Frank Bennett Adirondack Mountain Mystery Box Set

by S. W. Hubbard

  “But why would he make a special trip to fill up at night when he’d be passing right by there in the morning on the way to work?”

  “Exactly. He says he did it because he’s always running late in the morning.”

  "Could be, but with the price of gas these days, he’d be burning up money making that round trip. On the other hand, if he murdered Heather, why stop and buy gas afterward and place himself right in the vicinity of the crime?”

  “Murderers are often stupid, you know that. Besides, if he didn’t have enough gas to get home, he would have no choice but to stop there. According to the receipt at the gas station, he bought seventeen gallons, and he drives an old Honda Civic. They don’t hold much—he must’ve been riding on empty.”

  Frank sat staring at his folded hands. He still had a hard time accepting Petrucci as the killer. The guy probably didn’t let his kids watch Wile E. Coyote clobber Roadrunner—could he really press the life out of a girl in the crook of his arm? But the evidence was starting to pile up against him. Grudgingly, he shared some more information with Meyerson.

  “I caught Petrucci in another lie today, too. Earl happened to mention that two summers ago, he and Paul both worked part-time for the contractor who remodeled those classrooms. Paul helped build those walls—he certainly knew about the crawl space and the little access door.”

  Frank and Meyerson’s eyes met for a long moment. Then Lew spoke.

  “I think with the evidence we have of Petrucci’s special interest in Heather, and knowing he was near the academy that night and was familiar with the layout of the classroom, we have enough to get a search warrant for his house and his bank account. I want to find out where that cash to make his back mortgage payments came from."

  “You asked him again?”

  “He and the wife refused to say. Both acted very defensive.”

  “That doesn’t mean much. Katie would act defensive if you asked her where she buys her shoes. Any word from Mexico on Glen Costello?”

  “Zilch, and I’m tired of waiting. I want to move forward with this search.”

  Frank nodded slowly. How could someone so politically correct, so adamantly nonviolent, strangle a young woman?

  “Well, see what it turns up,” Frank told Meyerson reluctantly.

  “If he has nothing to hide, he has nothing to fear.”

  Frank’s mouth twitched in an ironic smile. Ah, the favorite defense of the police state. “If you know what’s good for you, Lew, you won’t say that to Katie Petrucci when you’re tearing apart her house.”

  FRANK STOOD IN FRONT of his closet, contemplating the meager selection of shirts that were neither flannel nor part of his khaki uniform. A white button-down was surely too formal for the dinner party at Edwin and Lucy’s. The blue was okay, but when he took it out he realized the cuffs were beginning to fray. A bold stripe caught his eye—the shirt Caroline had given him for his birthday. Why had he never worn it? Oh, it had that silly designer thing embroidered on the chest. She’d paid twenty extra dollars to ruin a perfectly nice shirt. But Edwin’s was about the only place in the Adirondacks where he could show his face in that shirt, so he might as well get some wear out of it.

  He had his right arm halfway in the sleeve when he hesitated. Would this shirt make it seem like he was trying to impress the ladies? Trying to outdo Bob? Would it make him look like some pathetic Lothario attempting to look young?

  Oh, for God’s sake—it was a shirt! A perfectly ordinary blue-and-yellow-striped shirt, that happened to have one of those doo-hickeys. He put it on and left the house without looking in the mirror.

  On the way over to the inn, he wondered about this friend of Penny’s. He didn't recall ever seeing another young librarian at the community college. But since she’d been invited for him, she probably wasn’t young. Just a nice middle-aged lady that Penny, in her effusive way, had befriended.

  The parking area was full of cars when he arrived. He recognized Bob’s and Penny’s; he must be the last to arrive. Instinctively, he headed for the back door and entered through the kitchen without knocking, as he always did.

  Edwin was engrossed in stirring something and barely looked up. “Hey, Frank—why are you coming in through the servants’ entrance? You’re an official guest tonight. The others are in the parlor.”

  “Sorry I’m late,” Frank said, making no move to leave the safety of the kitchen.

  “You’re not late, they all just—” Edwin looked up. “Wow! Nice shirt. Is it new?"

  Frank froze. Did the damn thing still have a size label stuck to it? But a quick glance revealed nothing wrong. “No, I’ve had it for a while.”

  “Well, you look very handsome. Come on, carry these spinach and cheese puffs for me.”

  Frank followed Edwin down the hall to the parlor, where he could hear Penny, Bob, and Lucy laughing over the latest snafu in the library renovation.

  “Oh, here’s Frank,” Lucy cried, taking the plate of hors d’oeuvres from him. “Edwin has put him to work. Frank, I'd like you to meet Janice Caldwell. Janice, Frank Bennett.”

  A thin woman with very short hair rose from the chair next to the fireplace and shook his hand. He smiled and said hello, but her expression barely changed as she sat back down again. She wore navy slacks and a beige sweater. No makeup, no jewelry, no perfume. Janice looked like all she had done to prepare for this evening was scrub her face with a rough washcloth.

  Penny played flamingo to her friend’s sparrow. A bright coral sweater set off her dark hair and eyes, and an armful of bracelets jangled as she gestured, telling a story.

  “Listen to this, Frank.” Penny waved him into the chair next to her. “I’m telling them what Clyde said when he found out how much paper towel dispensers for the restrooms were going to set him back.”

  Frank sat back and watched Penny hold court over the room. Bob sat on an ottoman to her left, leaning forward as if he was afraid he might miss a word. Edwin broke into her story periodically to offer some affectionate teasing. Lucy sat back, beaming at her handiwork in arranging this event, while Janice sat in the corner with her hands folded in her lap.

  He felt bad for her—it was hard when everyone else in the group already knew one another and she knew only Penny. Frank moved closer to Janice.

  “So, Janice, you’re a librarian at the county college?

  “No.”

  “I thought Lucy said you and Penny used to work together.”

  “I teach there.”

  “Oh—what subject?”

  “Sociology." Janice continued to sit with her hands folded, staring straight ahead.

  “I’ve taken a few sociology courses along the way. I’m a cop, you know.”

  “Yes.”

  Geez, this was an uphill slog! He’d interrogated murder suspects who were chattier than Janice. Now he regretted having moved into this corner beside her. He looked longingly at the other four, who were still happily yakking it up. But he could hardly get up and move away from the woman.

  Frank tried to get back into the main conversation, but he’d lost the thread. Bob was talking about something going on at the church. “. . . just amazing the progress Matthew Portman is making in his organ lessons with Oliver. I sit in the corner and listen to them sometimes. They don’t know I’m there.”

  “Ah, you go undercover,” Penny said. “When I stopped in to listen, I couldn’t keep from applauding. Oliver gave me a very disapproving look. I thought it was okay to come in because Matthew’s brother Ernie was there.”

  “Yes, Ernie’s the exception. He often comes with Matthew,” Bob said. “It’s sweet—they’re very devoted to each other. Oliver says he used to be the same way when he was young.”

  “Well, I’ll keep my nose to the grindstone in the library and wait for Matthew to make his debut on Thanksgiving Festival Sunday," Penny said. “I’ll even make these heathens, Edwin and Lucy, come with me.” Frank’s ears perked up. Penny was planning on spending Thanksgiving in Tro
ut Run?

  Before he could inquire, a faint tinging came from the direction of the kitchen.

  “The oven timer.” Edwin clapped his hands. "Dinner is served. Frank, show Janice into the dining room. Bob, you’ll be next to Lucy; Penny, next to me.”

  Frank rose and ushered Janice before him. It was going to be a long evening.

  FRANK SLIPPED INTO the back of the church on Sunday morning after all the worshippers had left. He knew Augie never locked up until after the fellowship hour, afraid he might miss a slice of Bundt cake or a pecan sandie. Frank hadn't felt up to listening to a sermon from Bob Rush, but he liked being in the sanctuary so soon after the service had ended. The faith of those who’d just occupied the pews seemed to still fill the place. Maybe some of it would rub off on him.

  Although no music rang through the church, the sanctuary was not utterly quiet. As Frank stood looking down the main aisle toward the chancel, he heard the unmistakable sound of soft crying. At the far right side of the church, he discovered a hunched figure in the back pew. At the sound of his footsteps, the head rose and Frank found himself looking into the swollen, red eyes of Katie Petrucci.

  “I’m sorry to disturb you, Katie.”

  He expected her to lash out at him, but instead she lowered her head onto the back of the pew in front of her and began crying with no pretense of self-control.

  Frank shifted his feet awkwardly. Nothing unnerved him more than a crying woman, especially one whose crying could, even remotely, be attributed to him. Frank was quite sure that Katie must be here in the aftermath of her house being searched, although he wouldn’t have pegged her as one to petition the Lord in times of trouble.

  Gingerly, he sat down next to her and patted her hand. “Is there anything I can do?"

  Her voice was thick and choked with tears, “Try to get my husband out of jail.”

  Jail? Meyerson had arrested Paul Petrucci? What in God’s name had the troopers turned up in the search? It must have been big if they had acted without even consulting with him. “I’m sorry, Katie. I honestly didn’t know they arrested Paul, although I did know they planned to get a search warrant.”

  She lifted her head and clawed away some strands of hair that had slipped from her ponytail. “I don’t even know what the police found, but they must have found something. Now they think he killed Heather. That can’t be true, but he acted so strange when they took him away. He didn’t deny it; he didn’t resist. Paul just told me to call this lawyer in New York that I’ve never heard of. And where are we going to get the money for that?”

  The thought of money triggered another spasm of anguish and she cried louder, flinging her head back until she began to choke on her own tears. “The money,” she said, mopping her face with her sleeve. “Where did he get that money to pay what we owed on the mortgage? He wouldn’t tell me. We should have just let them foreclose. I told him we could start over somewhere else.”

  Frank felt a pang of guilt. He was sure that in a rational mood, Katie wouldn’t be talking like this to a cop. But if she was willing to tell him more about that money, he wouldn’t pass up the opportunity.

  “How much money was it, Katie?”

  "Five thousand dollars. We fell six months behind on the mortgage, and we worked out a payment plan with the bank. But it seemed that every month, something came up to prevent us from paying the extra money we owed. Deirdre got sick, the car broke down, the solar panels malfunctioned, and we needed more firewood and propane. And Paul felt it was all his fault, but it wasn’t. We agreed to make the investment.”

  “What investment?”

  “In Nutri-Green. It’s a start-up company developing a highly nutritious source of vegetable protein that can be farmed even in the most arid climates. It has the potential to end world hunger, but of course the agribusiness conglomerates want to suppress it.”

  Frank brought Katie back to the matter at hand. “So you invested more than you could afford in this company and lost your shirts?”

  "No! We thought there would be a payback by now, but with any start-up you can’t expect everything to go according to plan. We took a risk and we miscalculated. I still believe in Nutri-Green, but it looks like we won’t see a return on our investment for a while yet. Paul wanted to bail out and cut our losses, but I didn’t. I said I didn’t care if we lost the house, but Paul did. And now I’m afraid he did something crazy to get the money to keep it.”

  Like kill Heather LeBron for a lousy $5,000 bucks to keep that shack they called home? Frank couldn’t believe that of Paul Petrucci. Did his own wife think it was true?

  Katie seemed to read his mind. “He couldn’t have killed Heather. Paul won’t even kill mice. But that money didn’t just fall out of the sky; he’s keeping something from me.” Katie’s face crumpled and she let out a howl of anguish that made Frank flinch.

  "He’s been getting phone calls that he ends when I come into the room. He goes out at night with some flimsy excuse.” Katie focused her teary eyes on Frank. “I think he’s seeing another woman.”

  After making some vague assurances that he would look into Paul’s arrest, Frank slipped away from Katie and went back to the office. As soon as he reached his desk, he was on the phone to Meyerson. Not finding him at the office, he tracked him down at home.

  “What did you find at the Petruccis’ house?”

  “What makes you think we found something?” Meyerson replied in his most maddening manner.

  “Because you arrested Paul Petrucci! You didn’t have enough to arrest him before the search. What happened?”

  “We found a key to the isolation room in his possession.”

  “What! He had the missing key ring that was last seen with Lorrie?”

  “No. We found a single Yale key on a ring with a tag marked ‘room 211.’ That’s the number of the isolation room. We tried the key and it fits. This proves Petrucci had access to Heather in that room.”

  Meyerson’s news shocked Frank. He had to admit, evidence was starting to pile up against Paul. “What did Petrucci say about it?”

  “We found the key in an empty flowerpot on the kitchen windowsill. Petrucci claimed he mislaid it over a year ago. Apparently, the isolation room used to be the darkroom for his photography club during the previous administration.”

  “That’s easy enough to check, and it makes sense.”

  “It may well be true,” Meyerson’s voice held an edge of irritation. “It doesn’t change the fact that the key gave him access to that room.”

  Frank refused to debate the issue. “Did you find anything else?”

  “We found transactions in his bank account that show he’s been receiving one-thousand-dollar cash installments every week to ten days for the past two months.”

  “Who’s it from?”

  "We don’t know yet. As I said, it's cash. We took his computer to search the e-mail. We're checking his phone records.”

  “That’s it? No direct connection to Heather or Glen Costello?”

  “We’ll find it. It’s there, believe me.”

  But he didn't believe Meyerson, and he didn’t like the man’s blithe self-confidence. Most of all, he didn’t like that Meyerson had barged in and arrested Petrucci without so much as a “what do you think?” directed to him.

  “I don’t see the big rush,” Frank said. “The man’s not a flight risk. I like to have my ducks in a row before I make an arrest.”

  “The ducks are all there—lining them up won’t take long. And I feel better knowing Heather LeBron’s killer is somewhere where I can keep an eye on him.” Meyerson's voice was taking on that testy edge it got whenever his judgment was challenged.

  “I don’t see how you can be so sure Petrucci’s our man. There are an awful lot of loose ends here. How does this fit in with Jake Reiger’s death? What about Justin Levine and Lorrie Betz? I found out some information about them today that leads me to believe—”

  “Well, maybe that’s your problem,” Meyerson
snapped. “You’re always being led—led by the nose. It’s time for you to accept the facts of this case, and stop screwing around with every harebrained theory anyone throws in your path. Reiger’s death was an accident. Levine ran away and will turn up when he needs money. Lorrie Betz is on the lam from her husband. Paul Petrucci is the only person with motive, means, and opportunity to commit this crime. He’s our man. End of story.”

  Frank heard a click and stared dumbfounded at the phone. The bastard had hung up on him! He felt a white-hot ball of fury rising inside his chest. But as fast as it flared up, it sputtered out. Maybe Lew was right. Maybe he was so afraid now of overlooking something that he couldn’t keep his focus. Was he really letting every unexplained fluke of human behavior distract him from the solid facts of the case? Was he refusing to accept the possibility of any coincidences and trying to connect dots that weren’t even part of the puzzle?

  Once he had been a cop utterly confident in his gut instincts. Now he was a kid with one quarter waffling in a shop full of candy. What the hell had happened to him? Of course he knew the answer to that—Ricky Balsam. The career-ending case in Kansas City when his gut had led him so far astray that he’d let a killer walk free. Was he so terrified of doing the wrong thing now, that he couldn’t do anything at all? That must be what Lew thought. He couldn’t bear to stand by and watch Frank foul up another case, so he’d stepped in and taken action.

  Frank leaned back in his chair. His mind had been churning so much since he’d walked into the office that he hadn’t even noticed the familiar objects that surrounded him. Stuck to the front of his darkened computer screen was a yellow Post-it note covered in Earl’s loopy scrawl. "Frank—check your e-mail.”

  He moved the mouse and the screen leapt to life. Clicking on the e-mail icon, he saw a mailbox full of routine items from various law enforcement agencies, most of which had been languishing for days. But near the top of the list was a message with an unfamiliar return address. The subject line: Call me about Glen Costello.