Kyle gave me a quick once over and concentrated on me holding the ice on my head. “What in hell did you do?“
“I thought that it would be interesting to slam the back of my head into a crowbar that someone was holding.”
“Somebody hit you with a crowbar?” Kyle said as he sat down next Morgana.
“I think the more accurate way to put it would be that someone tried to kill Richard with a crowbar,” interjected Morgana.
“Where? When did this happen?”
“About fifteen . . . twenty minutes ago in the cellar,“ Morgana declared.
“That scream . . . that was you?”
“Yes, ah, no but — ” I didn’t quite know how to answer that question.
My wife at this point time was giving Kyle a few sniffs. “You smell like a forest fire.”
“Do I? My uniform dried near the fireplace, I must have picked up the scent. Is it bad? I just showered.”
“The smell must have gotten into your hair. Richard has the same problem when he barbecues. He doesn’t like grilling over gas, so he uses wood and charcoal, and the smokey smell gets into his hair all the time. He really has to shampoo several times to get the stink out. If he doesn’t, I won’t let him in bed with me.”
“Hey guys, there are more pressing matters than stinky Kyle,” I said.
“Morgana was speaking about you,” my brother spouted, “and your problem.” He then turned to Morgana and asked in a hushed voice — but loud enough for me to hear — “How hard was he hit in the head?”
“Agent Boswell and I believe that he received at least a slight concussion. If Richard hadn’t such a hard head, and his assailant hadn’t such bad aim,” Morgana eyes drifted toward the floor and then to me, “Richard might have been killed.”
“Yikes! Any idea who did it, Rich?”
“The short answer . . . NO.”
“The long answer?”
“Most likely the guy who killed the guy by the wood pile.”
“Gee. There’s a lot to think about,” said Kyle. “We have two bodies on our hands with you almost making a third. Where is Bo . . . eh, Agent Boswell?”
“Serena and Peterson are in the kitchen with Arezoo and her husband trying — ” I said adjusting my ice pack. “They are trying to prevent the husband and wife from going to see the body outside.”
“Why does Arezoo want to visit our new dead friend?” Kyle asked.
“Because our new friend is, or more correctly was, her brother.” I declared.
“Her brother?” Kyle leaned forward in the sofa. “Oooh. Are we sure that it is her brother?”
“Well, I assume that’s part of what Serena and Peterson are trying to work out at this moment. They want the body to be properly identified without muddying up the crime scene.”
“You said that Peterson and Boswell are in the kitchen?”
“Yep.”
“Well, then, I should be getting in there to straighten everything out.” Kyle had rocked his body back and forth several times before he acquired sufficient energy to get himself airborne and out of his seat. Upon standing, my brother flattened the robe that bunched up over its sash and adjusted his gun belt and excused himself from our company. As he started toward the kitchen, he came by me, paused and dropped a plastic bag containing a gun into my lap. “Take a look at this.”
“Is this gun Foley’s?” I asked
“Not sure, but take a close look at it. This gun is very much like the one found in his room.”
I examined it and commented, “It looks exactly the like the one Serena found.” I fleetingly glanced up at Morgana and saw that she appeared disturbed by my observation.
“I stumbled on it . . . eh, found it in the mud by the river,” said Kyle. “That bloody thing will cost me an expensive trip to the dry cleaners, if not a new uniform.”
I gave my brother back the gun which he tucked back into the bag. Kyle stuck his chin up, took several deep breaths, and marched into the kitchen with all the dignity that he could muster. The doors swung back and forth in his wake.
“In that outfit, Kyle should get everyone’s attention, I would think.” My remark made Morgana smile.
“Richard, now that we are alone, won’t you tell me what exactly was going on between you and Serena?”
“When?” The vision of Bo stepping out of the shower flashed in my mind.
“When? Why, when the two you were an ‘item’ during your undergrad days.”
“Oh . . . well, what do you want to know?”
“You never really talked about her. You just referred to her as an ex-girlfriend.”
“She was when I met you. She was very exed at the at time if I recall.” I said as I switched hands that held the ice to my head.
“She must have been more than just an old girlfriend. You said that you had feelings for her; that you loved her — ”
“I was young and stupid. I have gotten a doctorate since then. It probably wasn’t love at all, but perhaps gas or something.”
“Stop it, Richard. Be a little serious. Serena mentioned that the two of you influenced each other’s, eh, life paths or something like that. So, tell me?”
That topic had been artfully avoided for over twenty years, so it must have been the bump on my noggin which weaken my resistance to chat about Serena. I wasn’t in any mood to answer a salvo of follow-up questions which I knew would come once the topic of my relationship with Bo had been broached. So, I prefaced the history of my turbulent affair with “Bo” Boswell with the condition that the tale would be brief. If there were to be questions or any clarifications, they would have to wait until my head felt better.
Out of pity for my condition, I’m sure, Morgana accepted my conditions. She sat back in the sofa, stretched out her hand and softly held mine which signaled me to talk. As my brain strained to select specific clips from the streaming memories from my halcyon college days, I began with how Bo and I met.
“It was the first day of an American literature course. Serena was late to class. Dressed in tight jeans, a lavender knit sweater, and knee high brown boots, she captured my attention as she passed my desk. Words like ‘having’ and ‘possessing’ instantly acquired a broader, deeper, and dangerously darker meanings for me as she slid into the seat two desks in front of me. After class, I summoned up enough courage to ask her out on a date, and soon after we became an ‘item.’”
I continue to explain that Serena was wealthy, good looking, smart, and had very liberal attitudes toward intimate social encounters — an irresistible prize for any college guy. But I also confessed to Morgana that I always thought it odd that Bo, who could have had her pick of boyfriends, chose to hang with me. I could never figure that out. Yet, as Bo and I became more and more of a couple, I began to feel that I was a social experiment of hers, rather than her significant other. Bo had a very broad and inclusive civic consciousness. From where those feelings sprung, I couldn’t say. Maybe her attitude was born out of a self-imposed guilt or a rebelliousness against her privileged lifestyle. But in any case, one day Bo volunteered for a community improvement project down in Roxbury, Massachusetts. It was a program that was sponsored by our college during the summer between our junior and senior years. And being smitten as I was, I felt that if Bo volunteered, so would I.
To put it in the proverbial nutshell, the poverty, the victimization, the hopelessness in some of those neighborhoods changed something in both our souls. Being a grandchild of a powerful food magnate, Serena became upset about the access to nutritional food in the community. She was repulsed by the poor quality of everyday staples and vowed to do something about.
I worked in a summer program at one of the local junior high schools. The work was difficult, frustrating — but ultimately, deeply satisfying. I remember that the weather was hot and humid that August summer when I came to the conclusion that my education, up to that time, traveled a road that led to a world of elitism. I asked myself what good was an education if it co
uldn’t be shared. And, so, I had come to the realization that a new life plan was needed. That very summer, I decided that I would become a high school teacher.
Morgana listened patiently, but my reminiscences of my teaching experiences outside of Boston was old turf for her. I was positive that she wished that I didn’t drift from the topic that really piqued her interest — Bo. But my recently incurred injury gave me the perfect dodge to avoid any detailed retelling of the lost love between Bo and myself. A topic that I felt very uncomfortable in recounting. I stopped my tale right before I came to the part about the last time I saw Serena, so many years ago.
“Could you, Love,” I asked, “see if you can get me some more ice? By the feel of this bag, I think that all the ice inside it has just about all melted.” I handed the chilled liquid-filled bag to Morgana and hoped that my request would put an end to her inquiry . . . or so I thought.
Morgana began to move her lips as if she was going to protest, but she didn’t. She gave me a reluctant grin and got up to retrieve more ice. I was left alone again with my aches and pains for company. It was then that I did something that I was ordered not to do; I went to sleep.
#
CHAPTER 9
“Richard? Can you hear me?”
Before I had a chance to open my eyes, a cold, moist mass touched my face which somehow triggered in my addled brain that I was drowning in the middle of North Atlantic. My hands struck out aimlessly as if to claw my way to oxygen. With a mighty gasp, I roared, “Air!”
My overreaction took poor Kyle completely by surprise who had assumed the role of Clara Barton by bringing me a replenished ice bag. Crouching in front of me, Kyle abruptly went back on his heels and landed on his back, looking like a refugee from a teddy bear’s parade.
“Kyle? Are you trying to kill me or something?” I growled as I attempted to assess the situation.
“Morgana said you needed more ice for your head,” he protested from the floor. “I found you quiet and your eyes closed and . . . and, you know you shouldn’t sleep because of a possible concussion — ”
“I will give you a concussion if you do that again. Don’t sneak up and put ice packs on people when they are sleeping.”
After giving me a hand gesture — that summed of his feelings at the time, Kyle rolled from side to side several times to get enough momentum to turn himself over onto his stomach. When he achieved this object, he then got on all fours and pulled himself up to his feet, using the sofa as an aid. Watching my brother’s two-minute maneuver was like observing a giant turtle on its back trying to right itself. And lucky for Kyle that he didn’t take longer than he did. At the moment of his triumphant return to an upright standing position, the three gentlemen associated with our Mr. Foley came in from the storm entering by the front lobby door.
“Kyle,” I said in a hushed voice and discreetly pointed to our new arrivals, as they took off their tempest tossed coats.
“Ayup, I see them.” I quietly responded Kyle.
And it wasn’t long before they saw him too.
“Getting ready for bed, Sheriff?” mouthed off one of the trio who appeared to be the youngest of the three.
“No, no, my clothes are drying. I went into the river again; I was inspecting it. Part of my job, you know . . . eh, on-site local environment protection assessments of eh, river banks during flood stages, and the like.”
I cringed when he said that. My brother would always come out with the most absurd nonsense when he had to ad-lib . . . or lie.
“What’s your job, Sheriff, to slide into the river or to inspect it or both?” the young one replied and set his two companions to chuckling.
“Funny how I said that. I guess that I’m still a bit shaken up. No, no . . . I was checking the height and the intensity of the rising river waters. The part of the bank where I was standing gave way. And splash . . . back into the river again. I thought that I had almost bought the farm, or should I say a watery grave. Luckily, I caught hold of a tree branch which overarched the river and pulled myself out.”
Good recovery, I thought. Not only did Kyle get out of looking stupid, but he may have also gained some sympathy points. I wouldn’t doubt that this more recent river escapade of his probably happened in much the way that he had just told it.
Foley’s friend, Mr. Smith, the oldest looking of the three took several steps toward us and said with the appearance of sincerity, “I’m glad that you are okay, Sheriff. This place certainly has an evil pall about it. You certainly have had a streak of bad luck — going into the river twice, and then there’s my colleague and dear friend, Charles. . . . Where is his body now, Sheriff?”
“Pretty much where you saw him the last time, I’m afraid,” Kyle reluctantly replied.
“Dear God, you can’t leave him–”
“I assure you that the deputy and I, along with Agent Boswell, are doing our best under these unique circumstances. This storm has made everything around here topsy-turvy.”
Smith frowned and shook his head in a sign of resignation. The third member of the trio, who had been silent up to this point, looked at me and asked, “And what, in God’s name, happened to you?”
The ice bag, no doubt, was the giveaway of my misfortune.
“We’re not sure,” Kyle answered before I could muster a response. “My brother thinks that he was hit over the head from behind while he was exploring the basement.“ Kyle glanced at me at me and said, “I think that he most likely banged his head pretty hard on a low-hanging cellar beam or something.”
“Maybe . . . I don’t know,” I said, playing along. “It felt like I was whacked from behind. But to tell the truth, I don’t remember much of what happened.”
“Are you hurt badly?” the same guy asked.
“I have a nasty bump and a slight cut at the back of my head. I blacked out for a moment too.“
“You should see a doctor as soon as you can. You may have gotten a concussion. Take it easy. Don’t go asleep and don’t drink any alcohol.”
“Yeah, that’s what everyone around here is telling me.”
Kyle abruptly switched the topic from me to the poor guy we found dead near the wood pile. “Something has come up that I must talk to you gentlemen about. Since the three of you have been gone, there has been another death.”
Smith, the apparent alpha male of the group, asked, “Who’s dead?”
“We’re not positive who — ” I said.
“The brother of the head housekeeper,” replied Kyle, cutting me.
“Arezoo,” I said quickly. “She’s married to the chef, a guy who likes slamming doors people’s feet.” As I talked, I wondered if I was slightly slurring my words, or worse, was my speech was meandering and becoming pointless like Mrs. Prosper’s.
“Who slams doors?” Foley’s friend asked.
Kyle just looked at me strangely.
“Nothing . . . It doesn’t matter.” I said dismissively.
“How did it happen?” asked the youngest guy.
“Well, it may not have been an accident,” Kyle said with quiet gravity. “The victim was shot in the back of his head. That is why I must ask you three where you all were during the last hour or so.”
“We went out for a walk outside to see how cut off from the land we are.”
“And we you were — ”
“Must you ask us now?” Foley’s friend asked. “We’re a little wet presently and quite chilled to the bone. It is frightful outside. Give us five minutes to change into something dry.”
“I would prefer to question you now.”
“Sheriff, we can’t go anywhere; we are on an island now. Give us some time to get some dry things on, and after we’ll all have a drink, maybe an Irish coffee if it can be had. We’ll help you in any way we can. Surely, Sheriff, you of all the people here should appreciate what it is to walk around in wet clothes.”
Kyle reluctantly gave his permission. The three men hurried upstairs to their rooms. My brother’
s eyes followed them as they went upstairs. With his thumbs anchored beneath his gun belt, his exposed fingers rhythmically tapped his rotundity, he watched their departure and mumbled, “They weren’t that wet.”
“I wonder where they were?” I countered.
“Yeah, maybe that’s what I meant. Where did they go, and what were they doing outside?” Kyle adjusted robe. “Still, they weren’t very wet.”
“You know, Kyle, there is something about those guys that I don’t like. Foley’s friend, Smith, comes across like a snake looking for his lunch, and the younger fellow, the one that was ragging on you — ”
“The redhead — his name is Paul Dolan.”
“You got his name?”
“Serena got their names from Hograve.”
“Oh . . . well, I don’t like Dolan either, especially because his pants were like mine.”
“What do you mean?”
“Did you notice? Dolan’s pants, around the knees, an area protected by his coat if he were upright, there were traces of gray, dusty dirt . . . like the dust on my pants. And mine got soiled because I was spread eagle on the cellar floor.”
“So you think Dolan is the one who attacked you?” asked Kyle.
“I can’t say. I couldn’t swear to it. . . . I didn’t see who hit me, so what do I know, right? . . . But I sure would like to know where he was during the past hour.”
“I would like to know where they all were, The three of them weren’t inside when I came inside to take a shower. Do you have any thoughts on Williams — ”
“Who is — ”
“Steven Williams. He is the fourth member of the Foley quartet, the fellow who almost comes across . . . well, as the least creepy one.
“I don't trust him either, though, I was almost convinced that he actually had some concern about my head wound.”
“His pants were clean,” Kyle quipped in his defense.
“Hum, true . . . but I still don’t trust him.”
Kyle sat down next to me on the sofa. “You know, Rich, I’m glad that you are here with me on this . . . ah, what would you call this, eh . . .”
FATED TO THE PURPOSE (Richard and Morgana MacKenzie Mysteries Book 2) Page 13