“Yeah, no shit, shit. We’re at the Mayflower II. A fisherman saw the body on his way out this morning. Hung her right from the mast. If you stay in the background, you can come down here and observe. From your car, Sam, not officially. I just wanted to let you know. You probably don’t need to come down really, but—”
He sounded tired and discouraged.
“No, no, I will. I’ll just put on my running clothes and jog by. See what I can see from the periphery. See who else is about in the neighborhood.”
“Good, yeah. That works. I’ll call ya later. Oh, and Sam?”
“Yeah?”
“Make sure you’ve got your gun.” He hung up.
The sky was clear and the air was still warm for October. Apart from the occasional cry of a gull, my breathing and footsteps were all I could hear as I ran along Water Street around Plymouth Harbor.
The flashing blue and red lights of the squad cars near the ship were jarring against the grey backdrop of the peaceful waterfront. A few hints of light could be seen in the east over the ocean, but sunrise was still an hour away. I squinted in the dim light as I ran by, but I couldn’t see anything hanging from the masts. They’d already taken the body down.
The Mayflower II is a full-scale replica of the original Mayflower. Built in Devon, England in 1957, she then sailed across the Atlantic to Plymouth in a recreation of the original Pilgrim voyage. Today the Mayflower II rests in the harbor near Plymouth Rock and, as part of the Plimoth Plantation operation, separates tourists from their money in exchange for a hands-on educational experience. Here too, costumed actors play their roles, sharing with tourists what life on board the ship was like during the Pilgrims’ sixty-six-day journey nearly four hundred years ago. Occasionally, the Mayflower II still sets sail.
An ambulance was parked up on the pavement near the ticket booth and I could see a group of people huddled behind it. I thought I recognized Turk’s tall figure but it was hard to be sure. Anyway, I was here to see if anyone else was watching, not to huddle with the boys in blue.
I had my 9 mm in the front pocket of my hoodie and I clutched it tightly. It was still dark, and there was, it was now obvious, a serial killer on the loose in Plymouth. I’d resisted the urge to call Milo; I took shooting and self-defense courses for exactly this type of work. I couldn’t just call in a man every time things got sketchy. (“Well, you could,” said Dad.) No, this was my gig, Dennis called Batgirl. Not Robin. Actually, Dennis didn’t even know about Robin, but that was beside the point.
I kept my face angled down but watched out from under the brim of my Red Sox cap for occupied cars or people as I ran up Water Street. I didn’t see a soul until I neared the entrance to the public boat ramp, where a few fishermen and lobstermen were pulling in. I jogged in place for a couple of minutes, then turned around and ran back up the sidewalk across the road from the water. I knew real fisherman when I saw them.
Water Street was lined with T-shirt shops and restaurants, bars and ice-cream parlors. On a summer afternoon this place was packed, but in early October at six in the morning it was eerily empty. I slowed to a walk when I got back to Plymouth Rock and climbed the steep steps up to where a giant bronze statue of Massasoit stood looking out over the harbor.
What would he think of all this? Probably the same thing as Injun Bob. Another white guy gone crazy. I bet if he had it to do again, Massasoit wouldn’t be so nice to the Pilgrims that first year.
As I approached Carver Street, where I was parked, I heard an engine turn. I crouched down and swung around. Below me on Water Street, a car pulled out of the semi-circular parking area behind Plymouth Rock. The car headed south on Water Street, back toward Route 3A. I was too far away to make out the plate, but it was an oldish sedan. An oldish, darkish sedan with two doors. Or maybe four. That was the extent of my knowledge of car body styles. I turned around and sprinted toward my Mini.
I pulled onto Carver Street and floored it around the sharp curves and up the hill to where Carver merged with Leydon Street. At 3A I ran the red light and turned left. I floored it again, slowing when I reached the next intersection. I looked down Water Street. No one. I hit the gas again and continued down 3A out of downtown. By the time I reached Bradford’s Liquors, the light of the sun was appearing and a few more cars had joined me on the road. I slowed from eighty down to a snail-like sixty. But none of the vehicles I saw were darkish or oldish or even sedanish. I slowed down to the speed limit and continued home.
Milo was leaning on the bumper of his truck and holding a large cup of Dunkin’ Donuts coffee when I pulled into my driveway. Shit.
“Good morning,” I said cheerfully as I got out of the car. “You’re bright and early today.”
“Don’t give me that shit, Sam.” He sounded angry.
I looked up into his eyes. Yep. He was angry. I stared down at my feet.
“I guess you heard…”
“Yeah, I heard. Dad runs the police scanner every morning before he goes out. And what did I do when I heard there was another murder? I rushed over here, to get my partner, so we could check it out. Together. So we could have each other’s backs. Except, this is the funny thing, Sam. You know what my partner did? My partner took off without me.”
I stared at my sneakers. “Look, Milo, I’m sorry. Dennis called me at five this morning. I wasn’t going to call you when it wasn’t even daylight yet.”
“Why not?” Milo wasn’t angry. He was furious. “Why the hell not, Sam? I would have called you if the tables were turned.”
His self-righteousness was getting to me. I looked up at him.
“Look, I didn’t have a lot of time to think it through, okay? I threw on some clothes, grabbed my gun and went. This is, after all, my job, my career. What I trained to do, not you. I don’t even know why you’re doing this with me. Why aren’t you wearing a fancy suit down on Wall Street somewhere? Having martini lunches?”
Milo’s face was white. Not red. White.
“Okay, Sam. Fine. I see how it is.” He shoved the coffee in my face. “Here. This was for you.”
He walked around to the side of his truck, climbed in and slammed the door shut. He spun his wheels on my gravel driveway as he backed out, and then he was gone.
I walked slowly into my house and went into the living room. The room, with its paper-strewn desk and murder board and lobster-juiced sofa felt big and empty. Through my window I saw Mrs. Trimble in her kitchen. She was shaking her head at me. How the hell does she know everything? I locked my doors, went upstairs, lay down on my bed and cried.
Chapter 12
When I woke up, it was nearly ten o’clock. Shit. I grabbed my phone off the nightstand. No missed calls. None from Dennis. None from Milo either. Pepper had been curled up along my side but now he stretched. I swear that cat’s more than three feet long when he stretches. Four with his tail.
I rubbed his long belly and murmured, “Back to me and you, Pep. That’s all right. We were just fine before he came along anyway. Weren’t we?”
Pepper yawned and patted my arm with his paw. I took that to mean he agreed. Or was he just humoring me?
I shuffled into the bathroom, peed and then stood in front of the sink and looked in the mirror. Yikes! Hat head/bed head/no makeup/puffy red crying eyes combined with one still greenish black eye is definitely not a good look for me. I started the shower.
A half hour later I was at my desk, working hard at pretending I was working hard. I kept thinking about Milo and how hurt he’d been. I’d done my hair and put on makeup. Just in case. I wondered if he was sitting home, looking his best and waiting for me to come grovel. I didn’t think so. He had a Y chromosome. He wouldn’t give a shit what he looked like.
I’d had a couple of thoughts I wanted to explore since I last surfed the Ether. First, I’d gotten a funny feeling about John Clarkson and “Liz” Smit, as he called her. I wanted to go back further into their emails and check His and Hers home accounts as well. And phone records. Maybe
they had a thing. And maybe they didn’t anymore, and maybe Clarkson was an unstable sociopath gone over the edge.
Why was he so hell bent on working this case with me, anyway? I couldn’t believe that he’d really harbored feelings for me all those years. Or rather, I could believe it a little—I’d certainly thought about him from time to time since we broke up. But why would he pursue me now?
I wanted to see if any of my persons of interest had a darkish sedan registered with the DMV. I wanted to check out Marty, aka Martin Atherton. I also wanted to dig in on Charles Smit some more, before attending his church on Sunday. And I would go, with or without Milo. I spent some time perusing the Sight Ministries web site, but a half an hour later I realized I had no idea what I’d been reading.
“Holy hell, Batgirl,” I said aloud. “You’re useless. Really? Really?!”
I stood up and stomped around the room. I went out on the deck and closed my eyes, but the smells and the sounds of the waves weren’t working their usual magic. I opened my eyes and surveyed the beach. A couple stood kissing, their bare feet in the surf. Seriously? I hurried back inside.
Pull yourself together, Sam. I grabbed my cell phone and tried Dennis. Maybe he could tell me about this morning’s victim. No answer. Shit. Shit. Shit.
After another minute, I ran upstairs, put on my favorite Dad hoodie, grabbed my backpack and yelled for Pepper.
I called on the way over to make sure it was a good time. Laura sounded chipper on the phone.
“Come on up. We’d love to see you.”
“You sure you feel up to it?”
“Absolutely, Sam. I’ve been having a pretty good week.” She sounded sincere.
“I’m on my way.”
Twenty minutes later we bumped down the Cooke’s rutted driveway. Grady and Laura and Milo lived on the water in Duxbury, in a small, faded Cape Codder surrounded by big, shiny new McMansions that didn’t even try to look Olde. The Cooke family had owned the property for generations, refusing to sell out even as the value of waterfront property skyrocketed. Grady had his own dock, and mountains of lobster traps littered the yard down by the boathouse. A few retired lobster boats teetered on cement blocks. I figured the neighbors called it “local color” when their guests commented.
I pulled up next to the house. Pepper jumped out ahead of me and trotted to the door. I knocked on the screen door, yelled “Hello” and let myself in. Pepper ran over to the Cooke’s ancient Chihuahua, Lady, and licked her forehead. Lady opened one eye and lifted an eyebrow but otherwise didn’t budge. She’d endured Pepper’s ministrations before.
Milo looked up at me from the kitchen table. He had the newspaper open in front of him. I walked slowly toward the table, but before I could say anything, Grady came in through the back door.
“Samantha! So nice to see you.” He smiled at me and walked to the stairwell by the door and yelled. “Laura, Samantha’s here.” He sat down at the table. “You want a cup of coffee?”
Milo snorted. “She already had hers this morning.” He looked back down at the paper.
“I’d love a coffee, Grady, thank you.”
Laura came down the stairs in a bright red turtleneck and jeans. Her head was covered in a pretty, colorful scarf and I guessed she’d been up there arranging it over her still mostly-bald head. Her large brown eyes were as lovely as ever, and though she was thin, she looked a lot better than the last time I’d seen her.
I stood and hugged her. “Laura, you’re looking really good.”
“You mean for a bald, emaciated cancer patient? Thanks.” She laughed. No, she guffawed. Laura had the biggest, loudest laugh of any woman I’d ever met. I loved that laugh. I was feeling better already.
“Well, yeah, that’s exactly what I mean. But seriously, Grady says your doctor is optimistic.”
Laura smiled and looked down at the table, like she was embarrassed. Or afraid to jinx it.
“Yes, the last screen was very encouraging, Sam. Dr. Hamlin thinks one more round of chemo and I’ll be in the clear.”
Tears welled up in my eyes. I’d been afraid to even think how I would react if another important grown up in my life died. I don’t actually think of myself as a grown up. Maybe by the time I’m forty.
“You have no idea how good that is to hear, Laura.” I sat back down and lifted the coffee Grady’d set down in front of me. “Here’s to you.”
Milo was looking at Laura with a faint smile.
“I’ll drink to that,” he said, and raised his mug. Grady and Laura followed suit and we all clinked mugs and sat there looking pleased for a minute.
After we’d all basked in Laura’s glow, she turned to me and asked, “So, what’s new with you, Sam? And what happened to your eye?”
From the Cooke’s dock in Duxbury I could see White Horse Beach. I tried to make out my house, but from here they all looked the same. Little grey dots. Milo and I had taken our coffee outside after I explained to Laura that I needed Milo’s advice on a project. I wasn’t sure she bought the story about the kitchen cabinet door colliding with my eye, but she and Grady had shooed us outside like flies.
“Look, Milo, I’m sorry about this morning. Really. I just. I need—”
“Don’t worry about it, Sam. I’m sorry too. Can we get back to work now?”
Men. Always wanting to talk about their feelings and overanalyze things.
I turned to him and grinned. “Let’s go.”
Chapter 13
I had a mile-wide smile on my face all the way from Duxbury back to Plymouth. After just two days, I realized, it mattered what Milo thought and how he felt. About me. Especially about me.
“Shit, Pep,” I muttered. “Who am I and what have I done with Sam?” I shook my head, but the grin stayed in place. Pepper just looked at me and yawned.
I was approaching the entrance to Plimoth Plantation. As I glanced right, I pulled my foot off the accelerator, hit the brakes and swung sharply into the driveway. Milo had said he would be about half an hour behind me; he needed to help Grady with some equipment on the boat. I might as well see if I could have a look around. I drove slowly down the shady driveway.
The yellow crime scene tape was tangled on the ground at the side of the parking lot entrance and there were a handful of cars in the lot. A uniform was sitting on the wooden steps that led into the museum; he jumped to his feet when he saw my car pull in. I pulled up next to the other cars and stepped out.
“I’m sorry, Ma’am, the Plantation’s closed.”
Ma’am?
“Oh, but I…I left my backpack here when…you know, Wednesday.” I cleared my throat and squared my shoulders. “I work here. But my medicine is in the backpack and I need it; I can’t get a refill for another week. I’ll only be a few minutes.” I smiled sweetly.
“I’m not supposed to let anyone in but the Director and a couple of other—”
“Look, see that building right over there?” I pointed to a random building on my left. I didn’t know what it was, but I knew it wasn’t part of the exhibits. “I just have to go in there; it won’t take very long at all.”
The uniform sighed. “Fine, just make it snappy please.”
I scooted past him and up the stairs before he could change his mind. I walked quickly down the paved sidewalk, wondering how snappily I could get all the way to the Billington House. I wanted to read the crime scene, maybe try to get into the head of the killer the way my favorite fictional PIs did. I glanced over my shoulder and saw the cop watching me. I smiled and waved. Swearing under my breath, I headed toward the unknown building. With my luck it would house the HVAC system.
The heavy door closed silently behind me and the corridor grew dark. What was this place? It wasn’t a heating system facility or a storage building, but neither did it look like administrative offices. Since it seemed snooping around the Billington House was out of the question, I’d hoped maybe I could get a look at some of Liz Smit’s colleagues. See if any of them looked like serial
killers.
I stood for a moment and then edged forward. About thirty feet ahead yellow light spilled from an open door on the left. I approached it, wondering just what I would say if someone should appear. In the lighted room I heard at least two people speaking in low tones. I stopped a few feet before the opening and pressed myself up against the wall. I listened for a moment but I couldn’t make out the words. I leaned my head forward and stole a glance inside.
Injun Bob was standing facing away from me, speaking to someone seated at a table. The walls of the room were lined with shelves of books; it was some kind of library. Bob’s substantial girth was blocking the upper half of the seated person, but there were papers and oversized tomes spread all over the table. The large feet and shoes under the table definitely belonged to a man.
I pulled my head back to the wall and tried desperately to figure out what to do next. I listened some more but the voices were too faint—until I heard Injun Bob clearly. “No problem, dude,” I heard him say. “Ciao.” He was approaching the door.
I rushed along the wall back toward the entrance. There was a closed door on the other side of the hall and I threw a look over my shoulder. I could see Injun Bob in the door; he’d turned back with more parting words for his friend.
I lunged across the hall. If the door was locked, I was busted. I grabbed the knob and it turned. I opened it, slid inside and pushed it closed without latching it. As I stood there shaking, both hands clutching the doorknob, I saw Injun Bob’s large shadow lumber past the frosted window. I held my breath. If he even glanced to his left for a second, he would see my silhouette. The shadow stopped for a moment, just past the door, then continued on at its unhurried pace.
I waited a full minute and then exhaled. One millimeter at a time, I pulled the door toward me and slid my eye to the crack. The light was still on in the room down the hall. Who was in there doing research? I pulled the door open further, thinking I’d risk one more look in the library. Just as I was about to step back out into the hallway, the light down the hall went dark and the door was pulled loudly closed. Shit.
Saints & Strangers (A Sam Warren Mystery) Page 7