After a minute or so of watching the two play tag team pass the paper, curiosity got the better of me. “Hey, what does it say? . . . Should you guys be handling that paper with your hands like that?”
“You mean because of fingerprints or DNA and the like,“ remarked Bo as she gave another pass of the paper to Kyle.
"Yah, and other things,” I said. Kyle caught my drift and went back to his dainty fingers routine.
“Well, for any chemical analysis or detecting fingerprints,” Kyle said with authority, “I don’t thing we could retrieve anything useful, considering the recent history of the thing.”
Bo nodded in agreement.
“Fine, but what does it say?” Curiosity was getting the better of me.
Kyle gave the paper back to Serena, who had by that time had her glasses on, and she began to read, “I admit and confess that I am a murderer.” Bo looked up from the note and concluded. “ It is signed, ‘Charles Fitzgerald.’”
“Is that it? Is that what it says?”
“Ayuh, that what it looks like to me,” Kyle answered looking over Bo’s shoulder and added. “You read that well, Serena.”
“Thank you, Kyle,” Bo said in return.
“Who is Charles Fitzgerald?” Morgana asked.
“He’s Foley,” I said, offhandedly. My attention was drawn to the content of the note, not with its author.
“What do you mean, he is Foley?”
“That must be the worst suicide note that I ever heard,” I said, leaving Morgana to puzzle out the Foley-Fitzgerald dilemma on her own for the moment.
“Maybe he was in a hurry, and he didn’t have time to write a thesis,” Kyle jibed.
“In a hurry? Why would he be in a hurry?” I said, fielding Kyle’s pitch sarcasm. “Was his car double parked or was he going to miss the suicide train or something? Think it through, Kyle. The note is all wrong.”
“Tell me, Mr. Retired-English-Teacher, how many suicide notes have you seen?” Kyle taunted.
“I would guess as many as you have, Mr. Sheriff, maybe more. And before you say anything, Serena, I would fancy that the . . . FDA doesn’t have many suicide notes passing across their desks very often, either.”
Bo flashed me a snide grin.
“So, what’s your point, Richard?” Morgana asked.
“The point is that this thing that Moira gave you does not sound like a suicide note to me. I’ve had the misfortune to read several suicide notes in my day that were written, sadly, by some deeply troubled students. Luckily, I had the opportunity preventing two of these misguided souls in doing something very stupid. But this . . . eh, doesn’t have that swan song quality, that, “Farewell, cruel world,” feel about it. This thing reads like a confession or . . . at least a partial confession.”
When I finished stating my skepticism, Kyle and Bo offered no argument. To the contrary and to my to my surprise, they seemed to agree with me.
“So, if what we have here is not a suicide note, then what is it? And where is the real suicide note?” growled Kyle in frustration.
“Why must there be a suicide note?” asked Morgana as she tried her best to keep up with the conversation.
“Because when people kill themselves, they usually leave notes about why they are doing it,” said Kyle then sniffed his sleeve.
“Unless those people didn't intend to kill themselves,” I said as my mind tried to grope for something familiar.
“So now we’re back to what, an accident? A murder?” Kyle asked.
“Let’s start with something easy. Maybe we should find out if Foley’s death was an accident or not,” I said, reverting back to a demeanor that I employed when I faced an unruly eight period class.
“An accident?” Bo said in the manner of thinking out loud.
“Yes, an accident,” I reaffirmed. “Why is it that, I, a retired teacher, and not the two law enforcement professionals next to me, haven’t thought about that possibility?”
I could see Kyle bristle at my barb, but Serena was oblivious. Instead, she asked, “If our friend did accidentally do himself in, what was he doing in that net thing in the first place?”
“And what is the full meaning of the note that Moira gave me?” asked Morgana. “That still makes me think Foley killed himself.”
“The note is curious,” I said. “It’s also odd that she didn’t mention anything about it to me when I was talking with her.”
“She may not like you,” Morgana said. “She may be intimidated by men. Who can say?”
There may have been something to that, I thought. I do know that I intimidate some people, of course they are never the ones whom I want to intimidate.
“Did Moira speculate where she may have . . . eh, pick the note up?” I asked.
“No,”said Morgana, “but when Moira gave me the note and told me how she discovered it, we both thought that it may have gotten stuck to her shoe when she entered Foley’s room, or when she helped us get Mrs. Prosper downstairs.”
“And she just gave it to just before you came in here?” commented Bo. “That is a long time and a lot of traveling for a piece of paper to stay stuck on a shoe.”
“Well, that is what she told me. As for the paper getting stuck on her shoe, it could have been moved about in sorts of ways. There were so many people rushing about the place.”
“Before we drive ourselves crazy,” interrupted Kyle, “do we even know if this raggedy note is actually Foley’s or if this in his handwriting?”
“It looks like his handwriting,” said Bo flatly. “The note’s phrasing is a bit odd — abrupt, may be a better way to put it.”
“How would you know?” asked Morgana.
“No disrespect meant to your literary knowledge and or your abilities, Morgana, but to me this note is awkwardly abrupt. Don’t you think so?”
“No, offense is taken. And, yes, the note definitely starts and ends abruptly.”
But offense was taken; I could tell by Morgana’s small, tight, forced smile.
“But what I meant to say, Serena,” asked Morgana, “was how would you know what Foley’s handwriting looks like. Have you ever met him before or had previous knowledge of him . . . or his handwriting?”
I looked on and held my breath as a sinking feeling in my stomach took hold. As I said, I don’t like secrets, especially when they are kept from Morgana.
“Hograve, showed me Foley’s registration form. The writing from that and the note are very similar, if not identical.” Bo coolly replied.
I could see by the look in Morgana’s eyes that she wasn’t buying the story Bo was selling. “How fortunate that you remembered, Serena.”
“What can I say; it’s that photographic memory of mine,” Bo countered, smiling as a chess master capturing her opponent’s king.
With all the chit-chat about the note, I began to feel left out being the only one in the room that didn’t physically examine Moira’s found ‘foot-note.’ I prodded Kyle to let me have a look see at paper. With Bo’s approval, I finally got the chance to see the paper up close. In different environs, I would have initially concluded that it was an abandoned crib note. The paper itself was roughly three inches square with a jagged edge along the top, just a little bit above the first line of writing. The note showed evidence of creases and folds, minor tears and abrasions, stains and something sticky like maple syrup. I flipped the item from front to back and back to front.
“Serena, are you positive that the handwriting is Foley’s?” I asked.
“As much as I can be without being a handwriting expert.”
I held the paper up to the window in the hope that the light from it would reveal any hidden marks when there was a pounding on our room door.
“Sheriff, are you there?” It was Peterson. “Sheriff? Dr. MacKenzie?” He repeated his thumping.
“Yes, Peterson, I’m here. Give it a break.” Kyle went to the door and opened it. I saw Deputy Peterson, almost breathless, in his poncho restlessly shuffli
ng from one foot to the other by the doorway. “What is it?” Kyle barked.
“I came as fast as I could. You need to come and see this, Sheriff. He's dead as the road kill in front of your house,” nervously blurted the deputy.
“Who? ”
“Some guy.”
”What guy?”
“I don’t know, but there’s some dead guy behind the wood pile that’s located at the back of the inn.”
“Are you sure?” Kyle asked.
“Do you mean whether the dead person is a guy? Yes, he is a guy, no doubt about that.” Peterson, who was obviously rattled and gasping for air, paused for a deep breath before he continued. “Or do you mean if the dead guy is really dead. Yes, I am. He is missing part of his head.”
“What’s a dead guy doing behind the wood pile?” Kyle roared and complained. “Can you believe this?” Kyle grabbed his rain gear from the coat rack. “Do you have any idea how this guy met his maker?“
Peterson hesitated in answering my brother while we all watched Kyle struggled to twist and turn his bulk into his poncho. When the acrobatics were finished, Kyle brusquely asked the deputy again, “How do you think he died?”
“Shot in the head at close range, I think,” Peterson replied in a slow even cadence, contrasting his fidgeting hands and flitting eye movements.
“Oh, great! That is all I need today, two dead guys. One shot and the other . . . .”
“Deputy,” asked Bo, “does anyone besides us in this room know about the body?”
“No, ma’am.”
“How did you find the body?” I asked.
“Well, I was getting some wood for the fireplace, you know the one in dining area. So, I’m out in the rain by the stack of wood, when I went to pick up a log, the one next to it rolled and fell off the other side of the pile. Not wanting to leave things messy, I walked around the stack to fetch the runaway log. That is when I discovered the victim, face down in the brush, with blood all over the back of his head. I turned him over and checked for vital signs and found none. I drop the logs I had and ran directly up here, looking for you.”
Needless to say, any theories about the questionable suicide note were, for the moment, put on the back burner. With indecorous haste, we all put on our coats, made our way through the hall — ignoring the inquiries of a very confused Mrs. Prosper. We sped down the backstairs, ran out the side entrance, and battled the tempestuous elements of the worst storm to visit Vermont in last hundred years to see the deputy’s dead stranger behind the wood pile.
#
CHAPTER 7
“Peterson,” said Kyle, scrunching his eyes in disgust as he gazed at the muddy, bloody corpse at his feet, “when you checked this poor slob’s vital signs, did you have to rip open his jacket, go through his pockets, and toss him about in the muck? Show some respect. He is an absolute mess.”
“Honestly, Sheriff, I just flipped him over and took his pulse,” countered the young deputy, looking very perplexed next to his boss. “I didn’t try to strip search him. I didn’t leave him like that.” The voice of the young officer was nearly overpowered by a sudden torrent of wind and rain.
Afraid that the fierce gusts of the nor’easter would send his campaign hat on a flight to parts unknown, Kyle tightened its chin strap. Shouting over the wind, he asked Bo for her assessment of our new, dead acquaintance.
My wife and I hung back from viewing the spectacle up close. Morgana abstained because she said that she felt a bit squeamish, and I had come to the conclusion that I saw enough dead bodies for one day.
Bo squatted by the victim and gave it a quick look. “Who would do this to you, my friend . . . I wonder?” she said as if she were consoling him. “For the time being, guys, let’s not mention that we have another dead body on our hands.” Bo stood up and shook her hands to rid herself of anything she had on them. “Deputy, you said that you only flipped this poor devil over to check for life signs, and nothing else?”
“That’s it, Agent Boswell. In fact, I thought he was a bit closer to the wood pile.”
“How much closer, do you think, Deputy?” asked Bo, as she looked in the surrounding woods.
“Oh, about five feet . . . maybe a little less.“
“The man may not have been dead when you left him, Peterson,” said Morgana as she adjusted her plastic rain bonnet that she got at a funeral a year ago.
“Or he was dragged,” I said.
“By whom?” Kyle asked from beneath his wide-brimmed hat.
“By whoever shot him would be my guess,” answered Bo.
“Shot? Are we sure?”
“Yes, Kyle, he was most definitely shot. The deputy got it right,” Bo pronounced. “The wound is unmistakeably a gunshot wound.”
“Makes sense, I suppose,” I said.
“Good!” declared my brother. “Finally, there is something going my way.”
The three of us gave him a withering look. “Kyle,” I said, trying not to sound judgmental, “would you mind explaining what you meant by that comment?”
“What I meant was that it feels good to be positively certain about how someone died for a change — unlike our Mr. Foley upstairs.”
“Oh,” muttered Bo.
“But, what I don’t get,” continued Kyle, “is why would the assailant bother to drag this guy just a few feet?”
“Maybe,” said Morgana, “because our unknown assailant was interrupted by Peterson, and the assailant then had to work quickly in searching the body before someone returned. And, so . . . he dragged the victim further into the bush to avoid being seen from the house.”
“You know, guys”— a terrifying thought came to mind — “we didn’t see anyone coming into the building when we came out . . . and since we are now standing on an island . . . .”
Apparently Bo had a similar thought at the very same time. She had already unholstered her gun and eyed the narrow, soggy path that disappeared into the woods. “Kyle . . . Peterson . . . I strongly suggest that the two of you display your weapons.” Bo’s cool, take-charge demeanor quickly convinced the two representatives of the county constabulary to comply with her request. Guns were drawn.
Morgana hugged my arm. “Why are they taking — ”
“If we didn’t see anyone pass by us, then that means the shooter could very well be somewhere close by.” As I spoke, the glittering gold watchband on the dead stranger’s arm snared my attention, like freshly cooked bacon would a dog’s — or Kyle’s for that matter. “That’s the gold band, that I saw. The dead guy must be the person who spoke to Arezoo.”
“Bull’s-eye, Old Sport,” whispered Serena. “Does anyone know where this path leads to?”
“To a boat house,” I replied.
“There aren’t any boats on this river,” said Kyle. “It’s too shallow and rocky. Well, not today, of course . . . But I still wouldn’t take a boat in it.”
“Well, that’s what I was told. The structure is mainly used as a shed to store seasonal furniture and sports equipment.” I explained.
“Richard,” said Bo, “why don’t you go back inside with Morgana.” She took a step closer to us. “And while you are there, tactfully, and I want to stress that . . . tactfully see if anyone came in from the rain in during the last half hour or so. And check and see if the phones are working yet. A little help on that front could be useful.”
”What are you going to do?” I answered, betraying some annoyance.
“The rest of us will be looking for the assailant.” Holding her gun with both hands, Bo pointed her weapon to the ground, her eyes scanned the path and the area in front of us. “Kyle, keep down and go ten feet or so to my right. Deputy, you do the same on my left.”
For some reason, I felt . . . shall I say . . . emasculated by Bo’s request. Was I to be sent behind the lines with the women folk and wait for the cavalry to arrive? Was I to be kept away from the action while my ex-girlfriend, my brother and his deputy pursue an unseen killer? Why should they go on the
chase and not me? I knew that I was more athletically inclined than my brother, which is not really saying much, and I had more life experience than Peterson. I was more of an asset in a pursuit than they were. And besides, I never fancied taking orders from Bo.
“No, Morgana can go back by herself,” I countered.
“No, Rich, you are going back to the inn, just as I said.”
“Why?”
“Because, you thick dunderhead — the killer, the deputy, Kyle, and I, all have guns, and YOU DON’T!”
“Ah, that is a good point.” Bo always had a good point or two when we argued back in the day. And I always took pride in being a man of reason. So, I did as I was told. I escorted my beloved wife back to the safety of the inn amid her complaints about me trying to show off, putting myself in danger, and stupidly setting her up to be a widow and .etc. Another heavy torrent of rain let loose as the armed threesome melted into the wet forest as Morgana and I dashed toward the sanctuary of the dry indoors. We were about to enter the same door that we had exited when stupidity suddenly took hold of me again. “Let’s not go in this way.”
“Why not? I’m drenched,” said Morgana — declaring her exasperation with me.
“Because, we came out this way. No one came by us. Let’s see if we can get inside another way. Maybe the assailant did the same.”
“Hey, crazy man! The person whom we’re looking for is armed, and a killer. Bo told you not to track — ”
“I was told to tactfully find out if anyone had recently entered the inn. Who said that I was tracking down a murderer?”
What I had just said was nonsense, and we both knew it. But something inside me wanted to be in on the chase. If the murderer feared discovery by someone looking out from the house, maybe — I rationalized to myself — just maybe the house would offer me some sort of protection that the dense woods didn’t.
FATED TO THE PURPOSE (Richard and Morgana MacKenzie Mysteries Book 2) Page 10