The Facepainter Murders

by Virginia Winters

  "Jamie, your dad said he would come out after work."

  "Try to sit still and eat your cookies," Nan said.

  "What if he comes back?"

  "You're watching for Bassett?" Grandpa asked.

  "Yes."

  Grandpa picked up the phone and called Jamie's dad again.

  "Pete, can you come out here? The situation may be more serious than I thought. Jamie's afraid Bassett is coming to hurt him, and we can't calm him down. No, I'd like you to here before we do that. Okay."

  Oh, no, Jamie thought, he won't call the police until Dad comes.

  It was almost five o'clock before Pete arrived. A square-built man with the same red hair as Jamie, Pete laid bricks and concrete blocks for a living and had the massive upper body that went with his trade. The happy yapping of two hounds and a retriever greeted his arrival.

  "Jamie, what have you been up to this time?"

  His dad was mad, Jamie thought, not recognizing that his father's anxiety made him seem angry.

  "I drew what I saw, Dad. Then those Bassett kids tried to take the picture from me. Old man Bassett and some other guy shoved the car in the lake. I saw it, and now they're after me."

  "Take it easy. We'll call the police, and you can tell them about it. "

  Pete's thick fingers punched the numbers into the phone.

  "Boss, you need to hear this," Brad said walking into Adam's office, handing over the phone as he spoke.

  "Lieutenant Davidson, this is Pete Corrigan. My boy, Jamie, saw something you should hear about if you're looking for a missing car."

  "Yes, we are. Do you want me to come out or are you coming in?"

  "We'll come in. I have to bring Jamie home."

  Ten minutes later a scared and excited Jamie was sitting in Adam's office telling his story.

  "Are you sure it was Bassett?"

  "Yes. He had on the same clothes."

  "Did you know the other man?"

  "No."

  "Would you recognize him if you saw him again?"

  "I don't know."

  "That's okay, Jamie. What color was the car?"

  "One of those old peoples' colors. Like Aunt Julie's?"

  Jamie turned to his father for help.

  "Beige, Lieutenant."

  "Do you know cars? What make was it?"

  "I don't know. It wasn't GM or Ford."

  Adam looked at Pete Corrigan and then called the desk clerk to take Jamie for a Coke.

  " We'll go out to the lake and search for the car. In the meantime, could you take Jamie away on a little trip?"

  Pete's color faded.

  "You think that bastard will try to hurt Jamie?"

  "People are dying."

  "I'll take him and his mother to his grandparents in Montpelier. How long?"

  "Plan on a week."

  Adam's thought's turned to Bassett—access to the password for the computer system, an ugly temper, and pushing a car into the lake. Not enough to take to the judge, until they found the car. He swung his boots to the floor and collected Brad from the squad room. Twenty minutes later they were standing at the causeway.

  "You fish, Brad?"

  "Sure."

  "Here?"

  "All the time when I was a kid."

  "Where's the deep hole?"

  "Off the flat. If you're good, you can cast into it from right there."

  Brad pointed towards the shore.

  "Let's walk in from the road, but keep to the side for now."

  Down at the flat, they read the traces of Jamie's story in the road—tire marks and men's footprints with tiny hillocks of dirt behind them from the effort of the push. Two sets of prints led away from the scene, one set deep with a long stride, the other shallower and shorter.

  "We need a crew," Adam said. "I want casts of the prints and a diver right away to make sure no one is in the car."

  "You think someone else got killed? You want me to go in now?"

  "Possible. No, not you. It's too cold without a wet-suit."

  More night work, Adam thought. The budget's going to be shot. But he couldn't count on weather holding off, and he needed those casts and the car out of the water. Brad walked back from the vehicle to join him. They stared at the dark water as they waited for the crew to arrive.

  With tall pines as silent onlookers in the darkness, a tow truck raised the car from the water. Like a movie scene, Adam thought, complete with clanking chains, shouts of "take it easy" and the sucking, gurgling, bubbling sound as the car came out of the water. The diver couldn't come until morning, so they had gone ahead without knowing if the car was also a murder scene.

  When they got the car on land, Brad popped the trunk. No body. The interior revealed the disguise—hospital greens, mask and badge.

  "Bag it all. Maybe we can recover DNA from something. Take the car to the impound lot and call the lab boys from Burlington for the morning. Maybe we can tie the car to Bassett."

  "Will do."

  It had been a long day. Time to go home and feed Sam.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Anne nestled further under one of Catherine's endless supply of Afghan comforters. Catherine was turning over one of her raised vegetable garden beds, but Anne was forbidden to help.

  The phone on the table beside her rang. A querulous voice asked for Catherine.

  "Catherine, phone for you."

  Catherine wiped the worst of the soil off her hands and walked up the three steps to the porch.

  "You don't seem too fond of whomever that was," Anne said when she finished the call.

  "Dan Abbott, the librarian in Brownsville. The word for him is mean-spirited."

  Catherine sat on the bench that formed one side of the deck.

  "Ouch. That's why you aren't available? How do you know him?"

  "All I ever did was have lunch with him one day after a library board meeting. He spent the entire time telling me how clever he was and how he manipulated his library board. He keeps calling, and I keep putting him off."

  "Are you looking for a relationship?"

  "Maybe, but not with him. I might go back to school when the boys do since you are helping me with their expenses. I don't think I'll ever be able to thank you enough."

  "Going back to school is a good idea. What would you take?"

  "Law is what interests me. I could do the LSAT, and apply for the part-time degree Adam's doing."

  "Good for you. You organized the antique show, I understand?"

  "Yes. Are you going to be able to come over?"

  "Sure. I'm having dinner with Adam, so I'll not stay long. I tire quickly."

  "I'm sure. Speaking of men, are you going to see Thomas again while you are here?"

  "I saw Thomas again, and that did not go well."

  "What happened?"

  Catherine picked the last of the flowers from the petunias in the planters while Anne described the quarrel to her.

  "...and I feel so badly about it. The nurse told me he sat there for hours, watching me breathe."

  "Nonetheless, it isn't his business."

  Catherine dumped her handful of crushed petals destined for the compost into a basket.

  "I'm not sure where we are in this relationship, or even if there is one after that episode."

  "Take it as it comes."

  "I guess. I want to visit James Trevelyan this morning. I wonder if they would let me in the ICU. Meantime, I think I'm going to nap here in the sun."

  "I'm sure they would. Enjoy yourself. I'm going to finish the vegetable bed and top up the compost heap."

  Catherine walked down to the garden. Anne slept.

  Later that afternoon, when Anne arrived at the intensive care, she found the staff quite willing to let her come in, even though she wasn't a relative. They told her no one except police had been in, and she was on the list of permitted visitors.

  She sat beside the bed in the familiar surroundings. A monitor flashed green messages from its elevated perch. The v
entilator is very quiet, she thought, watching the rhythmic movement of the old man's chest. He's so helpless. He would hate that if he knew. Pale too, but at least opening his eyes now from time to time. Another day and they would try to wean him off the ventilator. Anne talked to him, telling him about her research and what she discovered about his family. Sometimes it helped to hear a familiar voice, familiar names.

  Anne noticed a slight stirring when she spoke, but no real arousal. That was to be expected, though, when he was sedated because of the ventilator. Telling the staff that she would be back the next day, she left after twenty minutes. She always found sitting at a bedside, unable to work with the patient, exhausting. Frustration, she supposed, or a feeling of impotence.

  The walk to the diner took Anne along tree-shaded streets with century homes set back in expansive lawns. Her mood didn't improve in spite of the signs of spring. She came to Vermont for a holiday and here she was, investigating crime again. The fear was starting to get old.

  On her last visit she'd been hurtled down a cliff by a car pushing her off the road, shot at, near-drowned and all to find out who killed a blackmailing woman. The murderer turned out to be more sympathetic than the victim. No wonder the jury and the judge were lenient. Now the victim was a thief and who knows what else.

  Why should she waste her time here? She wanted to visit with her friends, sketch a little, see where the relationship with Thomas was going—apparently not far—and that was because she came here. If she had seen him in Toronto, there would have been no nasty scene. What was the matter with her? The man cared, and she treated him as though he wanted to shut her in a house without sunshine. Perhaps, she thought again she'd go home.

  After lunch at the diner, she went on to the antique show at the Legion Hall. Anne was familiar with the Legion at home, attending events as diverse as weddings and wakes, as well as other antique shows. The hall was much the same—different flags, different uniforms on the mannequins, same worn-down decor under low ceilings.

  A line-up at the door forecast a successful show. Anne paid her two dollars and searched for Catherine. She found her deep in conversation with an elderly man at a table covered with old kitchen utensils and pots. She waved and started around the booths.

  Tables and booths filled every available piece of floor space. Jammed was the word. Dealers liked it that way, so she had been told. Perhaps it encouraged people to slow down, look at things more carefully. In the past, she found a few treasures on the floor, under the tables, hidden in baskets or behind larger objects. Anne had developed a personal strategy—once around the room to check out what was available and a second time, stopping at the booths that interested her.

  Antique costume jewelry sparkled from the cases in booth one. Catherine joined Anne as she held a leaf-shaped brooch, glittering with green and blue brilliants.

  "I didn't know you liked this sort of thing, Anne."

  "My mother did. We spent a summer visiting antique stores in small towns in the Valley. I've looked at many different pieces, some of it well made. Certain signatures make it more valuable, I understand, but I don't know much about it."

  She returned the piece to the dealer with a smile.

  "Shall we walk around?" Catherine said.

  "Sure."

  "Oh, no."

  Catherine swung back, almost colliding with Anne.

  "What's the matter?"

  "Dan Abbott came in. You know, the one on the phone this morning. Stay with me, Anne. Don't be polite and leave."

  "I'll cling like a limpet."

  He does look a little mean, she thought. Smiles with his mouth, not his eyes. She listened to Catherine's frosty greeting, shook Abbott's offered hand, and lingered even though he expected her to leave.

  "I'm showing Anne around at the moment. Perhaps later."

  Abbott finally moved off.

  "You'd think I encouraged him, and I swear I haven't."

  "Forget it. You can be too busy all day."

  "That's true enough."

  At that, one of the volunteers bustled up with a problem only Catherine could deal with and led her away. Anne continued around the hall. One or two booths carried old linen. She preferred to buy and use antique linen because of the interesting patterns and generous sizes. Those yellowed with age bleached to pristine whiteness.

  Next to the linen booths, a wizened little woman sold orientalia. A tiny red clay teapot caught Anne's eye. This sort of pottery was called Yi Xing. Teapots formed from the zisha clay found in Yi Xing, China, had been made for hundreds of years, since the Sung Dynasty when the purple clay used for their manufacture was first discovered. Anne loved them but had only one. Twenty dollars. That was about what she had paid before and much less than the going rate. The oldest ones had a wonderful patina and an unglazed interior. The color and the modeling seemed authentic, right down to the ladybug on a leaf.

  As Anne leaned over the table, she felt a sudden fear and a flash of memory of James's crumpled body on the grass. What brought that on? She was alone in the booth. The dealer chatted with her next-door neighbor. Two women were discussing the plates in the booth behind her. Several people were moving past her down the aisle. A heavy scent, White Diamonds, or something like that, drifted over. No murderers in sight. Giving herself a mental shake, Anne returned to the teapot and negotiated a better deal.

  Antique jewelry was up next. Most of what the dealer had dated from the Victorian age, and not very good Victorian at that: seed pearls and poor turquoise, buckle rings and mourning brooches.

  One piece of geometric design in burnished platinum and diamonds stood out from the other, more modest offerings. Seventy-five dollars. A low price.

  "Where did this come from?" she asked the dealer, a plump, sweater-clad man of about fifty.

  "Consignment."

  "Not your usual period?"

  "No. My aunt asked me to sell it for her. It's a lovely piece."

  It was always an aunt or a granny or a dying friend, Anne thought. She hoped it wasn't stolen.

  "Can you do better?" she asked, knowing the answer would be no.

  "No, it's not mine."

  "All right."

  It was too lovely to leave behind, and it was undervalued. Anne excused her purchase to herself as she paid the seventy-five. Catherine returned as she walked past the last booth (toys and dolls).

  "Are you going around again?" Catherine asked.

  "No, I spent more than I intended."

  She showed Catherine her brooch and teapot.

  "The strangest thing happened."

  Anne went on to tell Catherine about the flashback.

  "Was anyone around you?"

  "Two women talking in the booth behind me, and a bunch of people in the aisle. There was a heavy scent in the air.

  "Who were the women?"

  "I don't know. I'll point them out if I see them again."

  "Let's sit down."

  The tables had filled with shoppers by the time they reached the lunch room, staffed by volunteers from the Women's Shelter. She'd never notice those women in this crush, Anne thought. She couldn't go around sniffing everyone. She sipped her drink and watched the crowd. Serious collectors inspected marks and provenance. Young children spent small change on animal figurines or hair ornaments. A politician strolled by complete with wife, their baby in a stroller decorated with a campaign sign, and the family retriever sporting the party's colors in a neckerchief. As much fun as a fair.

  "Are you staying?"

  Catherine broke into her thoughts.

  "No, I'm tired. I need a nap before going out to dinner tonight with Adam. Life here is a social whirl."

  "We stay open until eight tonight."

  "Your hours are a little different than usual?"

  "Yes, they are. We are so out-of-the-way that I like to give the dealers the first morning to get here. We stay open late the first night, close at five the second and at noon the final day to let them leave early. No thanks,"
she said as she shook her head at the server.

  "Are there any other events in town on now?"

  "No. What did you have in mind?"

  "If you're attracting people from other states, across the border, or from Burlington, you might get them to linger in town if you also had something at the theatre and a show at the gallery. A fall festival, perhaps, with house tours, autumn decorations in the stores, special sales.The sort of thing they do in Elora. You've been to Elora?"

  Elora was a picturesque village in Mennonite country in rural Ontario.

  "Years ago."

  "How are plans for the mill coming along? Elora's is a private inn and restaurant."

  "Not well. It's derelict, and the town hasn't committed to help with the fund-raising."

  "I saw scaffolding?"

  "Yes, it needed some emergency repairs."

  "Who owns it?"

  "The Culvers. They are doing the temporary repairs. They have offered to sell it to the town for one dollar if the money can be raised to renovate it or restore it."

  "And so?"

  "Quite a few people don't want to use tax money for the “arty” stuff," Catherine said with a wry smile.

  "Ah. I've heard that one before. Lots of money for sports fields and Christmas decoration, but nothing for the arts."

  "That's about it."

  "I'd like to see the mill before I go home."

  "Sure. I can arrange that for you."

  "Thanks.

  As Anne walked out through a side door, she glimpsed Abbott again, this time talking to a mousy-haired woman whom Anne recognized as the librarian, Nancy Webb. She hoped he wouldn't continue to bother Catherine, she thought. She started her car and headed back to the bed and breakfast and a nap.

  Thomas's beloved car—a little two-seater silver Honda Prelude—sat in front of the house. When she drove into the driveway, he got up from one of the wicker chairs on the veranda and walked down the stairs to meet her. She's exhausted, he thought.

  "Hi," he said, holding out his arms.

  Anne went to him, was enfolded in a fierce hug, and smiled up into his face as he bent down to kiss her.