"You're welcome. There's one other thing."
"Not something behind the sampler?"
"No, I don't think so, but you might check. It's Samuel and the way he's pointing to those objects on the mantelpiece, and then there's the figure in the sampler. I mean, why the shovel?" A stylized spade leaned against a tree. "Is the tree still there?"
"Yes, it is," said Andre. "Shall we dig now or in the morning?"
In the morning, the group stood around the oak. The figure in the sampler pointedto the ground, to the right of the tree and about three feet away. Erin cautioned that there was no true rendering of distance in folk-art of this type.
"Andre, dig next to the tree but try to compensate for the growth," Anne said.
Two hours and four holes later, they were about to give up when Adam's shovel hit something metallic. He unearthed a metal box, locked, with an SL etched into the top.
Andre had a collection of old keys he found in the drawer in the house. With the help of a little oil, one opened the box.
"It looks like the ring, the candlestick, a small cup, a small square of metal that looks like gold and a little wooden box," Andre said.
"What's in the box?" someone asked.
That was the most exciting; a letter from Paul Revere to his dear friend Samuel, sending him a pewter tankard, made by himself on the occasion of Samuel's son's birth.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Anne closed the trunk of her car and embraced Catherine.
“Good-bye. Good luck with university.”
Catherine had decided to return to school, hoping to study law.
“Thank you. Thanks for everything, Anne, especially for your help with the boys. Enjoy your visit to Bermuda but don’t find any more bodies.”
“I shall try to avoid it.”
About the Author
Virginia Winters was born in Arnprior, Ontario, Canada and raised in the Ottawa Valley. After high school in Renfrew, another Valley town, she went down to Queens to study medicine, graduating in 1970. Fellowship in Pediatrics followed, with graduation in 1976. That year she and her husband, Internist George Winters, moved to Lindsay, Ontario with their two children, and have lived there ever since. Virginia’s interests, besides writing, are genealogy, gardening, photography, and studying languages (currently Spanish). The Facepainter Murders is the second in the Dangerous Journeys series.
Murderous Roots , Virginia Winters’s first novel, an e- book, was published on December 1, 2009 by Write Words Inc. and is now available in paper from that press and at Amazon.com.
Short works have appeared on-line in Camroc Press Review, Six Sentences, and Pine Tree Mysteries and most recently in the Gumshoe Review. Short stories have been published in Confabulation2 and 3, anthologies produced by Wynterblue Publishing, North Bay, Ontario.
Virginia blogs about writing and other interests, including genealogy, current events and gardening.
For more information or to contact Virginia:
virginiawinters.ca
[email protected]
If you enjoyed The Facepainter Murders, please consider leaving a line or two of review on Amazon. Reviews are important to indie authors to get the word out about a book or a series. There are now 5 books in the series Dangerous Journeys and a collection of short stories, some featuring Anne McPhail.
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Chapter 1
Sudden rain battered Bermuda that morning, pounding the whitewashed roof on its way to the cistern. Rivulets coursed down the windows. The wind bent the old trees that stood in front of the house, survivors of hurricanes of the last fifty years. Beyond the trees, whitecaps crashed against the grey dock and up onto the white stones stacked along the shore. Anne turned from the window when she saw the car arrived. Usually, she took the bus when she went anywhere without her sister, but this was a taxi sort of day.
A sweeping drive led off the street and around an immense ornamental pond to Hamilton's city hall. At the top of the welcoming arms staircase, two-story white pillars guarded the doors. A replica of the ship Discovery decorated the summit of the clock tower, gleaming in the sudden sunshine. Below it, the clock with its sea-blue face chimed ten o'clock.
Wide Bermuda cedar stairs, carpeted in deep red, led up from the foyer to an encircling mezzanine. Anne paused to admire the portraits of a young Queen Victoria and Prince Albert, copies of the Winterhalter oils that hung in Windsor Castle that flanked the entrance to the National Art Gallery.
She spent a pleasant but solitary two hours in the permanent collection of paintings, furniture and objets d'arte made by Bermuda artists or inspired by the islands. At noon, she thanked the volunteer at the desk and signed the guest book. There was still time to see an exhibition of art by local children that hung in a room at the other end of the mezzanine. She opened the door.
A scene from a movie. The sound effect, a muffled explosion. One man down, the other searching his pockets. She, screaming, frozen for a moment.
He heard her, jerked his head towards her and away and fled through the exit door. She raced across the endless meters that separated her from the young black man crumpled on the floor.
She pulled off her jacket and knelt by his body; blood was spurting from the hole in his navy tee shirt. The wound punctuated the proud words written on his shirt—Bermuda Born. So young she thought. So young. The soft white cotton of her jacket, pressed against his chest, turned red beneath her hands. His fading heart fluttered and stopped; colour faded from his lips; the pupils in his dark brown eyes dilated. She started chest compressions, but she knew it was too late. The bullet must have gone straight to his heart.
He had no chance. No chance.
"Help," she screamed again. "Help me!"
Blood seeped from beneath the body and congealed on her yellow linen skirt—a thickening, dull-red jelly. A man in a grey uniform, perhaps a security guard, appeared at the top of the staircase, ran towards her along the blue carpet, stopped, his mouth opened to speak, and then he wheeled into the Art Gallery.
Where was he going? Couldn't he see she was in trouble?
A woman appeared in the gallery door, the volunteer from the desk inside, gasped and disappeared.
"Stop. Come back."
Hours passed, or so it seemed. The movements developed an automatic rhythm, useless, but automatic. Sweat dripped into her eyes, and her shoulders ached. Her own heart beat a frantic rhythm too, but she couldn't stop; didn't want to let him go. The iron smell of blood, mixed with a fecal stench rose from the body. She gagged and turned aside, afraid she would vomit into the wound, and then started again. At last two paramedics reached her and one took her place on the body. A few people—the volunteer from the gallery, the security guard, three others —stood watching from the safety of the gallery door.
Anne sat back against the wall and pulled in her feet, away from the blood that seemed to creep towards her. The man—the shooter—looked back at her when she shouted at him, wrenched something from his victim's hand and ran to the exit: a strange man—white skin and white hair beneath a ball cap. Something odd about his walk, not a limp, exactly. His gait was uneven, a slight hesitation with his right leg. She thought she'd seen him before. But where and when?
She watched the familiar routine of intravenous fluids and cardiogram and heard the final decision that he was gone. A second crew arrived, and another paramedic came to her. Anne stood up to speak to him and then sat down and folded her arms into her suddenly cold body.
"I'm a doctor," she said. "His heart stopped about 11:47."
A uniformed policeman asked her to come with him.
They walked through into the gallery and behind the counter to a small office. Anne sat in a green upholstered chair, opposite a young woman taking notes.
"I'm Deputy-Inspector Spottiswood, of the Serious Crimes Unit," said the woman. "I understand you found the body. May I have your name please?"
"I'm Anne McPhail. I'm a physician. H
e was alive when I got to him but died moments later."
"Residence?"
The woman kept her head down while she scribbled in a black-covered notebook, the kind workmen used to keep track of their hours. Anne gave her sister's address and added that she was visiting Bermuda from Canada.
"What is your address in Canada?"
Still no eye contact. Was it some investigatory technique, or was the detective just a rude woman? She gave the address of her house in Bridgenorth, in Ontario. She focused on the view of blue sky and white roofs visible through the window behind her questioner. Still, the woman kept her dark head bent, her gaze on the stubby yellow pencil in her hand and on the words she was adding. Her writing was almost printing. She added a star to one line, then another. What did she say that was so important, Anne wondered.
"And your business address?"
"I've retired,"
"Say again."
"I said that I've retired."
"Aren't you a little young for retirement?"
The woman raised one eyebrow, and her gaze flickered towards the constable standing behind Anne.
"Perhaps."
What concern was that to the police? Anne could feel the heat rising in her face and knew it would be flaming red in a few seconds. When was this woman going to get past the irrelevant?
The questions that followed were more of the same: exact details of when she arrived; what pictures she looked at; where she was going when she left, and so on.
"Did you recognize the man who ran away?"
Anne turned to look at the woman and found brown eyes staring into hers. They should have been soft, to match her full mouth and neatly rounded chin, but they were, not hard, but unyielding.
"No, or rather he reminded me of a man I sat beside on the plane yesterday."
"What did he look like?"
"I can describe the man on the plane, but I had only the briefest glimpse of the one who ran out of here this morning. Not enough to swear that it was the same man. He—the man on the plane—was over six feet, the average weight for that height, white hair, thick, pale skin. He could have been albino except his eyes were grey, not blue."
"What reminded you?"
"Just his walk, or rather his run. He pushed past me on the gangway from the plane, and I watched him walk across the tarmac, and it was the same gait, or so I thought. The man who shot the boy was about the same height and weight, and I think his hair was white, but he was wearing a ball cap, so I'm not sure."
"What was wrong with his gait? Was he crippled in some way? Use a cane?"
"None of that. A little hesitation on the right."
"Not enough."
"As I said."
Anne waited again for the yellow pencil to catch up with what she'd said. The view out the window hadn't changed, except for a tiny spot of orange on one roof. Anne watched it creep across the white tiles. A ginger cat she thought, hunting.
"Did you know the victim?"
"No."
She saw a brief change of expression on the other woman's face. She didn't believe her, Anne thought, and her chest tightened.
"We'll need to search you, Doctor."
"What? Why?"
"We have to ascertain whether or not anyone on the scene has a gun. Please go with the constable."
Anne handed over her purse and her raincoat. She was wearing a simple short-sleeved blue shirt and pale yellow skirt, or at least it had been yellow. Little room to conceal a weapon, she thought, but a woman constable took her into the gallery of children's art and waited until she stripped to her underwear and dressed again in a set of hospital greens. At least no body cavity search.
"I need to wash."
"We have to check your hands and fingernails, so no washing right now."
"You have no idea whether this young man had an infectious disease."
"Take it up with the Inspector."
The Deputy Inspector started again when they joined her.
"Why are you on Bermuda?"
"Before we go on, I need to clean my hands."
"Soon enough."
"Now."
The inspector looked again at the standing male constable, who left and returned with a scene-of-the-crime technician. When he finished, he handed Anne wipes and disinfectant for her hands.
"Why are you on Bermuda?"
"Visiting my family."
"Why aren't you visiting them?"
"My sister works mornings, and I wanted to visit the gallery. I'm supposed to meet her for lunch. She's called me several times, I'm sure, but you have my cell phone. She'll come looking for me any moment."
"Is your sister a Bermuda citizen?"
Anne wondered what difference that made, but answered, "Yes."
She gave her sister's name and that of her brother-in-law and the name of his business.
"I would like my belongings back now, and I would like to call my sister." She stood up.
"You expect me to take your word for all of it: the man who ran away; the time of death; how long you spent in the gallery."
The detective was standing now, leaning over the desk that separated them.
"As to the last, I spoke to the volunteer on the desk in there, when I went in and said goodbye when I left. I was the only visitor, so perhaps she'll remember me. As to the time of death, the EMS attempted to resuscitate him. I expect they don't try that on the long dead. As to the first, yes you only have my word. When you check on me, you'll find my word is good."
"We'll ask you to surrender your passport, which I see you're not carrying."
"Does Bermuda law require that I carry it at all times?"
"No."
"I'll surrender it after I speak to my consulate and a lawyer. I would like my cell phone back, please."
"We've bagged it as evidence."
"Evidence of what? I would like a receipt."
A uniformed police officer spoke to the detective and handed her an evidence bag.
"Do you recognize this, Doctor McPhail?"
Anne could see a gun, fitted with what she assumed was a silencer, through the dull plastic.
"I know nothing about guns, and I don't recognize that one. I'm a physician, Detective. I don't shoot people. My job is to save them."
"It was found outside the exit door. Why would that mysterious man of yours have left his weapon behind?"
"Again, I have no idea and he's not my man."
"We'll be checking it for fingerprints and DNA."
"You won't find mine."
A constable whispered into Spottiswood's ear.
"Your sister is at the front door. You can go now, Doctor, but don't leave Bermuda. If you try, we will stop you, and we will arrest you."
Anne could sense the other two police in the room watching her, waiting for her reply. She caught a raised- eyebrow glance between the two men.
"Stop threatening me, Deputy Inspector. I did nothing except to find this unfortunate young man. My lawyer will be in touch regarding my passport and my phone."
At that Anne turned and stalked past the other two police, under the yellow tape and down the stairs. She could see Liz beyond the front door. A knot of police and others Anne thought were reporters stood between them. A fair-haired woman stepped forward, and the man beside her started his camera recording.
"Doctor McPhail, Doctor McPhail. Can you describe what happened to us? Who was shot? Do you know him?" the English voice demanded.
How the hell did they get her name all ready? Did the police give it to them? Maybe the woman in the gallery?
"No comment," Anne said.
She caught a glimpse of her sister’s blonde head through the throng of yelling reporters. Anne turned to a policeman who cleared a path through the crowd for her.
"What happened?" Liz said when Anne reached her. "Are you hurt?"
"No. Get me out of here. I have to talk to you and Dave. I need a lawyer."
Anne forced the words out past a constriction in her
throat and willed herself to breathe.
"What happened?" Liz asked again when the car doors closed them in. Her pale brows knitted above worried blue eyes.
"I found a man shot up there. He died before I could do more than try to stop the bleeding. A young man, Liz, no older than Martin."
She brushed away tears and leaned forward into her hands.
"Who was he?" Liz took her hand off the key and waited.
"Drive, drive. I don't want to stay here any longer."
"Who was he?" Liz pulled away from the curb and into the airport traffic.
"I don't know. If the police know, they didn't say. And the investigator, a woman called Spottiswood, is threatening me with arrest if I try to leave the island. And she wants me to surrender my passport!"
"Can she do that?"
"I have no idea. That's why I have to go to the consulate and get a lawyer."
"I think we have to talk to Dave and Martin."
"That too."
"Do you want to go home first? Clean off the blood?"
Anne pulled down the sun visor. Blood smeared her face and matted the platinum of her hair.
"The police didn't take me to a washroom, even after I was searched. They took scrapings from under my fingernails and swabbed my hands and arms for gunshot residue. They gave me wipes for my hands but said nothing about blood on my face. And then they let me walk out, blood all over me. And someone gave the press my name. The pictures in the newspapers will convict me."
"Don't start, Anne. Don't jump ahead. You're not arrested, after all."
"That woman frightened me."
At Dave's office, the assistant stood up and walked around her desk to shake hands with Liz.
"Madeline, is Dave free? We have to speak to him.This is my sister, Anne McPhail."
"His meeting will be over in a few minutes. I'll tell him that you're here. Can I do anything else for you? Tea?"
Her gaze dropped to Anne's still grubby hands and then her streaked face.
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