Blood Knot: a small town murder mystery (Frank Bennett Adirondack Mysteries Book 3)

by S. W. Hubbard

  "Geez,” Pauline said, shaking her head. “Just when you think you’ve seen it all, an entirely new kind of nut shows up.”

  “Thank you both for your help." Rusty turned his earnest, freckled face toward Frank. “We need to carefully examine the campsite to determine what provoked that attack. I'm really not sure if I can get those journals to you by noon.”

  Frank snorted. Rusty thought everyone was as sincere as he was. “Don’t worry about it. When I deliver them to Payne, I’ll blame the lateness on the DEC bureaucracy.”

  Rusty smiled, then shook his head. “Do you really think those journals could be so important to him that he’d put two more of his employees at risk to get them?"

  Frank looked up at a hawk wheeling over the meadow across the road. “Makes you wonder what’s in them, doesn’t it?”

  Chapter 3

  Rusty paced anxiously waiting for his crew of DEC officers to arrive. Frank was about to reach out a hand to stop him when the young ranger announced, “I’m heading back up the trail—send them up when they get here, would you?”

  “Don’t go alone—it’s not safe,” Pauline said.

  Rusty hesitated.

  Frank understood how hard it was for him not to be at the scene of the attack. “I’m not sure how much help I’ll be, but I’ll go up with you, Rusty.”

  “Great!” Rusty sprang into action before Pauline could offer any further objections, and Frank followed him up the path.

  After an hour of steady climbing, the trail switched back, then leveled out. Before them lay the campsite.

  A small campfire had been built on a cleared patch of ground, and the damp, charred remains showed that it had been carefully extinguished. Three two-man tents surrounded the campfire like strangely shaped yellow and green mushrooms. A fourth tent was collapsed, its bright yellow fabric shredded and stained with streaks of deep red. Small white feathers floated around in the breeze. It took Frank a moment to realize they were escaping from the tom sleeping bag. Dark blots marked the bare earth: the blood of Jake Reiger.

  Rusty said nothing as he set to work, his usually cheerful face a grim mask. Frank stayed out of his way, alert for any sound of the returning bear.

  Occasionally Rusty spoke aloud the observations he was recording in his notebook. “Here are the remains of the campers' dinner wrapped up inside a bear-proof canister, like you’re supposed to do. There’s no other food visible anywhere here.”

  “Maybe the smell of cooking attracted him. Bears will go after the grease on camp grills, right?” Frank asked.

  “Yes, but it looks like all they did was boil water to add to those freeze-dried trail food packs.” Rusty held an unopened one up for Frank to see. "These really don’t smell like much when you mix them, and they’ve cleaned all their utensils.”

  Rusty continued to go through the standing tents, looking for food or strong-smelling lotions that could have attracted the bear.

  “Nothing,” he said as he emerged from the third tent. They stood looking at the collapsed tent. “Well, obviously Reiger had something in there,” Frank said.

  Rusty continued to look baffled. “Tent invasions are more common at busy public campgrounds filled with inexperienced campers. The bears come to associate tents with food, and will go in after it. Reiger seemed like such a responsible, knowledgeable guy when he came into my office last week to get advice on where to camp. I gave him the drill on bears. He used to live out west, where they have grizzlies—I could tell he was taking me seriously.”

  They heard the sound of the other DEC officers coming up the trail. “I'll wait for them to take this tent apart,” Rusty said.

  When three rangers and Pauline Phelps entered the clearing, Rusty asked, “Any word on—” The look on their faces made him break off.

  “Jake Reiger died on the way to the hospital. He lost too much blood—there was nothing they could do,” Pauline said.

  They all stood awkwardly, looking at the scene of Jake Reiger’s terrible death.

  Rusty shivered. “Thirty-two years old,” he said in a whisper.

  “Did he have family around here?”

  “I don’t think so. He lived on campus. I only met him once, he seemed like a really nice guy. I can’t believe his life is over.”

  Frank recognized the young person’s unshakable belief that death only occurred to the old or to those who had done something to deserve it. He’d felt that way himself until three years ago.

  Working as a cop should have convinced him of death’s utter randomness, but for years it hadn’t. He’d managed to convince himself that if you didn’t run with a crowd of punks, didn’t live with violent, crazy relatives, didn’t have any bad habits, you could beat death and live until you were ready to die.

  But Estelle’s death had taught him that death can come to anyone at any time, without justice or reason or mercy. One day she had been his good, healthy, clean-living wife; the next she lay wired to machines in a hospital room, her brain flooded by her own blood, the victim of an aneurysm that couldn’t be anticipated or cured. She hadn’t deserved death, hadn’t been ready for it, but it had come for her anyway, just as it had come for Jake Reiger.

  “Have you had reports of aggressive bears on Corkscrew before?" Frank asked. Talking business was the only consolation he could offer Rusty.

  “Never. Several hikers have reported seeing a young male around there, but he’s always run off when he saw them. A mature male can be aggressive when he’s pro­tecting his turf, and of course you don’t want to come between a mother and her cubs, but the adolescents are rarely threatening. The whole episode is just bizarre. Well, let's take apart this tent."

  As Frank watched, the rangers carefully disassembled the tent. From the expressions on their faces, they were all as shocked as Rusty.

  “I’ve never seen anything like it,” one officer said. “It’s like the bear was in a feeding frenzy. There has to be something in here that he was after.”

  They bagged the pieces of tent fabric and then the broken pieces of the frame. Finally, they got to the sleeping bag. The blood-soaked, tattered nylon and feathers were hardly recognizable as camping gear.

  Rusty lifted a piece up, and the other officer looked away as he held a bag open to receive it. After he dropped it in, Rusty rubbed his fingers together. "There’s something greasy on my fingers.” He sniffed them, and looked up with wide eyes. “It’s bacon grease!”

  “Well, that explains it,” Frank said. "Isn’t bacon grease what you guys use as the bait when you trap bears?”

  "There’s nothing they like better. When we set a culvert trap, we collect a big container of bacon grease from the diner and smear it on a board. The bear can smell it from half a mile away. He goes right into the trap and starts licking and gnawing on the board, knocks it down, and the trap door closes behind him. It’s foolproof.”

  Rusty looked around. "But they didn’t cook any bacon here. All they did was boil water for those freeze- dried meals.”

  “It must have been left on the bag from a previous trip. Man, what awful luck!”

  Rusty’s pale brows were drawn down in concentration. “There had to be a hell of a lot of grease on that bag to provoke this kind of reaction. That bear was eating, not just sniffing around. Reiger surely would have noticed it when he climbed into the bag.”

  “Maybe he did, but it’s so cold out, what choice did he have but to use it?” Pauline said.

  Rusty exchanged glances with the other conservation officers, who were all shaking their heads. “He could have improvised something—he would have known better than to use a bag soaked in bacon grease.” Rusty stared at his slippery fingers. “Could someone have sabotaged Reiger’s sleeping bag?”

  “Whoa, whoa, Rusty. That’s a big leap you’re making,” Frank said.

  “I think Reiger was a very sound sleeper,” Rusty continued. “He made some comment to me about how he could sleep anywhere, no matter how cold it was. So they must’ve smea
red it on after he fell asleep.”

  “Who? You think the kids did this as a prank, not realizing how dangerous it could be?” Pauline asked.

  “Maybe they didn’t realize; maybe they did.”

  “Do you realize what you’re saying?” Frank asked. "That would be premeditated murder. And for that, my friend, you need a motive.”

  “Look, these kids have all been in trouble before, right? They must hate being at the academy, hate their teachers—”

  Frank interrupted. “I hated Miss Hecht for rapping me with a ruler when I wrote my B s backwards in first grade. I still hate that bitch, but I never once considered murdering her.”

  Pauline nodded. “Frank's right, Rusty. You’re upset because you knew this guy.” She turned to the other DEC officers. “What do you think?”

  The older of the two spoke first. “Rusty’s got a point. I've never seen a bear attack like that. A trace amount of grease on the bag might have attracted him, but he probably would’ve sniffed around and left when he realized there was nothing to eat. This bear was in a feeding frenzy—there had to be a lot of bacon grease. And I don’t see how a lot of grease could’ve gotten on that bag unless someone put it there intentionally.”

  “How hard could it be for one of the kids to slip into the kitchen and get bacon grease?" Rusty said. “Or maybe it's that fellow Vreeland—he’s not a student, he’s one of those Pathfinders.”

  “Why would he want to harm Reiger?” Frank objected.

  “I don’t know!”

  Frank had never seen the young officer so agitated. “I’m telling you, this is not normal. An experienced camper does not crawl into a sleeping bag soaked in bacon grease in bear country.” His eyes blinked rapidly. “What a horrible way to die.”

  Frank glanced away. He’d been trying to keep the image of Jake Reiger waking up with a bear gnawing on him buried in a dark corner of his consciousness. Man was supposed to be at the top of the food chain; being eaten shouldn’t be a worry.

  “Bad enough to die that way in a terrible accident. But what if he really was set up—literally fed to a wild animal?” Rusty said, turning toward Pauline. "Surely there’s something the state police can do?”

  Pauline’s broad, pragmatic face didn’t show a ripple of emotion. “I’ll mention it to Lieutenant Meyerson. If he agrees, we’ll go over and speak to Dr. Payne.”

  Frank felt a stab of alarm. Pauline had already gotten off to a bad start with Payne, and Lew Meyerson, her boss, conformed to every hard-nosed state trooper stereotype in the book. He could only imagine the outraged response from Reid Burlingame if the state police and the DEC started making wild accusations against the students of the North Country Academy. But if Rusty was right, then the attack had to be investigated.

  “You guys are awfully busy. Why don’t you let me handle it?” Frank offered.

  Pauline looked relieved. “That’s a good idea. The school is in your jurisdiction."

  “Let’s keep this information about the bacon grease quiet until we get the test results back from the lab and we’re absolutely sure of what we’re talking about, all right?” Frank said.

  Rusty turned on him. “You’re going to hush this up, aren’t you?”

  "No, but I can’t go marching over to the academy and start accusing Payne’s students of murdering one of his teachers with no proof. We’re talking about people’s livelihoods here. Accusations of murder could undermine the school right as it’s getting started. And if we’re wrong, what do we say? ‘Oh, never mind?’ ” Frank jammed his hands in his pockets. “We have no hard evidence of murder.”

  Rusty hoisted a loaded pack onto his back. “That’s what I’m asking you to look for, Frank.”

  Chapter 4

  “What’s going on at the old flower shop?” Frank stood at his office window, looking at the line of pickup trucks parked in front of the long-deserted store. A steady stream of men carried two-by-fours, wallboard, and other construction supplies into the building.

  The sound of the phrase “what’s going on” brought Doris, the town secretary, in on the trot.

  "Haven’t you heard? Clyde Stevenson is turning the old flower shop into a library for the town.”

  “You’re kidding! That’s a really great idea. But he’s owned that building for years. Why’s he suddenly doing it now?”

  “You know,” Doris said darkly. “With the end being near, and all—”

  “It’s going to be the Clyde P. Stevenson Memorial Library.” Earl, Frank’s civilian assistant, joined the conversation. “Ever since Clyde found out he’s got liver cancer, he’s been doing all kinds of charity stuff. I guess he thinks it’ll help him out.” Earl glanced heavenward.

  Frank snorted. “A last-minute rush to get a few hatch marks in the plus side of the column, eh?”

  “Frank!”

  Frank was immune to Doris’s scolding. People often reproached him for saying aloud what they had been thinking. He did feel a little guilty though. Clyde had always been a thorn in his side, but in a matter of months, the poor guy had gone from feisty and energetic to frail and cadaverous. He was dying, and the doctors had told him there was nothing they could do.

  “I think a memorial library is a wonderful legacy to leave to the town," Frank said. He felt Earl scrutinizing him for traces of sarcasm. “What? You know I love to read. I’ll be that library’s first customer. I just hope that they have some good books.” Clyde’s legendary thriftiness didn’t bode well for an extensive collection.

  “You don’t have to worry about that,” Earl assured him. “Guess who’s helping him organize all the books, and stuff? Penny Stevenson.”

  Frank completely missed the cup with the coffee he was pouring. “No way!”

  Earl and Doris nodded in unison. “She’s up here right now,” Doris said. “I saw her with Clyde at Malone’s. They had the plans spread out and she was showing him how the shelves should be arranged."

  “Penny’s over at Malone's right now?" Frank’s face lit up and he grabbed his jacket. “I’m going to go say hello.”

  Doris and Earl exchanged a glance.

  “What’s that look for?” Frank asked. “The last time I saw the kid, she was all banged up in the hospital. I’d like to know how she’s doing, all right?”

  He strode across the green, his hands shoved in his jacket pockets. Earl drove him nuts with this Cupid routine. No matter how often he insisted he wasn’t heartbroken over Beth Abercrombie leaving town, Earl refused to believe it. Whenever a woman somewhere between the age of consent and assisted living crossed his radar screen, Earl started eyebrow raising, winking, and elbowing to draw Frank’s attention to her. Naturally Penny, as pretty as she was, would set Earl’s alarms off. But Penny was young enough to be his daughter. Almost.

  Clyde Stevenson and his wife, Elinor, were slowly making their way to the door of Malone’s Diner as Frank entered. He held the door open for them as Clyde, his face ashen with pain, shuffled forward clinging to his wife’s arm.

  "Thank you, Frank,” Elinor said as she passed through the door. “I’m afraid Clyde’s overdone it this morning. I’ve got to get him home.” Frank watched to be sure they made it to their car before turning to scan the crowd at the diner. At first he thought he must have missed Penny, but then he spotted a dark head bent intently over some papers in the back booth.

  She didn’t hear him approaching until he spoke. “Hi, Penny—I didn’t expect to see you here again.”

  She glanced up through her long bangs, then sprang out of her seat. “Frank! How great to see you!” She threw her arms around him and kissed him on the cheek.

  He hadn’t expected such an enthusiastic greeting, especially in the middle of Malone’s. He sized Penny up: still the same long legs, the same chin-length dark hair, the trademark beads and jangly earrings. The only thing missing was the big diamond engagement ring and platinum band that she used to wear on her left hand.

  “You’re looking good. You’re all healed
up from the accident?”

  “Yes. At first the doctors thought I might always walk with a limp, but I had a great physical therapist. I'm all better now.” She smiled and Frank noticed another change. The former thousand-watt grin had dimmed a bit.

  “So what's this I hear—you’re helping your father-in-law plan the new library?”

  “Ex-father-in-law,” she corrected. “I was shocked when he called. But he wants to mend fences, and it’s a fun project. Besides, believe it or not, I’ve missed this place.”

  “Now that surprises me. You must be having a great time working as a librarian in Manhattan.”

  “Oh, yeah . . . definitely.” Penny fidgeted with her beads. "But it’s nice to get out of the city occasionally. So, have you seen these plans? Look what we’re going to do.” She slid the library plans across the table to Frank and began to point out the children’s room, the shelves for fiction and nonfiction, and the reference section. They sat with their heads bowed over the blueprints until the sound of a throat being cleared roused them.

  Earl stood beside the table. "Frank, Rusty’s here with those backpacks you’re supposed to take back to the North Country Academy."

  Frank glanced at his watch and jumped up. “Gee, I didn’t realize it was so late. Well, Penny, nice talking to you. I guess we’ll see you around.”

  “Sure. Bye, Frank.”

  As Frank and Earl walked back across the town green, Earl looked over his shoulder and waved.

  “Who are you waving at?” Frank asked.

  “Penny. She was looking out the window of Malone’s.”

  Rusty sat in the driver’s seat of his Jeep, head flung back, eyes shut. His wiry red hair, unruly under the best of circumstances, stood up in tufts. A filthy uniform, muddy boots, and scratched hands and face told the story of his day.

  “Find the bear?” Frank asked.

  “Eight guys walked every inch of that mountain with trained bear-tracking dogs. We could see which direction he headed, but we lost him. We’re going out again tonight to set a trap. Until we get him, that trail is closed.”