Frank nodded and hoped he had dialed up the correct expression of empathy. When he had taken the police chief’s job, no one had warned him that he’d become a part-time family therapist in the bargain.
“He told mom he feels like life ain’t worth living. We’re afraid to let him out of our sight. I locked up all the guns and I got the key in the vault.” She patted her substantial bosom.
“Mrs. Moran’s death is a tragic accident, Marcy Ann. Don’t worry—your dad’s not going to be charged. But it’s natural for Vonn to feel bad even though he didn’t do anything wrong.”
“He didn’t shoot her Frank! I keep telling the state police and the DEC and no one will listen.”
Marcy Ann’s voice had the ragged pitch of a foreign tourist who despairs of ever making the taxi driver understand where she wants to go. To stave off hysteria, Frank patted her hand. “I’m listening. You go ahead and tell me.”
“Here’s the thing: I know exactly what time he fired the gun in the morning. It was 8:15 during the Today show...the Martha Stewart segment on how to get a Bundt cake to pop out of the pan. I stopped what I was doing to watch because I always have trouble with those damn cakes sticking. And then I glanced out the window and saw the coyote and told Dad. And he went out and took his shot. He thought he mighta winged the coyote, but he wasn’t sure. And by the time all that happened, Martha was off and I never did hear her tip on the Bundt cake. And that’s how I know that Dad fired the shot while that woman was still dropping her family off at Whiteface.” Marcy Ann sat back in her chair with an unspoken “ta-da”.
Frank knew she expected a big reaction but all he could muster was a slight raise of his eyebrows. “Did you hear another shot behind your house later in the morning?”
Marcy Ann bit her lip. “Mom and I went out grocery shopping. Dad was home all alone. He can’t remember what he heard. And neither can Jade and Anna.”
Frank nodded. The echo of a hunting rifle was so common that it simply didn’t register in people’s conscious minds. “What did Lt. Meyerson say?” He asked knowing full well that the state trooper in charge had dismissed Marcy Ann’s claim as wishful thinking after the fact.
“Meyerson’s the one with the squinty eyes, right? He wouldn’t let me be in the room when he talked to Dad. Then he came out and said Dad wasn’t certain what time he fired the shot. That’s the problem, Frank. Since his stroke, my father has a hard time remembering things. He gets mixed up real easy. I listened through the den door, and that guy just kept hammering Dad with questions until the poor man didn’t know if he was coming or going. Then when I told Meyerson the god’s honest truth, he didn’t want to believe me!”
Frank sat quietly. They could argue all day about what time Vonn took his pot shot at the coyote. Nothing changed the fact that Renee Moran died from a gunshot wound consistent with a .30-30 rifle 100 yards into the woods behind Vonn’s house. The bullet, which would have been conclusive proof, had passed right through her. Buried in six feet of snow, it might never be found.
“Well? Why are you just sitting there?”
Frank raised his hands palms up. “Your land is posted No Hunting. No one poaches small game. If Vonn didn’t kill her, who did?”
“That’s what I want you to find out. Why are you swallowing whatever the state police say?” Marcy Ann glanced at her watch and jumped up as a young man appeared in the office doorway.
“Jeff! I didn’t mean to make you wait. We can go right now.”
“Hey, Jeff—How’s it goin’?” Earl said.
The kid glanced at Earl and barely nodded. He was tall and rangy, with the startled look of a young man confounded by the size of his own arms and legs. To top it off, he had the worst case of acne Frank had ever seen. Frank’s cheeks felt sore just looking at him.
Marcy Ann yanked her hat down over her ears. “What’s the point of Trout Run having its own police department if you’re not looking out for us?” She shepherded her son through the door, then glanced back at Frank. “I can’t watch over my dad twenty-four hours a day, Frank. If something happens to him, it’ll be on you.”
EARL LET OUT A LONG whistle once the outer door had slammed. “If a crazy old man who can’t remember what time he shot his gun decides to kill himself, it’s your fault, Frank. Geez—glad I’m not Chief.”
Frank stared at the bulletin board of out-of-date wanted posters.
“What?” Earl asked when he couldn’t take the silence any longer.
“Vonn gets more and more upset about the accident with every passing day. Meanwhile, everyone expects Moran to be looking for someone to sue. But he’s remarkably forgiving. In fact, he blames himself. Why?”
“I dunno. Guess he’s nicer than most rich people.”
“Rich or poor, hurt people like to assign blame. But he’s not.”
“So...?”
“What if Marcy Ann’s right? She’s seems totally sure what time Vonn fired the shot.”
“My mom watches Martha Stewart on the Today show. That segment comes on a couple of different times during the morning. I think Marcy Ann just confused Vonn’s shot with the earliest Martha segment because that’s when she wanted it to be. The bottom line is, if not Vonn, who? Those organic farming girls don’t even own a gun. The Paulsons were in Florida. You always tell me that if I hear hoofbeats, think horses, not zebras.”
Frank raised his eyebrows. “A husband killing his wife isn’t a zebra.”
“Moran was skiing at Whiteface all day.”
“Was he? Meyerson says the dad and kids were skiing together all day, but is there any evidence that proves the three of them were never out of each other’s sight? It’s pretty hard to always stay together when you’re skiing. And what teenagers want to ski with their slow old man?”
Earl leaned forward. “How would he have gotten to the woods and then back to the slopes? Renee had the SUV.”
“Moran is rich and smart. We’re not used to dealing with that combo.”
Earl crossed the office and rattled the locked bottom drawer of the file cabinet. “Is the weed we confiscated from that party last week still in here? I think you’ve been smokin’ something, man.”
FRANK ENTERED THE LIBRARY at ten minutes before closing time. No more agonizing; today he would ask Penny out. The way she’d put her hand on his knee during dinner at the Inn—he couldn’t be mistaken—she was interested. He assumed she’d be alone this late in the day, but as he walked past the stacks he could hear Penny’s animated voice.
“The best part of any journey by plane, boat or train is when it is over and you are...”
“Home again!” two shrill voices piped. “Read it again, Penny!”
Frank stood just outside the doorway to the activity room and peeped in. Penny sat in the oversized easy chair with a skinny child tucked on either side of her. One kid pushed her tangled brown hair back so she could see Madeline and the Gypsies more clearly. The other flipped the pages back to the beginning and prodded Penny to start.
“All right, girls. One more time, then home you go.”
As Frank watched the little tableau, molten lead rose up to the back of his throat, pulling down his shoulders, spreading an ache through his back. He would be fifty next month. He’d never cared much about his birthdays, but suddenly he felt the terrible rush of time. More than half his life was over. He had grandchildren. He was old.
Who was he kidding? He was not the right man for Penny. Even if she sometimes flirted with him, he would be wrong to encourage her. Seeing these two little urchins curled up with Penny, Frank was struck by how glad he was not to be their father. He adored his grandsons, but he was always a little relieved to regain his solitude after a visit. Kids required constant attention, produced endless worry, sucked up boundless energy. He was done with that phase of his life; he couldn’t—didn’t want to—start it again. But Penny deserved to have children; she’d make a wonderful mother.
He stood rooted to the spot listening to her voice ris
e and fall, doing what his wife used to call “pre-worrying.” He and Penny had never even been on an official date, and here he was concerned about marriage and babies. But if things between them didn’t work out—and how could they, really?—he and Penny would still have to see each other day in and day out. Yet walking away seemed equally impossible. This constant tension, this waiting for the other shoe to drop, was killing him.
He backed away from the activity room, still not certain if he should wait for Penny or just slip out the door. Standing now before Penny’s desk, his gaze fell on a bright red rectangle: DataVergent Solutions, Michael Moran, Founder & CEO. Frank turned the business card over. On the back Moran had scrawled, “Call me,” and another phone number, presumably a private line. Frank quickly copied both numbers onto the back of a bookmark, and as Penny and the girls were shouting “Home again!” for the second time, Frank slipped out the library door.
FRANK AND RUSTY STARED down at the slushy snow. Between them lay a body, frozen stiff.
“How long do you think it’s been here?” Frank asked the DEC officer.
“Hard to say. We had almost eight inches of snow early last week. Then the thaw started two days ago. The coyote’s been buried in snow and well preserved. “ Rusty used a stick to point at the matted beige fur. “You can see he was hit in the thigh. The shot didn’t kill him right away. He ran for a bit, then crawled behind this log for protection. He eventually bled out, and the snow covered him and the trail of blood he must have left.”
“You’re sure this is the coyote Vonn shot at?”
“You can’t put a wild animal in a line-up, Frank, but the farmers and Vonn described a large male coyote. This one’s about as big as I’ve seen in the Adirondacks. A dominant male doesn’t let other adult males on his territory.”
“I thought coyotes ran in packs.”
“No, they’re not like wolves. They live in a family unit: mother, father, and pups. Now is the time of year that the adult male runs off the male pups, forces them to find their own territory. But this guy is a mature adult. I’d say he weighs forty-five, fifty pounds.”
Frank crouched down to look closely at the animal without touching it. “I don’t see an exit wound. If the bullet is still in there, we’ll be able to know for sure if Vonn’s shot killed it.” Frank rocked back on his heels and stared up at Rusty. “What’s the likelihood that Vonn’s one bullet would pass through Renee Moran and then lodge in this coyote?”
Rusty’s long exhale produced a cloud in front of his freckled face. “I suppose it depends on whether we’re going to start believing Vonn’s version of events. If he really saw the coyote at the verge of the woods, took his shot, and hit the animal, then Mrs. Moran would have to have been standing out in the open, between Vonn and the coyote, for the bullet to pass through her and hit its intended mark. But if Vonn just fired blindly into the woods after the coyote took off, then I suppose it could’ve gone through her before it hit this guy.”
Frank gazed through the bare branches toward Vonn’s house. “What are the chances that one wild potshot hit two targets?”
FRANK WAITED UNTIL Earl had left for the morning patrol before picking up his cell phone. The discovery of the dead coyote had changed the case. His suspicions weren’t crazy. The bullet from the coyote would be tested to determine if it came from Vonn’s gun. But that test, which would take at least a week, wouldn’t shed light on what gun had killed Renee. Frank still needed to determine if Mike Moran had any reason to kill his wife before he could recruit the state police to help find the circumstantial evidence. His hand hovered over the phone. Why was he doing this? To help Vonn, of course. The poor old man shouldn’t have to live with the guilt of having killed someone if he hadn’t really done it.
He could accept the idea of Penny being with another man, a younger man who could give her kids, but he was damned if that man would be a killer. Penny had suffered enough in her first marriage. She deserved a good, honest guy. If there was even a shadow of doubt in Frank’s mind that Mike Moran had something to do with his wife’s death, he’d protect Penny from that man. He might never find enough evidence to convict the guy, but if he uncovered anything suspicious, he’d use it to drive Moran off.
Last night, Frank had searched the Internet for information on the exclusive private school the Moran kids attended—Moorewood Academy. The school’s website showed the usual array of wholesome kids, but these kids studied Mandarin Chinese, molecular chemistry, and Greek philosophy to the tune of fifty grand a year. Maybe Drew’s independent study project made sense, but why would the Morans have pulled Sophie out of such a place to teach her at their kitchen table? Something had caused the family to leave New Jersey, and Frank was determined to find out what. But headmasters don’t spill their guts about students who pay top dollar. Frank pulled out a scrap of paper with a name and number he’d found on the website: Moorewood Parent Partnership League, Genevieve Llewellyn, Chair.
Frank dialed. “This should be fun.”
Chatting up his new best friend, he managed to imply that he was very close to the family whose name graced the Moorewood Library. That of course he knew the school’s academic reputation was sterling, but that when it came to sending his beloved Beatrice there, he had to be certain the atmosphere was conducive to her happiness. He had heard rumors of some recent unpleasantness. Could Genevieve set his mind at ease?
Genevieve was a cagey one, and they had to waltz around the dance floor several times, but every turn brought her a little closer to spilling all she knew. Yes, she finally admitted, there had been a problem. An incident of physical aggression. Of course violence was never the answer, but under the circumstances.....
“Bullying?” Frank inquired.
Genevieve was shocked. “No, No! Nothing of that sort. All the parties involved are gone now. There’s no need for concern.”
“But I just can’t rest easy until I understand the reason for the aggression.” Frank warmed to his role. A pity Earl couldn’t hear the performance. “Beatrice is such a sensitive child. She couldn’t be happy in a community that condones violence.”
“I assure you Mr. Bennett, Moorewood has a zero tolerance policy against physical encounters. That’s why the young man in question was asked to leave. It’s just, well, it’s a shame because he reacted—inappropriately for sure—but understandably, to a situation that was beyond his control.”
“What situation?”
But Genevieve Llewellyn wouldn’t be moved an inch further. “The family in question has recently experienced a tragedy. No good can come of discussing this further. They’ve suffered enough.”
“GUESS WHO I GAVE A speeding ticket to?” Earl asked, breezing back into the office.
“Please don’t tell me you collared that poor little Polish priest from St. Andrew’s in Verona. The Knights of Columbus will have my ass.”
“Nah. I scared him so bad last time, now he causes a traffic jam wherever he goes. It was Jeff Rayborn going eighty on Route 9.”
“Eighty! I can’t believe that beater minivan of his mother’s could get above sixty.”
“That’s the crazy thing. He was driving a brand new red Mazda MR6. Still has dealer plates. I thought it was some tourist when I pulled him over. Coulda knocked me over when I saw it was Jeff.”
Earl had Frank’s full attention now. “Who was the car registered to?”
“Jeff Rayborn. He told me his dad bought it for him.”
“His dad? His dad can’t afford to pay his bar tab at the Mountainside.”
Earl looked fit to explode. He pulled a folded copy of the Mountain Herald from his back pocket and unfurled the weekly newspaper with a flourish. “Trout Run Man Wins State Lottery,” the headline read.
Frank scanned the article. Apparently Tom Rayborn had won a hundred thousand dollars on a ticket purchased at a convenience store on the Northway just outside Albany.
Frank sat holding the paper, his eyes no longer focused on the type.
“Yeah. Looks like their luck has turned.” Frank stuck the newspaper under his desk blotter. “I wouldn’t peg Tom as a guy who’d buy his son a foreign sports car. Or Jeff to want one, for that matter. Wouldn’t a new pick-up be more useful?”
“For hunting, yes.” Earl leered as he headed back out. “But maybe Jeff has his sights set on something nicer than a six point buck.”
Once Earl was gone, Frank pulled out the paper again. The rag’s motto was “The North Country’s Good News Paper,” but Frank thought it should be “Yesterday’s news, next week.” There were still old ladies who liked to clip out wedding announcements and stories about their grandkids starring in the class play, but once those old gals passed on, the Mountain Herald would probably die too, no doubt replaced by a High Peaks Twitter account. By the time news appeared in the Herald, it had already been thoroughly discussed at Malone’s, the Store, and the Presbyterian Church fellowship hour. How could it be that Tom had won the Lottery and Earl hadn’t known anything about it until he’d read it in the paper?
He called the Herald and got Greg Faraday, editor, reporter, photographer, designer, ad salesman, and receptionist.
“Quite a story about Tom winning the Lottery. How’d you get the news?”
“From Tom, how else? You can see I took his picture with the winning ticket.”
“It’s just a Lotto ticket. How do you know it’s really a winner?”
Greg spoke with exaggerated patience. “Tom told me the name of the place where he bought it and I called to verify. Kwik-Valu, right off Exit 24.”
“And they said they sold Tom a ticket worth a hundred grand?”
Frank Bennett Adirondack Mountain Mystery Box Set Page 60