FATED TO THE PURPOSE (Richard and Morgana MacKenzie Mysteries Book 2)

by Jack Flanagan

  “Kyle, what are you guys doing here?” I asked.

  “Richard?” His eyes adjusted to the dimly lit interior. “I should ask you, ‘What are you doing here?’ In either case, we almost didn’t get here because — Serena!” Kyle’s voice cracked in panic like a teenager’s would when he is caught smoking by his mother.

  “Kyle,” replied Bo, calmly.

  It didn’t escape anyone’s noticed that Kyle and Peterson were soaked. They weren’t ‘wind-swept-in-the-rain’ soaked, but were ‘fallen-into-the-pool’ soaked. I couldn’t find a square inch of dry on either of them. Dark puddles formed on weathered floorboards where Kyle and Peterson stood. And to top it off, both of them were covered with blotches of mud and grime from their shoes, up to their chins.

  “What on earth happened to the two of you?” I asked.

  My brother sucked in his gut and assumed a posture of some dignity. “We had a slight . . . shall I say, a minor mishap,” he said.

  “We were run off the road about fifteen minutes ago.” Peterson eagerly interjected.

  “What? Are you okay? What happened? Are you hurt?” I asked partially out of genuine concern and partially out of a need to get the three women around me to focus on someone else besides me.

  “We’re okay. Just a little water logged, that’s all,” Kyle said flatly.

  “But our patrol car isn’t. It must be floating its way to Massachusetts by now,” added Peterson.

  My brother took another breath, deeper this time, and rolled his eyes. “Go ahead Peterson,” he said in resignation. “Get it out. Tell them what happened.”

  “We just made it across Old Whyte Post Road, just right before it washed out, when we barreled into the river to avoid a car that was speeding, heading right at us,” Peterson explained.

  “What happened to the road?” asked Hograve.

  “The Old Whyte Post Road is washed out,” declared Kyle. “There is a rushing torrent of angry water, about five feet deep and dozen or so feet wide where the road use to be. That being the case,” —my brother pushed up his sleeve, wiped off his watch— “as of twenty minutes ago, The Whyte Post Inn is on an island.”

  That certainly put a wrinkle in my escape plans.

  “We didn’t get any warning,” said Hograve. “We should have been told. Somebody should have told us to evacuate.”

  “Simon, we tried,” said Kyle to calm Hograve. “About three hours ago, my office tried to reach the inn by phone, to warn you all that the river was projected to breach.”

  “But we couldn’t,” Peterson interrupted, taking off his rain gear. “The phone lines were down, and since cell phone reception in these parts is almost non-existent, the Sheriff and I drove here in person to warn you.”

  “As we were coming up the roadway, crossing over that narrow strip of road,” said Kyle with some authority, “where the river comes within a few feet on either side, you know, at the spot where you showed me to fish—”

  “Where the road necks,” clarified Hograve.

  “— As soon as we went over that part,” Peterson anxiously continued, “a chunk of road slid into the river. The gap, I would say, is about ten to twelve feet wide. There is no road in that spot at all now, just river.”

  “What about this car coming at you and you driving into the river?” I asked.

  “Well, just after we crossed that part of the road, I looked in the side view mirror. I turned to the Sheriff, who was driving and said, ‘Look behind us; the road just disappeared. We just missed going into the river.’”

  Kyle tapped his deputy on the shoulder; Peterson yielded the floor. Then my brother recounted what had happened. “At the deputy’s insistence, I looked in the rear view mirror. But by doing so I didn’t see the blue sedan racing towards us from the direction of the inn. When I did see it, there wasn’t much that I could do. This car didn’t slow down; it didn’t veer to the side; it headed straight for us.”

  “That’s when we drove into the river,” said Peterson with some enthusiasm.

  “My Lord!“ gasped Mrs. Prosper.

  “We were lucky enough to get out of the car just before it started to float south.”

  “Did you get the plate number?” Bo asked.

  “No, we didn’t,” stated my brother. “We were busy at the time. Anyway, we thought the car wasn’t going anywhere. The only way out from here was washed out.”

  “What about the other car?” Serena impatiently asked Kyle.

  “When Peterson and I got to shore, we went to where the reckless driven car was headed. We didn’t see any trace of the car until we got to the breach in the road. We found that the car had gone right over the edge and was slowly making its way down river.”

  “Could you see the driver inside?” Serena asked.

  “No. We found the driver’s door window was open, but we saw no one inside the vehicle.”

  “Are you sure?” I asked.

  “From where we stood, the car was no more than a dozen feet away or so. The window was opened. No one was inside that we could tell. I hope that the driver got out and made it to land. The river is pretty wild. Maybe he made it back here?”

  Heads nodded in the negative.

  “Or he could have gone to the other side,” said Kyle with little enthusiasm. “Otherwise, I fear that —.”

  “— His drowned body is half way to Massachusetts,” blurted Peterson.

  “I don’t know if anyone has left the inn in the past half hour,” I remarked. “Mr. Hograve, do you know?”

  “I don’t think so. At least I didn’t see anyone.” The rest of the assembled group mumbled a similar sentiment.

  “Do any of you know whose car it was?” asked Peterson.

  “It could be Mr. Foley’s,” said Hograve as he went to the nearby window. “The description sounds like his car, and . . . I don’t see it.” Hograve turned to us with bewilderment. “It’s missing.”

  “Is this Mr. Foley around?” asked Kyle.

  “He’s around,” I said feeling a little guilty, but I couldn’t resist razzing him. Thoughtless teasing from an older sibling comes with the turf. “He is in his room.”

  “Are you sure?” said Kyle. “Because I want to talk to him.”

  “I’m sure he would love to talk to you too, Kyle, if he could,” said Bo with a mischievous glint in he eye. She never cared for Kyle.

  “What do you mean, if he could?” cautiously asked Kyle.

  “He’s dead, Kyle.” The better angel in me spoke. There was no point in making Kyle look more ridiculous than he did. “Mr. Foley appears to have committed suicide earlier this morning. He’s . . . in his room where we found him.”

  “Really. Then, can anyone tell me who might have driven his car into the river and in the process run the deputy and myself off the road?”

  “I can’t,” Bo said wryly, “but Mrs. Prosper here may have a theory.”

  The old woman moved forward.

  “Ma’am, do you know who drove the car?” innocently asked Peterson.

  “Well, Sheriff . . .” As Mrs. Prosper started her lecture on the wonders of the invisible world, and I held my breath and waited for the word “ghost.”

  #

  CHAPTER 3

  Much to my surprise, there was no mention of spectral motorists. Instead, the supposition put forth by Mrs. Prosper was that subterranean tremors — brought about by the rising river — might have released Mr. Foley’s car’s parking brake. They could also have started the car and sent it careening down the road.

  Kyle and Peterson diplomatically cut Mrs.Prosper off when she started to talk about energy released during different phases of the moon. They thanked her for her help and made a hasty retreat to my room for a quick shower and a change into dry clothes.

  Deputy Peterson lucked out in the wardrobe department. His physique had given him an advantage over my brother in a choice of apparel from what Simon Hograve could scrounge up on such short notice. The deputy selected a red flannel che
cked shirt, that was slightly worn thin at the right elbow, a pair of denim overalls, a pair of new white tube socks, and a pair of tan work boots.

  Kyle, on the other hand, found himself in a rather different situation. My brother’s generous proportions forced him to abandon all known rules of style and fashion. The only items found at the inn that fit Kyle were “odd left behinds,” as Hograve called them. The best of this omnium-gatherum consisted of a large pair of women’s red, rayon pajama bottoms, which easily negotiated Kyle’s girth but ended at his mid-calf; and a blue paisley bathrobe with shiny red lapels.

  As his deputy, Kyle did luck out with a new pair of white tube socks. But for footwear that would go over my brother’s size twelves, he had no other choice other than a pair of brown fuzzy, red satin-lined bedroom slippers.

  Peterson had the first crack at using my shower, and when he emerged from the bathroom, he looked like the quintessential lumberjack. “The shower is yours, Sheriff,” said the deputy with a nod to his boss. “If you need me, I will be downstairs. I thought that I would practice my parlor magic on the staff.”

  “We have a dead body on our hands,” protested Kyle. “This is not the time for fun and games. Get something warm into yourself but no fraternizing.”

  A little crestfallen, Peterson left the bedroom for the kitchen for a comforting cup of hot chocolate.

  While Kyle took his turn to scrub up, I made myself comfortable on the bed, flipped through the room’s directory, and waited for the fashion show. After a few choice expletives and some petitions to the Almighty for warmer water — Peterson, no doubt, had inadvertently used most of the remaining hot water in the system — my brother came out of the bathroom shivering and with fire in his eyes.

  “I’m not leaving this room. Look at me!” proclaimed Kyle.

  I understood. If I wore, what he had on, I wouldn’t leave the room either. “You can’t stay here all day,” I said. And to my shame, I couldn’t stop myself from yanking his chain a little more. “Besides, Morgana will have a fit.”

  “Well, how long do you think it will take for my clothes to dry?”

  “I don’t know. The clothes dryers aren’t working. Your things are splayed out in front of the dining room fireplace. I have no idea about wood-fire drying times.”

  Kyle was definitely a sight to behold. There he was — dressed in red pajama bottoms and blue robe, his hair dripping wet, his mustache drooping. He embodied all the esthetic qualities of a disgruntled JP Morgan and of a very portly caliph out of the Thousand and One Nights. The slippers didn’t help his situation. The donated footwear gave me the impression that my brother stood on the carcasses of two unfortunate woodland creatures.

  “I can’t be seen like this,” declared my brother as he stood at the foot of my bed.

  “Why not?” I said, trying very hard to keep a straight face.

  “Why not? Look at me; are you blind!” Kyle answered while waving his arms.

  “I am looking. Your getup could make a blind man see.” At that point, I couldn’t hold back a series of deep belly laughs, regretfully at my brother’s expense.

  “Oh, thanks a lot, Richard. You’re a great help.”

  “Kyle, what do you want me to do? Your musculature is somewhat — too singular for any of the items that Hograve could procure on such short notice.”

  “Don’t you use those highfalutin words on me, Rich. You are just saying that I’m . . . a bit on the large side.”

  “Yes, Kyle, you are on the large size, and then some,” I said as I gained control of my laughing.

  “If I had my pants on — ” Kyle stepped closer to me when, suddenly, he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror hanging behind the bed. He stopped. His anger changed into something else, and he started to chuckle. “I do cut an impressive figure; don’t I?”

  “That you do.”

  “But I’m still not leaving this room.”

  “You can stay here until your clothes are dry. I’ll speak with Morgana about it.”

  “Thanks.”

  “So, tell me. How was your swim?”

  Kyle plopped himself down next to me on the bed and gave me an account of his river escapades. He told me how he extricated himself from the patrol car as the river currents tried to pull it under. And how he helped Peterson — who doesn’t swim —to get out of the vehicle and how they got to shore. With remorse and some embarrassment, he admitted that he couldn’t save anything from the patrol car except for what he was wearing and his hat.

  I patiently listened with fraternal deference, but knowing my brother, as I do, I knew he glossed over or left out details from the saga. But, all in all, his car did plunge into the river; Peterson and he did survive, and he rescued his hat. It must have been an ordeal. No doubt it wasn’t just his cold shower that made his lips quiver as he sat next to me. Undoubtedly, the effects of the accident were also exacting their toll. When he finished his tale, he was out of breathe. We both sat quietly for a while. The seriousness of his river adventure slowly sank into our thick skulls. He could have died.

  I broke the uncomfortable silence by telling him the high points of my day— the death of Mr. Foley, my meeting Mrs. Prosper, and, of course, of my reunion with Serena.

  “Well, you have been busy this morning, too, eh?”

  I nodded.

  “You were the one who cut down the Foley’s body.”

  I nodded. “Yeah, that was me.”

  “Suicide you think it was?” Kyle drifted into his cop frame of mind.

  “It appears so.”

  “How do you know?” Kyle asked.

  “Huh . . . what?”

  “I’m just saying, Rich, how do you know if it was a suicide? Did Foley say in his final breath that he tried to kill himself? Was there a suicide note? Usually, when a poor slob wants to kill himself, the victim leaves a note.”

  “Before Foley died, the only thing, that he could manage to say, was something about a little girl.” I forced myself to think back. “He said something to the effect, ‘that little girl loved her mother . . . . She knows everything. She wants revenge. She is our ruin. She has . . . .’’’

  “Has what? What did she have? And who is this ‘she’ that he mentions?”

  “I don’t know. Foley didn’t say anything after that. He just sort of gurgled and, uh, died.” Recounting Foley’s last words got me thinking about what had unfolded in the dead man’s bedroom. And the more that I thought about it, the more I came to the conclusion that something, definitely, was a miss.

  “A little girl, you say. What little girl?” Kyle asked. “Was there a little girl in the room?”

  “What did you say?” I muttered as I kept rerunning events in my mind.

  “Rich, was there a girl in the room?”

  “No . . . there wasn’t a little girl.”

  “Is there one registered as a guest in the hotel or a child of a staff member?”

  “No, not that I know of.” Then off handily I added, “There is a little girl’s ghost.”

  “A what?”

  “Forget the girl,” I said as an idea suddenly came to me. “You said, there wasn’t a suicide note.”

  “Wait, wait, you said something about a ghost?”

  “Yeah, yeah, a ghost. Mrs. Prosper thinks Foley’s death is somewhat mixed up with a little girl’s spirit that is haunting this place. Never mind that. More importantly, I don’t remember any note near the body.”

  “Well, suicides usually do leave some kind of note, but not in every case. Your Mr. Foley’s final words sounded pretty guilt driven. That could serve the purpose of a note, in this case.”

  “Yes, I suppose that one could interpret Foley’s final words as an explanation for his taking his own life — a sort of making good for whatever it was that he was sorry for. But that doesn’t really work, does it?” The glazed over look on my brother’s face told me that I was losing him.

  “I don’t know what you mean, Rich. If Foley told everyone in th
e room, cryptically though it may have been, the motivation for his suicide attempt, he wouldn’t need a note.”

  Sometimes Kyle is truly dense, but, in this case, I just chalked up his blindness to logic as a holdover effect from his river swim. “No, Kyle, you are not getting it.”

  “Not getting what?”

  “Foley didn’t know that anyone would find him before he died. Those last seconds of his life were . . . a bonus for him to explain why he did what he did; if he did it . . . . Or was his last words an attempt to explain what had happened . . . . But to whom would he be explaining it to? One of the housekeeping staff? Me? I didn’t understand what he was talking about.”

  “Well, if he weren’t delusional in his final moments, which is possible, he could have been talking to his business associates. They were in the room.” My brother got up from the bed. “Has the room been disturbed since Foley died?”

  “I don’t know. One of the staff was with Foley when I got on the scene. Morgana, Mrs. Prosper, one of the staff, and I were the first ones to leave the room. I have no idea what happened there after we left. Serena remained at the scene with the others.”

  “Oh . . . I had almost forgotten about Boswell,” Kyle said with some disdain.

  “Since she was the only person here with any legal authority here, she took charge of the affair, so to speak.”

  “That would have been smart on her part.” My brother tightened the belt of his robe. “Sooner or later I’ll have to talk to her, but I’m not doing that now, dressed as I am.” He looked down, may be to look at his fuzzy feet, but I doubt that he could see them. His bay-window midriff was directly in his line of sight. My brother walked to the only chair in the room where his holstered pistol hung over the right corner of its top rail. He picked up the gun belt, and, with some unintended amusing contortions, he strapped it around his waist.