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

by S. W. Hubbard

  The place stood as testament to all Katie and Paul’s enthusiasms. Two large black rectangles on the roof–solar energy collectors; a huge mound of leaves inside chicken wire with bits of banana peel and eggshell sticking out—the compost heap for the organic garden; a tall pole with a winged contraption on top—a windmill to generate electricity. And in the side yard, a monumental load of firewood, enough to heat the little house all winter with a wood-burning stove.

  Frank caught a glimpse of something shiny moving up and down and realized Paul was outside splitting wood. He wondered why Paul wasn’t at work, teaching at the North Country Academy on a Monday. On a whim, he pulled over.

  Petrucci moved like an automaton, placing a log in position, bringing his ax down in one smooth sweep, tossing the split wood aside, and starting all over again. Wiry but muscular, Paul had wavy dark hair and a strong profile. Easy to see why Katie Conover had fallen for him when they were both students at NYU. Harder to understand why they’d chosen to return to Katie's hometown to eke out a living and raise their kids in this rundown cabin.

  “Looks like nice, dry wood,” Frank said. “Where’d you get it?”

  Paul dropped the log he’d been setting up and spun around.

  “Oh, hi. I didn’t hear you pull up.” He surveyed his mountain of wood. “Bucky Reinholz delivered it.”

  “I need a small load for my fireplace, but I want it split and stacked.”

  “Bucky will do that for you, but it costs twice as much. I can’t afford that service.”

  “Really? I keep hearing that working at the North Country Academy pays very well. You’re not working today?”

  “The pay isn’t enough for the work Payne makes me do. And today, I finally have a day off.”

  Frank knew that Paul had taught at the academy for several years under the old regime. He fell into the “hippie intellectual” category in Frank’s classification system, so it didn’t surprise him that Paul and Payne hadn’t hit it off.

  “Are the hours longer, now that MacArthur Payne’s running the show?”

  “It’s the way I have to fill them. Half the time I’m on guard duty.”

  “Can’t take working with the kind of kids the academy attracts now?”

  “The kids aren’t a problem,” Paul answered, leaning on his ax. “In fact, many of my students this year are highly creative. They just have trouble fitting in ... controlling their impulses."

  Like an impulse to pour bacon grease over a sleeping teacher? The thought sprang into Frank’s head even though he'd convinced himself the sabotage idea was crazy.

  “Are any of them dangerous?”

  Paul snorted. “They’re simply rebellious kids.”

  “I hear Payne’s hired some local people,” Frank continued. “Ray Stulke, Lorrie Betz, Helen Pershing. Kind of an odd assortment, huh?”

  “Not odd if you want to surround yourself with drones who will do your bidding without question.” The ax fell again with a thud.

  “Guess he’ll have to do some more hiring, now that Jake Reiger died.”

  Paul paused. “Yes, that was a terrible accident.”

  “Did you know him well?”

  Paul shook his head. “We’ve only worked together for a few weeks. He was one of the teachers Payne brought with him when he bought the school."

  “So I guess Reiger shared Payne’s educational philosophy, not yours. Did you get along?”

  Paul kept his eyes focused on the next log to be split. “He was an outdoorsman. We had that in common."

  “Was he popular with the kids?”

  “None of us could possibly be well liked by the students, when we have to follow Payne’s curriculum.”

  “But was Reiger more harsh than the other teachers?”

  Paul seemed to sense Frank was on a fishing expedition, although he couldn’t know why. “No, I wouldn’t say so,” he answered, then returned to his chopping with greater vigor.

  Frank stood around a while longer, but Paul seemed to feel no compunction about ignoring him. As he was about to leave, the door of the house banged open and a little girl came tearing down the hill toward her father. Paul, who had his back to her, pulled his ax back for another swing.

  Frank intercepted the child and swept her up in his arms. “Whoa, there, missy—don’t get too close to that ax.”

  She squirmed away from him. “My name’s not Missy, it’s Deirdre.”

  Katie appeared right behind her daughter. A pretty woman, she succeeded in making herself look frumpy by yanking her hair back in a tight ponytail and wearing clothes that might as easily have belonged to her husband. “Deirdre, haven’t we spoken about how inappropriate it is to approach Daddy when he’s using a sharp tool?” she said in a patient voice.

  Frank tried not to roll his eyes. Definitely inappropriate to get your head split open like a cantaloupe. But he was glad Katie had shown up—he had a feeling he could push her buttons well enough to learn a little more about the North Country Academy.

  “Kids—they charge ahead without thinking, don’t they?"

  “Yes, I’m afraid teaching them that actions have consequences is a long process,” Katie said. Paul held Deirdre in his arms, where she hid her head on his shoulder.

  “That’s sort of what MacArthur Payne’s trying to do with his students, isn’t it?”

  “Harsh punitive measures are counterproductive, isn’t that right, Paul?” Katie always spoke in declarative sentences, never bothering with “I think” or "in my opinion.”

  “Usually they are.” He set Deirdre down and encouraged her to carry some of the split wood over to the stack he had started between two trees.

  “Some of those kids are pretty wild, though, aren’t they?” Frank asked.

  “They’re wild because most of them have parents who aren’t qualified to raise gerbils, let alone children,” Katie said. “Like that poor Heather LeBron.”

  “I think she was one of the girls on the campout with Jake Reiger.” Frank said. “I got the impression that even the other kids considered her a troublemaker.”

  “Heather is in Paul’s English class,” Katie said. “Tell Frank what she’s like, Paul.”

  Paul had picked up his ax again and answered them with his back half-turned. “I could tell from reading her essays that she was a deeply troubled girl, full of pain and rage. I’m trying to reach out to her, but she's been rejected so often, she’s terribly wary.”

  “Rejected?”

  “Her parents are divorced and both remarried,” Katie said. “Apparently neither couple wants Heather living with them. She’s been farmed out to nannies and boarding schools for years.”

  "So why is the North Country Academy any different than what she’s used to?” Frank asked.

  “It’s precisely the wrong environment for her,” Katie said. “She acts out because she’s starved for love and attention. Paul told Mac that her behavior would improve if they could find some positive outlet for her emotions.”

  “I want to give her the lead in a class play I’m planning,” Paul said, leaning on his ax. “But Payne insists she has to earn the right to even a walk-on part by jumping through all his behavior modification hoops. And she can’t do it—she keeps seeing the prize move further and further away with every transgression.” Transgression—that word again. It had such a Bible-thumping sound to it. “But surely you shouldn’t reward bad behavior?” Frank said.

  "No, of course not. But in Heather’s case, I feel that giving her a chance to be the center of attention in a positive way might allow me to break through to her. But Mac is adamant: no exceptions, everyone toes the line. It drives me crazy.”

  Paul was on a roll now. “And another thing—I don’t even have control of my own classroom. There’s always one of these Pathfinders sitting in the back, writing bad reports on the students in a notebook. How can they feel free to express themselves in an atmosphere of fear?”

  “It’s ridiculous,” Katie chimed in. “Paul is
far more qualified to know what teaching methods will work with these children.”

  “Payne does have a PhD,” Frank reminded her.

  Katie’s mouth twisted in scorn. “A PhD in motivational science from someplace called the Institute for Human Potential. Paul has a master’s in education from NYU—he didn’t send away for his degree from the back of a cereal box.”

  Frank smiled at the fact that a woman who lived in a house without central heating could be capable of elitism. “This disagreement over teaching methods must make it hard for you to keep working at the academy, Paul.”

  Paul bent and set up another log to split.

  “Yes.” Katie’s voice had an edge of stridency. “Paul won’t compromise the educational principles he believes in. But we both feel he can be a more effective force for change if he continues working there than if he quits.”

  A force for change, maybe. A force for keeping a roof over his head was more like it.

  Paul’s ax fell with enough force to send the two halves of the log flying across the yard.

  Chapter 10

  Frank walked into the DEC field office a few minutes past their scheduled meeting time and found Rusty, Rusty’s boss, Howard Norvin, and State Police Lieutenant Lew Meyerson all waiting for him.

  “Sorry I'm late.”

  “No problem—we all just got here,” Howard said genially. He opened a file in front of him. “I understand Rusty has some concerns about the death of the teacher over on Corkscrew. Lew, what can you tell us about the lab tests your boys did on the tent and the sleeping bag?”

  "Rusty was right. The substance he detected on the bag was definitely bacon grease.”

  “About how much would you say was on there?”

  “There were only scraps of the bag recovered, so it’s hard to say.”

  “What about the tent?"

  “Grease was detected on the bottom of the tent, but again, the fabric was shredded and not much was recovered.”

  Rusty sat forward eagerly in his chair. “Just like I said—it’s consistent with grease being poured—”

  Howard held up his hand for silence. “Let’s hear what everyone has to report before we start analyzing. Frank, you spoke to Dr. Payne to find out who had access to the camping gear and the kitchen?”

  Frank reported what he’d learned from Payne: that only Reiger and Payne had keys to the equipment room and only the cook and Payne had keys to the kitchen. “The kids don’t have much freedom of movement on campus," Frank added. “Someone’s watching them twenty-four/seven. I don’t think they would have the opportunity to procure the grease.”

  “So we can be fairly certain the grease attracted the bear,” Howard said. “Now the question is, how did it get there? Rusty?”

  Rusty took a deep breath. “I believe that it had to be intentionally poured on him as he slept. I feel the ferocity of the attack indicates a significant quantity of grease. The fact that very little was left of the sleeping bag and tent bottom supports this. If the grease had been on his bag from a prior use, Reiger would have noticed it when he pitched camp. He was an experienced camper—he would have understood the danger. It had to have been put on as he slept—he told me he was a heavy sleeper."

  Howard nodded but didn’t react. “Your thoughts, Frank?”

  “As I pointed out, it would’ve been hard for the kids to get the stuff. Plus, I don’t really see them as having a motive. I spoke to two teachers who both seemed to feel these kids are just rebellious teenagers. Maybe a little more difficult than most, but not violent. And Payne says he won’t take kids with a history of violence."

  “And you believe him? Take him at his word?” Rusty burst out.

  Frank was startled by Rusty’s accusatory tone. He’d always gotten along well with him. “I didn’t tell him what you suspected. He had no reason to lie.”

  Howard nipped the exchange. “Lew, tell us what you think.”

  “I’m with Frank—I don’t see motive or opportunity among the students, although it is puzzling how the grease got there.”

  “I have a theory given to me by someone who understands hunters. Tell me what you think of this.” Frank explained Earl’s idea that hunters had disposed of the grease and Reiger had had the misfortune to pitch his camp near the spot.

  “I had a similar thought myself, and shared it with Rusty earlier,” Howard said. “It is the most popular spot to camp on that trail. And we do have problems with hunters setting bait. Not very sportsmanlike, but when they come up here for a hunting weekend, they don’t like to go home empty-handed.” Howard turned to his colleague. “You’ve gotta admit, that theory holds water, Rusty.”

  Frank felt reassured that Howard, an officer with twenty-five years of experience, had independently come up with the same idea as Earl.

  "There was a lot of grease! How could he not notice something like that on the ground?” Rusty protested, but he sounded less adamant than he had previously.

  “You told me the kids said they pitched the tents under Reiger’s supervision,” Howard reminded him. "Part of their training, right? Most of these kids are city dwellers. What would they know?”

  “It makes sense to me,” Lew agreed. “For that matter, if they’re city kids, how would they even get the idea for this type of sabotage if they don’t know about bear behavior?”

  “But if the grease was on the ground, how did it get on the bag?” Rusty asked. “If they pitched the tent over it, it would've only been on the tent bottom.”

  “They could’ve dropped the sleeping bag on the spot first,” Frank said. “Some of the bags I returned didn’t have covers—they were rolled and tied.”

  “I think we have a reasonable explanation, Rusty,” Howard said with an I’ve-indulged-you-enough finality. “I'm sure if anything else turns up, Frank and Lew will let us know.”

  Rusty said nothing, just looked down at his boots. The older men exchanged glances.

  Surprisingly, the tension breaker came from Lew. "Did I ever tell you about one of my first cases when I got assigned to the Ray Brook Barracks twelve years ago? I had worked in Rochester when I first became a trooper, and I didn’t know the Adirondacks at all. One day I got a call to investigate a break-in at a summer cottage. Thief sliced through a screen to gain entry while the homeowners were out. The place was trashed. Kitchen completely ransacked—drawers pulled out, contents of the cupboards thrown on the floor. First thing I think—the thief is looking for cash, because people often hide cash in the kitchen. Then the homeowner shows me the bathroom—medicine cabinet ripped clean off the wall. Aha, I think—looking for prescription drugs. Thief left by breaking through the bedroom window—must’ve been surprised by someone’s approach, I figure.”

  By this time, Howard’s shoulders were shaking with silent laughter. “I remember this case! You were the cop?”

  Meyerson, normally so hard-nosed, cracked a smile. “I got teased about it for years—I can’t believe I’m bringing it up again. So anyway, I filed the report, say we’re on the lookout for a violent burglar, possibly with a drug habit. The next day, the homeowner calls to say that while they were cleaning up the mess, they found a big pile of shit in the closet and it didn’t look human. Oh, and that maybe he’d forgotten to mention that his wife had baked an apple pie before they’d left the house that night, and they found the empty pie pan under the bed.”

  Frank was laughing and even Rusty had to smile. Lew rose and clapped the young ranger on the shoulder. “The moral of that story is, even if it looks like a crime, even if it sounds like a crime, it might just be a bear with dinner on his mind.”

  Chapter 11

  "Who the hell’s that?” Frank asked as he looked out at the green where a knot of people had gathered around a blond woman in high-heeled boots and a long wool coat. Augie Enright gestured toward the church and the green, while the woman took notes.

  “A reporter for the New York Beat,” Doris said. “I wouldn’t be surprised if she’s on her wa
y over here.”

  “Why?”

  “She’s doing a story about Jake Reiger getting killed by the bear.”

  “Why would a paper like the Beat care about that?” Frank asked. "I thought they specialized in stories about rock stars and politicians caught with their pants down.” Sure enough, Augie’s parting gesture was a finger pointing out the town office, and the reporter crossed the street, heading in Frank’s direction.

  In Kansas City, all inquires from the press were referred to the public affairs officer. So often had it been beaten into their heads that talking to a reporter was the surest way to screw yourself, your case, and the department, that they all came to regard reporters as the Antichrist. In Trout Run there was no public affairs officer to palm the reporter off on, so Frank braced himself for an ordeal. Say as little as possible, that much he knew.

  “There’s a Dawn Klotz here to see you,” Doris announced as she held Frank’s office door open. The look on her face could not have been more astonished if she had ushered a crowned princess into his presence.

  A cloud of expensive perfume drove out the usual smell of stale coffee and damp wool that pervaded Frank’s office. The reporter had somehow made it through the mud in the green, despite boots that looked like they were made for prancing down a model’s runway. “Dawn Klotz, New York Beat,” she said, as if all of it were the name she’d been christened with. “So, you’re in charge of the investigation into Jake Reiger’s murder. What have you learned about how that bacon grease got on his sleeping bag?"

  Frank felt his mouth opening and closing like a goldfish. “I... who ...” He got a grip on himself. “There is no active police investigation into Jake Reiger’s death.” But Dawn had noticed his floundering surprise. “Why not? Are you trying to hush this thing up? I understand that students from the North Country Academy are the only people who would’ve had access to the sleeping bag. Is that true?"