Once again I lunged into my hidey-hole and pushed the door nearly shut. A few seconds later, a tall figure walked quickly by; whoever it was didn’t glance my way. Once again I waited a full minute before I dared peek out. All was dark.
I crept down the corridor to the library door and tried it, but it was locked. Dejected, I wandered back toward the outside door. At least fifteen minutes had passed; by now the uniform’s panties were definitely in a twist.
I’d been so close to something—or someone—that might be important to the case. Maybe. But instead of finding a vital clue, I was coming away with nothing. Sighing, I grabbed the doorknob and yanked. The knob didn’t turn. I was locked in.
“Really?” I said out loud. This was the proverbial icing on the cake. I rushed back down the hall. Entering the room where I’d hidden, I race-walked around a conference table and looked at the windows. They were the kind you find in a high school classroom; the ones that pull in at an angle. Holding my breath, I grabbed a handle, turned and pulled. It opened. Thank God. But the opening was only about ten inches and the drop into the bushes below looked to be about five feet. This was going to be interesting.
I pulled a chair over to the opening and stood on it. I couldn’t decide if I should try to slide out on my back or on my belly. I finally decided belly would be better. I turned around on the chair and faced away from the window. Slowly, I balanced on one foot as I slid the other through the opening. I reached behind me and grabbed the top of the window opening with one hand and the open pane with the other. Praying that the angled window pane would bear my weight, I lifted my second foot off the chair and wrangled it into the opening.
Now I was hanging by the window ledge, feet out the window and belly on the open pane. I eased myself down. My fingers were slipping; I was going into the bushes. A second later my grip released and I slid down the slanted window pane. My nose hit the trim and I saw stars. Then I was falling. Twigs and branches and sharp leaves grabbed my midriff, which was exposed now, since my shirt, like my nose, had caught on the window frame. My head and chest fell down and I caught myself with my arms just before my head bashed into the wall. I was hanging upside down between the bush and the building, the bush clutching my legs and my arms supporting me from the ground. I looked down; my nose stung as the blood rushed to my head. Carefully, I pulled each of my legs out of the bush and slid into the dirt. Smooth, Sam.
I sat there for about thirty seconds and then gingerly stood. I pulled my shirt down, wiped my nose on my sleeve and picked some leaves out of the frizz. I reached up and pushed the window closed, then squeezed through the bushes to the sidewalk and walked quickly back toward the entrance.
Climbing the stairs and looking down into the parking lot, I couldn’t see the cop. I scanned the entire lot. No one. I turned around and jogged toward the visitor center.
The Henry Hornblower Visitor Center (Henry being Hattie’s son) was a large, modern building with a shop, a theater and a café. I figured the admin offices were in there somewhere too, and since the uniform was MIA, I had a bit more time. I skirted the entrance and headed right. About twenty feet past the doors I wiggled through the large shrubs that surrounded the building. There were three windows along the wall, just low enough that I might be able to see in.
Back to the wall, I scooted as quietly as possible toward the first. I stopped and strained to listen, but I didn’t hear any voices. I turned my head and raised one eye to the corner. Fluorescent lighting shone down on a paper-strewn desk and a computer monitor that had gone into sleep mode. There was no one in there.
Ducking, I tiptoed under it and approached the second window. Now I could hear muffled voices. I froze and listened, but I couldn’t make out any of the words. It sounded like a man and a woman; the woman’s voice was raised at times. Must be Missus Smit.
I risked a quick glance. A slim woman in slacks and a professional blouse was standing in front of another desk, her hands on her hips. She had highlighted hair; her face was turned away, but it was certainly Liz Smit.
Seated at the desk was a man with greying brown hair; I recognized Aaron Stevens, the chief financial officer. He had a bit more silver around the temples than in his staff photo, but he was a handsome man, probably in his forties. He wore a chambray shirt with the cuffs rolled up.
Stevens shook his head and shuffled through a pile of papers as Smit railed about something. He pulled one out, slapped it down on the desk and pointed angrily. Stevens lifted his eyes back to Smit and I pulled back sharply. Heart pounding, I stood there for a couple more minutes, but I simply couldn’t hear any of the argument. Both were obviously angry, but I had no idea why. I would have to check for new emails to see if I could find the cause of the disagreement. It probably had nothing to do with the murder anyway.
Meanwhile, the uniform down in the parking lot had no doubt issued a BOLO by now. Be On the Lookout for a suspicious looking, frizzy-haired woman running amok at Plimoth Plantation.
I slipped away from the wall, through the shrubs and rushed back to the parking lot. As I came down the steps, I still didn’t see the police officer. Odd, but hey, it worked for me. I hurried over to the Mini, started it and was shifting into reverse when I heard him yell, “Hey!”
I dropped my head, closed my eyes and shook my head. Then I looked toward the woods off to the right, from where his voice had come. At first I couldn’t see anything; then I saw the uniform walk out of the forest. He was carrying Pepper and his face was bright red.
“Been chasing your fucking cat for the past fifteen minutes,” he said with disgust. “Might want to close the windows next time you park somewhere with a cat in the car!” He glared at me and thrust Pepper through my open window.
“I am so sorry, officer! I can’t believe I did that.”
“Yeah, well you did. Now get outta here.” When I didn’t move immediately, he shouted, “Now!”
Gulping, I said, “Thank you so much.” I shifted into reverse and pulled out. Pepper curled up on the passenger seat, obviously tuckered out by his stint on the lam. As I pulled out onto the highway, I laughed out loud.
“Well done, Pepper!”
I giggled the rest of the way home.
Chapter 14
Milo was sitting in his truck in my driveway when Pepper and I pulled in. We got out and headed toward the front door.
“Were you waiting long?” I asked. I ran my hand self-consciously through the frizz, but I seemed to have gotten all the foliage out.
“Nah, stacking the traps took a little longer than I expected. I just got here.”
We walked up to the door and I opened it.
“So, check this out,” I said as we entered. “I stopped at Plimoth Plantation on my way home, and I wound up—”
“Well, well, well.” Dennis’ voice boomed from the living room. “I guess Nancy Drew decided to call in Joe Hardy? Or is this Frank? Or have you enlisted the help of both of the Hardy Boys?” Dennis leaned forward and rose from my sofa, glaring at Milo. “Who else do we have on the team?”
Pepper strolled in.
“Ah, yes.”
Apparently Dennis was the newest member of the Sam’s House is My House Club.
“You want to explain to me exactly what you think you’re doing, Sam?”
“Dennis!” I said it a bit too loudly. “Hi! Where’s your car?”
He sat back down, crossed his arms and frowned at me.
“Dennis, let me explain,” Milo began.
“No. I want Sam to explain. I want to know why she’s chatting like some co-ed with you about confidential police business. I really want to hear this.”
I sighed heavily. “Look, Dennis, it just happened. Milo helped me out the other night, and then he saw the paperwork—”
“Helped you out with what?”
“That prick Tommy at the Trap jumped her, that’s what! If I hadn’t been there, he probably would have raped her. After you drove off and left.” Now Milo was angry too.
“What?” Dennis stood up and turned to me. “You didn’t report this?”
“No, she just scared the bejeezus out of him with her gun. After I threw him off her. Then I saw the paperwork she had and… I’ve been helping her.” Milo stared defiantly at Dennis.
I turned my head back toward Dennis. It felt a little like watching a tennis match.
“JeesusHChrist,” Dennis said and sank back into the couch again. He looked at me.
“You weren’t planning to tell me?”
I flushed. Since Dad died, I knew Dennis thought of me like a daughter. But I wanted to be thought of as a colleague. Maybe someday, an esteemed colleague. (“Gotta earn them stripes Sam,” said Dad. “Can’t ride my coattails.”) Like I didn’t know that.
“Dennis, nothing happened. Nothing much. Milo stopped him and then I pointed my nine at him and told him to take off. I told him not to show his face there again.” I shrugged. “It’s done.” Dennis didn’t need to know about the round I’d fired off either.
“That what happened to your eye?”
“Uh…yeah. He smacked me before I could get to my gun.”
Dennis shook his head. “S’a blessing your father’s dead or I’d be locking him up right about now. This was a bad idea. I never should have—”
“Dennis, it wasn’t a bad idea; it doesn’t have anything to do with the case! And Milo and I have some good ideas. What have you and Turk got so far?”
Dennis sighed. “We got some leads, but nothing to hang our hats on yet. I brought the pictures and info on this morning’s victim.” He lifted an envelope off the couch and waved it at me. “Turk dropped me off and went to Dunkin’ Donuts. I thought we would pow wow when he got back.”
He looked at Milo. “You understand this is highly irregular and could cost me my job?”
“I understand that you involved Sam and, like it or not, I’m going to do this with her. And yes, I understand that both discretion and caution are required. I’m not particularly interested in getting killed.”
Dennis stared at Milo. Milo stared at Dennis. I stared at the floor.
Just then Turk ambled in. How long would it be before Mrs. Trimble joined us?
Turk looked from Dennis to Milo to me, then back to Milo and finally to Dennis. He raised a large white bag with pink and brown lettering.
“Daaamn niggas. Ida known this was a tea party, Ida brought crumpets instead.”
Dennis, Turk, Milo and I sat around my coffee table and pow-wowed. The woman hanged on the Mayflower II that morning was named Regina, aka Reggie, Cummins. The air was still cool between Dennis and Milo, but as we ate donuts and discussed details, the dialogue began to flow.
I described what I’d seen at Plimoth Plantation earlier, but no one seemed impressed, even though I left out the part about hanging from the bushes. “Whoever it was, he was in there doing research. Probably on the Pilgrims,” I said with just a hint of a whine.
“That’s what people do at the Plimoth Plantation research room, Sam,” said Dennis.
“Right, but it’s closed right now, so that means it was someone who works there.”
“That’s what people who work at Plimoth Plantation do,” he said.
“But Liz Smit and Aaron Stevens were arguing about something.”
Dennis just shook his head. “In case you forgot, there was a murder over there two days ago. The place is closed and I’m sure management is under a lot of stress. Unless they were arguing over where to hang the next body, you ain’t got squat. You’re lucky that uniform didn’t put you in cuffs.” I’d left out the part about Pepper creating a well-timed diversion.
Miffed, I let Dennis and Turk share their latest. They’d interviewed both Mr. and Mrs. Smit at length the day before. The Smits both had alibis for the night of Anna Fuller’s murder, and neither Dennis nor Turk got the feeling they were hiding anything. Milo and I planned to attend services at Sight Ministries on Sunday just the same.
“How good’s the alibi?” Milo asked.
“Good enough for now,” replied Dennis. “We got nothing on these people.”
“There might be a partner.”
“Serial whack jobs generally work alone.”
“It might be the exception that makes the rule.”
“It might be a waste of time.”
“Yeah, well, it’s not like we’re official.” Milo made finger quotes.
“Meanwhile, another young woman gets the noose. And actually, the Board of Selectmen decided today to offer a reward for information leading to the arrest of the Pilgrim Slayer.”
“The Pilgrim Slayer?” Milo and I said together.
“This morning’s paper. Fucking reporters.”
I didn’t want to sound shallow, but… “How much is the reward?”
“Ten thousand dollars.”
“Wow.”
Dennis looked at me.
“I know, I know. Don’t fuck up your pension for a lousy ten thousand dollars.”
Ten thousand dollars would be a fortune for me.
“What we need, Sam, is a link between the victims. There’s nothing obvious. They don’t look alike, work alike, know any of the same people…” He sighed. “What can you tell me about the note? ‘For the glory of God and advancement of the Christian faith.’”
“That’s easy, Dennis. It’s in the Mayflower Compact. Along with ‘In the name of God, Amen.’ ‘In the name of God, Amen.’ is used lots of other places, including in the connection I found to Charles Smit.” I looked at him meaningfully. “But I’d say the second message confirms it. The killer is quoting from the Mayflower Compact.” I showed him my printout and explained the historical significance of the document.
“Show them the picture of the brand, Turk,” said Dennis. Turk pulled a photo out of the pile on the coffee table and laid it in front of me and Milo. It showed Reggie Cummins’ shoulder; the fabric of her sleeve had been cut away. On her shoulder was an angry red burn. She’d been branded with an upside down triangle inside of a circle. My stomach clenched.
“What’s it stand for?” I asked.
Dennis stood. “The analysts are working on it. What I need you to figure out, Sam, is how these women were picked. We got no prints or DNA, no motive that makes any sense, and so far, no link between the vics. That’s what I need you to find. On the computer, preferably. I only agreed to this in the first place because of your…”
“Understood, Dennis. We’ll find the link.”
Dennis looked at Milo. “Your job is to make sure Nancy Drew here doesn’t do something stupid.”
He turned back to me. “We’ve got extra patrols all over town and guards twenty-four seven around the Mayflower II, Plimoth Plantation, the Forefather’s Monument and Plymouth Rock. But if we can’t figure out the pattern soon…” He shook his head and said to Turk, “Let’s go. Autopsy’s in a half an hour.”
For once I was glad I was unofficial.
“Find the link, Sam,” he yelled, before slamming the door shut.
Milo was on the floor with papers scattered about as he read, sorted and made piles. I was at the computer, digging deeper into Reggie Cummins’ life. She was thirty-two, single, and worked as a kindergarten teacher in Duxbury. She was a little overweight with short, dark, feathered hair. Kind of plain. No criminal record, not even a speeding ticket. She played a lot of Café World on Facebook and seemed rather…nerdy. Not nice to say about the dead, I know, but it takes one to know one. Café World was probably more fun than the Proctor & Gamble intranet. I cross-checked her fifty-five FB friends with Anna Fuller’s three hundred and eighty-seven friends. No matches. I turned to her Wall posts.
“Sam.”
“Yeah?”
“Reggie Cummins had a note in her class planner. On the fifteenth. It says, ‘Zeke, 7:00.’ On the thirteenth, Anna Fuller’s Outlook calendar said, ‘Drinks with Zeke, Wine Cellar, 7:00.”
Our eyes met. Zeke’s not exactly a common name. And The Wine Cellar was right up
the road. I nodded at Milo. “I think I fancy a fine rouge this evening.”
“It’s a date,” he said with a wink.
I flushed and turned back to my computer.
I spent the rest of the afternoon following up on loose ends. When Reggie Cummins’ online presence failed to reveal anything remotely connected to Anna Fuller—or to anyone named Zeke—I turned back to the Plimoth Plantation staff for a deeper dive.
First I checked the email server for any new messages between Liz Smit and Aaron Stevens, the CFO. There were many related to the shutdown, the economic impact, and how to spin it in the media. There were some snarky interchanges—these two really didn’t see eye to eye—but there was nothing that extended beyond the operational and financial effects of the hanging.
I went back further and reread several weeks of messages hoping that, now that I had new insights, maybe something I’d missed before would catch my eye. I didn’t find anything untoward between Smit and Clarkson; in fact Clarkson seemed to only check his messages about once a week, if that. I still needed to find personal email addresses for each.
There were a handful of messages sent to Aaron Stevens from someone outside of the organization. The emails stopped about three weeks ago, but someone named [email protected] had messaged him regularly throughout the summer. The emails were sent from an Android device and said little: “Call me please?” “Hey, give me a call when you have a sec.” “Talk later?”. Sounded like a girlfriend. It seemed they’d broken up.
I pondered whether or not I could get the mobile phone number through the Yahoo mail server and then hack Stevens’ calls for a match. It could probably be done, but it would take several steps, and breaking into the mobile carrier’s system was certainly a felony. Not worth it at this point. I made a note to ask Dennis if they or the FBI had requested call logs for Smit, Stevens or Clarkson.
Saints & Strangers (A Sam Warren Mystery) Page 8