he made the offer on Raging Rapids. A quick call to the county clerk’s office confirmed that.
Besides, current environmental regulations would prohibit any new building, and certainly anything as huge as Extrom’s house, so close to a scenic waterway. Why did he want that land, and why had he been so secretive about acquiring it? And what was the connection to Green Tomorrow? Frank resumed staring. The calendar continued to say Monday, October 14.
Chapter 28
“I think we may be in luck. A girl who first contacted me last spring is still interested.”
“Last spring? She must be pretty far along.”
“That’s the beauty of it. She’s due any day. So, no more waiting for the Braithwaites. And, she’s blonde.”
“So was Mary Pat.”
“I asked about the father. He’s fair and blue-eyed too.”
“So why did she wait so long?”
“She was in denial, like so many of them are.”
“Are you doing the delivery?”
“I don’t want to—it’s too risky.”
“Do what you have to do. Don’t let her change her mind.”
NEWS OF THE ATTACK on Mr. Patel quickly spread. Roger Einhorn saw it as his personal mission to tell everyone he encountered Mr. Patel’s belief that he’d been shot as a warning to all who opposed the closing of Raging Rapids. And the more the story was repeated, the more people came to accept it as fact, not theory.
Irma Kurtz, owner of the Trim ‘n’ Tidy, regarded the assault on her fellow motel owner as a declaration of war. Within hours, she had a team of volunteers organized to keep the Mountain Vista operating while Mr. Patel was hospitalized. And she started a petition circulating that called for “the arrest and expulsion of outside agitators.”
On Tuesday, Reid Burlingame dropped into the chair opposite Frank’s desk and held out three sheets of tattered yellow legal paper. “Have you seen this?’
“Heard about it,” Frank said as he reached for the pages.
Reid massaged his temples. “How can I respond to this? They won’t be satisfied until you throw someone from that group in jail, even if you have to trump up the charges. I don’t suppose you have any leads on who shot the poor man?”
“The state police are working on it. The bullet that we found is from a handgun. If the gun happens to have been manufactured and sold in New York, there will be a digital image on file of a sample fired bullet from that gun. If they find a match, we’ll know whom the gun is registered to. But don’t hold your breath—most crimes aren’t committed with licensed guns.”
Frank had been scanning the petition as he spoke. There were scores of signatures—even sensible people like Randall Bixley and Regis Malone had signed. He was about to hand it back when the last signature on the third page caught his eye, and he felt a rush like the morning’s first coffee hitting his bloodstream. He recognized the writing—the first name was identical to the ornate but crabbed scrawl on Mary Pat’s card. And there was a last name, also undecipherable.
“Who’s this? Do you know?”
“Oh yes, Irma made sure to point it out to me. It’s Sanjiv Patel himself. He found out about the petition when he got out of the hospital, and he demanded to sign. Says he refuses to be intimidated.”
Frank sat in stunned silence.
“Do you really think he continues to be in danger?” Reid asked. “Are these Green Tomorrow people truly after him?”
“Huh?” Frank said, then pulled himself together. “No, no, signing this petition is meaningless. But I have been keeping an eye on his motel—the state police and I drive by several times a day. Hopefully that will discourage any more trouble. As for Irma and her crew, tell them...tell them you’re pressuring me for results, how’s that?”
Reid rose. “That ought to keep them happy–for a day or two.”
“A day or two may be all I need.”
As soon as Reid was gone, Frank took Mary Pat’s card and the petition and headed out to the Mountain Vista Motel. Now things were beginning to make sense. No wonder poor Mary Pat had gone to such extremes to keep the affair and pregnancy secret from her family—worse than a criminal, worse than a married man, her lover was a Hindu. He could imagine Joe and Ann’s reaction to that news.
And maybe the attack on Patel had nothing to do with Green Tomorrow and everything to do with Mary Pat’s baby. Could Patel have been threatening to claim paternity? Would the people who had Mary Pat’s baby kill to keep her?
Frank walked into the Mountain Vista office and found Mr. Patel behind the registration desk. Although his arm was heavily bandaged and in a sling, he looked quite chipper.
“Good morning, Mr. Patel. How are you feeling?”
“I am very well, Chief Bennett. I am so cheered by the kindness of my neighbors. They kept the motel running for me while I was in the hospital—even cleaned the rooms. It is like you say, the clouds are a different color on the inside.”
Frank thought for a moment. “Every cloud has a silver lining?”
“Precisely.”
He might feel the clouds were thoroughly black once he saw what Frank had to show him. “You signed this petition that’s been circulating?” Frank laid the papers on the counter.
“Yes. I know you cannot arrest them without more evidence. Still, I think it is important that we show some solidarity.”
“So this is your signature?” Frank tapped the last name on the list.
“Yes. Why?”
Frank pulled out the greeting card. “I found this card hidden in the trunk of Mary Pat Sheehan’s car. It would appear to be signed by you.”
Patel drew himself up to his full height, which was only five seven or eight. “A person cannot send a friend a greeting card? There is no crime in this, I think.”
“No crime. But I think you were more than her friend. You know she died of complications of childbirth. I’m trying to find out what happened to her baby. Maybe you can tell me something about that?”
“How should I know?”
“Because you’re the father, aren’t you?”
Patel’s dark eyes opened wide and his delicate fingers trembled. “This cannot be. I have no child.”
Frank assumed a clinical tone. “Were you having a sexual relationship with Mary Pat Sheehan, Mr. Patel?”
Muddy blotches rose on Patel’s cheeks. “Who is spreading such a rumor? I just chat with her at the store sometime.”
“Look—the girl saved this card, hid it from her parents, because she cared about you. But she knew her parents would never approve. And maybe your family wouldn’t be so crazy about her either. It could never work out. But then she got pregnant. And she would never have an abortion, so—”
Frank Bennett Adirondack Mountain Mystery Box Set Page 20