Murder on the Lunatic Fringe (Jubilant Falls Series Book 4)

by Debra Gaskill

  “Why would someone do that to my animal?” she wailed. “Why?”

  I pulled a notebook and a pen from the piles of paper on my desk. “Tell me what happened.”

  “Yesterday, we have picnic with Addison and her husband,” Bolodenka began. “Wonderful, relaxing picnic on front lawn. We come home and find my Dasha, my ram, dead by fence.” She stopped and shuddered before continuing. “Someone cut his head off and—” she made a slashing motion from her throat to her belt and began to cry quietly.

  “I’m so sorry,” I said. “What happened this morning?”

  “Today, I am fixing coffee when Jerome comes in, with hands covered in blood. He has found another dead goat on his doorstep, the small house near barn.”

  “I know it’s hard to talk about it, but what happened to this animal?” I asked.

  She made the same slashing motion and once more burst into tears.

  Elizabeth came over with a box of tissues and handed her one, patting her on the shoulder.

  “I just never expect this to happen to my animals!” she said. “Me, it’s one thing—animals, it’s another.”

  “Have you filed a report with the sheriff?” I had a fairly decent relationship with the new sheriff, Judson Roarke. He’d replaced the old sheriff, Ernest Boderman, who retired after nearly thirty years in the position.

  Roarke had been Boderman’s chief deputy and my go-to source for any information for crimes in the county, since Boderman had a chip on his shoulder regarding the media and seldom returned anyone’s calls.

  Boderman was the reason why I began carrying a police scanner wherever I went, since showing up at the scene was just about the only way I would get information.

  “Jerome, he was going to do that. I thought Addison can help us, so I came here.”

  “Why did you need to talk to Addison?”

  “Her husband Duncan said she knew who punched Jerome, Saturday.”

  I lay my pen down on my desk. “Miss Bolodenka, the man who struck Jerome Johnson may have some connection to hate groups. It’s possible that Doyle McMaster is killing your animals to intimidate Jerome.”

  Her eyes widened, but she didn’t speak.

  “Let’s go talk to the police. Maybe they can give us some other information.”

  ***

  Chief G was finishing a phone conversation when Ekaterina Bolodenka and I walked into his office a few minutes later.

  “Yeah. Whatever you can find out let me know. Great. Thanks,” he said as he hung up. “Hi, Graham, what can I do for you?”

  “Chief, this is Ekaterina Bolodenka, and she’s having trouble with someone killing her livestock.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” he said. “Anybody who hurts an animal is special scum in my book.” Chief G’s face betrayed nothing as he reached out to shake Bolodenka’s hand.

  “Thank you,” she answered, wiping her eyes.

  “I told her that McMaster might be a likely suspect, if he’s doing what you think he’s doing,” I said.

  “That’s entirely possible.” Chief G indicated we should sit down in the chairs in front of his desk. “Tell me what happened.”

  Bolodenka repeated the story she had told me as the chief took notes, interjecting an occasional “Uh huh” as she talked. She was crying again by the time she finished; it was difficult to pull the facts from beneath her heavy accent and her sobs.

  “Can you tell me a little bit about yourself?” he asked. “What is your relationship to Jerome Johnson?”

  “He is farm manager,” she said. “I am born in Moscow. I come to this country when I am five and my family we live in Chicago. I also lost a sister and a niece in car accident. Her husband died too. I studied art and taught art history before coming here to Jubilant Falls.” The story was automatic, like the recitation of the lines from a play. She’d probably been asked those questions so often it just ended up sounding that way.

  “You’re not employed now?” Chief G looked up from his notebook.

  “My farm and my art are my income. I have rented out several hundred acres to other farmers for their crops.”

  He nodded.

  “It’s entirely possible that Mr. Johnson is being targeted by Mr. McMaster as part of a hate crime,” Chief G said. “We have reason to believe that McMaster is part of a group from the adjoining county that may be coming into Plummer County and organizing more hate groups. The problem is that your farm is not in my jurisdiction, since you live out of the city. You need to report this to Sheriff Roarke.”

  “Jerome, he is reporting to sheriff.”

  “Good. Sheriff Roarke is aware of the same facts that I just told you. I will tell him that we spoke and what I told you. He may want to take other steps, but you’d have to talk to him about it.”

  She nodded.

  We stood and shook hands.

  “Graham, I need to speak to you about something else. If you would wait here, I’ll walk Miss Bolodenka to the elevator.”

  “I can find my way back to newspaper and car,” she said. “Thank you so much for helping. I feel better now.”

  Chief G led Bolodenka from the office and I sat back down in my seat. Within a few minutes, he was back, with a file folder in his hand. He handed me another copy of Benjamin Kinnon’s picture as he returned to the seat behind his desk.

  “So, is he any relation?”

  I studied the picture silently as I thought about my answer. What would happen if I revealed what I knew?

  At boarding school, the Jesuits taught us to be open to God’s directions, to discern God’s will for ourselves, not an easy concept for a dorm full of hormone-poisoned boys to consider, to conquer ourselves and to regulate our lives in such a way that no decision is made under the influence of anyone or anything else.

  I had no emotional connection to Benjamin Kinnon. He was only a name on my birth certificate. Yet, I hated what he had done to my mother and, with the situation with Elizabeth, on some level I now realized the damage of his abandonment.

  I also sensed his evil.

  “Yes, I know him.” I handed the photo back to Chief G. “He’s my father.”

  “You’re kidding me, right?”

  I shook my head. “Nope. Sperm donor is probably a more appropriate term.” Briefly, I briefly filled him in on my past: Mother’s connection to Benjamin Kinnon, her drug use and rehabilitation, my time in foster care and what amounted to our dual transformations into the wife and stepson of one of Indianapolis’s bright lights.

  Chief G leaned back in his chair when I finished speaking. “Wow. I was figuring maybe an old drunk uncle, idiot cousin or something like that—everybody has one like him in the family, right? But your father?”

  “I never had any relationship with him. He disappeared a long time ago.”

  “Well, he’s back. Like I told you the other day, he’s moved to Jubilant Falls.”

  “Where is he living?”

  “He’s out in the west end, right now living out of an old motel there. We’ve got our eye on him.”

  “Do you think he and McMaster could be behind these animal killings?”

  Chief G nodded. “I think they put him at the top of the list.”

  My stomach dropped. “What are you going to do?”

  “Right now, all we can do is watch. People have a right to their opinions, however ignorant and ill informed. These folks also have the right to meet with other ignorant and ill-informed idiots, but they don’t have the right to do anything like this. If we can confirm that these two assholes have anything to do with these animals being killed and they are part of a pattern of intimidation, there will be consequences. They will be swift and they will be serious. The problem is, guys like this are like bloodhounds when it comes to sniffing out an undercover cop.”

  “What can I do to help?”

  Chapter 11 Addison

  No, I’m sorry. I have been the priest here for many years.” The priest at St. Volodymyr’s church spoke slowly
and thoughtfully at the other end of the phone. “I don’t know of anyone named Bolodenka who attended here, or lived close to here.”

  I pushed for a little more information.

  “She had a sister named Svetlana, who had a daughter named Nadezhda—they called her Nadya,” I said. “She died, along with her husband Alex and the baby in an auto accident in Moscow. Would there have been a memorial service here for them?”

  “Well, it’s entirely possible that a memorial service could have been held here, but as I said, I don’t know that name and when an entire family is killed like that, our whole community would grieve. We haven’t had a service for a circumstance such as that since I’ve been here. Is it possible Bolodenka is her married name?”

  “I don’t know if she was ever married. Her mother and father are both deceased, though.”

  “Hmmm… Is it possible that she attended another church?”

  “How many St. Volodymyr’s churches are there in Chicago?”

  “There are a couple, actually. This church is Eastern Orthodox. There is a St. Volodymyr and Olga Catholic Church and, to confuse you even more, a Saints Volodymyr and Olha Ukrainian Catholic Church. Maybe you could try there.”

  “OK, thanks.” I hung up the phone, chewing pensively on my thumbnail. Had Katya Bolodenka fed me a line? And why would she do that? What point did it serve? What were she and Jerome Johnson hiding? And why couldn’t Gary find anything?

  I really didn’t like the idea that a story I’d written could be blatantly false, but I didn’t have any proof of that. How important was it that a priest in a large city like Chicago couldn’t remember one parishioner? Did that mean anything at all?

  Most importantly, what was the point of her secrecy?

  I picked up my phone again and began to dial the numbers of the next church the priest suggested. There was a knock on my door and Elizabeth Day peeked her purple head through.

  “Hey Addison, you got a minute?”

  Elizabeth stepped into the office. By her body language, I could tell what she wanted. After while, an editor knows when this conversation is coming: over the years, I’d had enough staff come through my office to know when a reporter had grown enough professionally to want to leave the nest.

  The first few months Elizabeth was here at the Journal-Gazette, she would go cry in the ladies’ room every time I made a serious criticism or structural change to one of her stories. She’d come a long way, though, and while I don’t ever think she’d make a good police reporter, her skills at everything else had stepped up. She could take criticism now, she could write a hell of a lead and she could bang out a story like there was no tomorrow.

  “Sure, kiddo. Come on in,” I said, hanging up the phone. “Have a seat.”

  “Can I talk to you about something?” she asked. “Something personal?”

  Chapter 12 Graham

  It was nearly eight in the evening before Elizabeth got to my apartment. I wrapped my arms around her and hugged her tightly in the doorway.

  “C’mon in,” I said. “I can start dinner.”

  From the kitchen, I watched Elizabeth flop on the couch, where she began to unlace her black military boots and pull off her socks, her face pensive. I pulled the pork chops and the green beans out of the fridge and began cooking, the marinated meat sizzling as it touched the preheated pan. Once the chops browned, I would turn the heat down and begin to sauté the green beans in olive oil. I wasn’t a great cook, but I could find my way around a cookbook.

  “Can I get you a glass of wine? How was the school board meeting?” I asked as I stirred.

  “God, yes, please.” Elizabeth sighed. “The meeting was boring as hell. It’s the last meeting before school starts, so it was all about setting the cafeteria lunch prices, approving changes to the student handbooks, crap like that. I don’t even know if it is worth a story.”

  I reached into the fridge again, behind the cake with the engagement ring on top, and pulled out a bottle of red wine.

  “Did lunch prices go up? That’s what usually happens this time of year,” I suggested, hoping I wasn’t grinning like a fool.

  “A quarter at the high school and twenty cents at the middle school.”

  “If you don’t do a story, then every mother in town will blame us for her little darling missing lunch on the first day of school because he didn’t bring enough money.” I uncorked the wine and poured two glasses, handing one to her. “So how was your visit with your mom this weekend?”

  She took a tiny sip of wine before she answered. “Fine. She’s fine.”

  “What did you guys do? Anything special?”

  “Not really.” She drew up her legs and tucked them beneath her round bottom.

  “Did you feel OK this weekend? No problems with your stomach? The wine isn’t bothering you, is it?”

  She sighed, this time in exasperation, and took another sip of wine. “Why are you so worried about it?”

  “Because I worry about your health!”

  “I’m not pregnant, OK?” she retorted sharply. “I don’t know why you’re suddenly so worried about that. I throw up a couple times in the morning and you just go all baby daddy on me!”

  “You’ve been throwing up a couple times a week for three weeks! What do you expect me to do—or think? I’m allowed to care about you, aren’t I?”

  “Worry all you want, but I just have other things on my mind—and it’s not a baby.”

  “So what is it? There’s not anything else wrong, is there?” This wasn’t the way I wanted tonight to unfold, not with an argument about a possible pregnancy. I turned the heat down on the pork chops and covered the pan. In two steps, I was beside her on the couch. She leaned up against me and was silent for a moment.

  “Ever wonder what you’re going to do next? I mean in your life, not just during an ordinary day,” she said softly.

  I wrapped my arms around her and pulled her close, the hair of her purple wig beneath my chin. “Sometimes. What do you mean?” What happens next just might depend on you, I thought.

  “How long do you want to stay here in Jubilant Falls?”

  I shrugged, still holding her tight. “I hadn’t really thought about it. Why?” What did she mean? Did she have any inkling of what I was about to ask?

  “Some days I just can’t stand this place. These meetings just made me think, ‘Here I am starting another school year again, with all the same stories and all the same crap.’ There are times when I think I’ve written every story there is to write, I’ve taken every picture of every damned cute kid in Plummer County that needs to be taken.”

  I shrugged. “Sometimes I think the same thing: ‘Haven’t I written this story before?’ It happens.”

  “I’m just bored out of my mind and I’m bored with my job. Do you ever get bored, Kinnon?”

  “Sometimes. Like right now, when the news is slow, I can’t stand it.” I returned to the stove to check on the chops and dumped the green beans into a separate pan to sauté them. “Maybe we could go someplace next weekend. What do you think?”

  She didn’t respond to my question.

  “Maybe something will come of what that Russian woman told you this afternoon,” Elizabeth said, instead. “Maybe they’ll catch the guy who is killing her animals. That would be a great front page.”

  “I hope so.” It was my turn to shrug. I couldn’t let Elizabeth know yet about Benjamin Kinnon or what Chief G and I had discussed. I couldn’t even do a story about the conversation I had with Ekaterina Bolodenka this afternoon until I had a chance to talk to Sheriff Roarke and see what kind of report had been filed.

  “Let me help you with dinner,” she said. “I don’t want to talk about this any more.”

  “No, this meal is on me—my treat. You’ve had a lousy day. Just sit there.” I smiled at her and this time, she smiled back. She’s going to say yes, I thought to myself. She’s got to.

  Within a few minutes, the microwave
beeped, signaling the baked potatoes were done. A quick check of each pan showed the meat was cooked through and the green beans were tender. I loaded everything onto a platter and carried it to the table.

  “Dinner is served,” I said.

  “My God, Kinnon, you’ve outdone yourself,” she said, settling into one of the dinette chairs. She reached over to the platter and picked up a green bean with her finger, snapping off a bite of it in her sweet red lips.

  “I wanted tonight to be something special. Be sure to save room for dessert.”

  She arched an eyebrow. “Oh, we can make it special. Trust me.”

  I reached across the little table, lacing my fingers through hers and smiled. Yes. Yes, we will.

  Conversation turned casual—work stuff, programs we watched together on television. I hoped she couldn’t sense the nervousness building in me. Soon, our plates were empty.

  “Kinnon, you did a good job,” Elizabeth said, pushing back from the table.

  “We’re not done yet.” I stepped over to the fridge and, drawing out the cake, began my carefully rehearsed speech, the one I’d stood in front of the bathroom mirror and repeated over and over:

  “Elizabeth, we’ve been seeing each other for almost a year now. I just want you to know I love you, like I’ve never loved anyone before. You brighten my world like no one else ever has and I don’t ever want to lose you.”

  I set the cake in front of her and opened the blue ring box in the center.

  “Elizabeth, will you marry me?”

  Her face was ashen as horror rose in her eyes. Maybe she was just surprised, I thought. Maybe she didn’t hear me right.

  “Elizabeth? Will you marry me?” I asked again.

  “Oh God, I was so afraid you’d do this!” She jumped up and, gagging, pushed me out of her way. The door to the bathroom closed and once again, I heard her vomit.

  This time, I didn’t hover outside the door, begging her to call a doctor. I sank on the couch and stared into space as my world came to an end. I waited until I heard the toilet flush and the sound of running water as she brushed her teeth.