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

by S. W. Hubbard

  “Manipulative.”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “Do you know a man named Glen Costello?”

  If Paul was startled by Frank’s sudden change of tack, he didn’t show it. “No.”

  He answered without nervousness, but the response came quickly. He hadn’t paused to consider the question.

  “Did Heather ever mention him?”

  “No. Who is he?"

  Frank shook his head. “All right, Paul, thanks for your time. We may need to speak to you again.”

  “Wait—that’s it?"

  Frank and Meyerson stood. “Yes. For now.”

  Chapter 23

  “Why did you back off when Petrucci wouldn’t tell you how he solved his money crunch?” Lew demanded when they were alone. “I would have pressured him to reveal his source.”

  “Petrucci’s a smart guy, and he knows his rights—he won’t roll right over. If there’s really some truth to this idea of Petrucci and Costello working together, then I want some more evidence of the connection before I confront him. Otherwise, he’ll start covering his tracks.”

  Lew’s mouth twisted in disapproval. “Maybe. And what was all that about Heather pouring the bacon grease on Reiger? I thought we agreed there was nothing suspicious there?”

  Frank shrugged. "That was before this murder. You know, Heather told me she was afraid someone else was going to die, and she thought it might be her. She knew something was going on at this school, but I wasn’t patient enough to get her to tell me everything she knew or suspected.”

  Meyerson huffed in exasperation. “Frank, you sat there in that meeting with me and the rangers and said yourself that the kids on that campout had no opportunity to get bacon grease and wouldn’t know what to do with it even if they had.”

  “If Petrucci was working with Heather, he could’ve gotten her the grease.”

  “If they were allies, why did he kill her?”

  “She knew too much, she threatened to talk.”

  “But you said she was fearful from the time of the campout. If she were in on the murder—”

  “All right! All right!" Frank rested his head in his hands. “Look, I know none of it makes sense, but I want to keep my mind open to every possibility. I’m not ruling anything out this time.”

  “Well then, you’re never going to solve this case. Because that’s our job—to rule out everything that’s impossible and examine what’s left for the truth. Jake Reiger’s death was an accident. Don’t let it distract you from what happened to Heather.”

  Earl was hovering around the outer office when Frank strode through the door.

  “Frank! Can I talk to you for—” The ringing of the phone interrupted Earl. He answered it, then handed the receiver to Frank. “It’s Rollie Fister. Wants to tell you about that problem at the library.”

  Frank accepted the phone with a sigh. Rollie must’ve been watching the office from across the green to have called the moment he walked through the door.

  “Hi, Rollie. What can I do for you?”

  “Someone broke into the library and stole some tools yesterday,” Rollie announced.

  Frank reached for a pen and prepared to take notes. This was more serious than Earl had led him to believe when he’d called in earlier.

  “Except that whoever it was broke in again and returned them today.”

  Frank dropped the pen. “I wouldn’t call that stealing, Rollie. Obviously, one of the guys working over there borrowed them.”

  “I knew you were going to say that! I just knew it!” Rollie’s usually good-natured voice cranked up half an octave. "Then why is there pee in the toilet?”

  “Huh?”

  "The toilet’s been used, and all the guys working over here know that the plumbing’s not connected yet, so they go over at Malone’s. I asked everyone if they borrowed my rechargeable power screwdriver, and they said no.”

  Frank knew how fussy Rollie was about his tools, so it was hardly surprising that no one owned up to it. “How did they get in? Have the door or windows been tampered with?”

  “No,” Rollie admitted. “And they were all locked.”

  "So whoever broke in used the key. How many copies of that key are floating around?

  “Well, I have one, and there's one up at Stevenson’s . . .” Rollie continued to mutter names under his breath as he counted. “I’d say six.”

  Frank kneaded his eyes. Why did they even bother to lock the door if everyone and his uncle had a key? “Maybe you oughta consider changing the lock, Rollie, and keeping closer tab on the keys. In the meantime, don’t leave any valuable tools over there.”

  “Good idea, Frank. I’ll talk it over with the fellas. ’Course, the electrician’s coming this week—we gotta let him in . . .” Frank hung up while Rollie was still mulling over his options.

  He slumped in his desk chair with his eyes closed trying to arrange the facts of the academy case coherently. He could hear Earl breathing.

  "Go on home, Earl. You’ve been here all day without a break. There’s nothing else we can do tonight.”

  “I know. But I need to talk to you about something.” Frank heaved himself up straight but made no effort to look alert. “What?”

  Earl gnawed on his lower lip. “Lorrie’s kids are missing.”

  “What!”

  Before Frank could get more worked up, Earl continued his story. “Apparently they weren’t in school today, and the school secretary assumed they were sick, even though no one called. But then Peg called the school at the end of the day saying she sent them off to the bus stop this morning and wanting to know why they didn’t get off the bus this afternoon.”

  “What time were they at the bus stop?”

  “Around eight, Peg says.”

  “They’ve been missing since then and you never bothered to tell me?” Frank slammed a file folder across the desk, sending papers scattering.

  “Well, it’s not like they’re kidnapped—I’m pretty sure they’re with Lorrie.”

  Frank narrowed his eyes. “What do you know?”

  “I called the Foleys—their kids wait at the same stop as Lorrie’s. Ashley says she saw Lorrie’s car pulling away from the bus stop right when she and her brother turned the bend in their driveway. At least, she’s pretty sure it was Lorrie’s car. So I think the kids are with her.”

  “And that’s why you didn’t bother to tell me? Haven’t I been searching for Lorrie for three days? Now it looks like as of eight this morning, she was alive and kicking. Didn’t you think this might be relevant?”

  “I didn’t find out 'til after four, when the kids didn’t show up on the bus. You were busy with the state police.”

  “You couldn’t have brought it up just now?”

  “I tried, but Rollie called. Look, Lorrie can’t possibly have anything to do with whatever happened to Heather. Lorrie would never hurt anyone. She must’ve got scared when she saw that blood . . . thought she’d be in trouble. So she went and got the kids this morning and ran off somewhere.”

  “But where has she been between the time we discovered the bloody isolation room and this morning, when she got the kids?” Frank jabbed a pen in Earl’s direction. "Why did she wait until today to take them?”

  Earl scrunched his eyebrows down so far they were actually visible below his straggly bangs. “Uh, I don’t know—but I’m sure she must’ve had a good reason. You’re just going to scare her off worse if you set the state police after her. Let me take care of this, Frank. She’s my family—I’ll find her and make her say what’s going on.”

  “Didn’t I warn you about this last week? You can’t let family loyalties get in the way of your work.”

  “They won’t get in the way. They’ll help—you’ll see. If I put out the word that Lorrie’s not in any trouble, that we’re trying to help her, I bet I’ll be able to find out where she is.”

  “You mean someone in your family knows where she is right now?”

  "No,
I already made some calls. I don’t think so. But if I say the right things to the right people, it might filter through. Sometimes people don’t even realize all they know—get what I mean?”

  He did get it, and as irritating as it was to admit, Earl was probably right. Wherever Lorrie was with those kids, she wasn’t driving on the interstate, using credit cards and a cell phone, and making herself easy for the state police to trace. Earl probably could flush her out, but once he did, could he be trusted to bring her forward?

  Frank took a deep breath. "Listen to me, Earl. I’ll have Meyerson pull the state police back on the search for Lorrie for a few days. But that’s all you’ve got, understand? And if you find her, you share the information with me immediately. No screwing around.”

  “I will. I mean, I won’t. I mean, I’ll tell you, Frank. I promise.”

  Frank wanted nothing more than to go home and eat a TV dinner in solitude. Unfortunately, his freezer, and every other part of his refrigerator, was bare. Malone’s held no possibility of respite, not with that Klotz woman and her laptop camped in the back booth. He considered the Trail’s End, but some yowling folksinger was scheduled to perform. Cadging a meal from Edwin and Lucy was his best bet.

  He pulled into the Iron Eagle Inn’s driveway and parked in back. He peered through the window of the kitchen door and saw a woman sitting alone at the big oak table. Not Lucy, but Penny.

  He tapped lightly and opened the door. Penny broke into a wide smile when she saw who was there.

  "Frank! I could use some company!"

  “Hi, Penny. What are you doing here on a weekday?”

  “I’ve taken a leave of absence from my job. Clyde's health is really failing. It’s better if I spend an hour or so with him every day planning the library, rather than try to cram so much work in on the weekends."

  “I see.” But he didn’t, really. Penny hadn’t had this job very long; something didn’t add up.

  “Edwin and Lucy are getting some real guests settled. I'm here so often, I just fend for myself.” She gestured to a half-eaten plate of food on the table.

  “Well, maybe you can fend for me, too.” He opened the refrigerator door. “I came looking for something to eat.”

  Penny joined him in front of the open fridge. “There’s roasted chicken, and mushroom risotto, and these gingered beets were fabulous.” He watched her slender fingers tapping the plastic containers as she itemized their contents. Her shiny dark hair fell forward and she pushed it behind her ear as she looked up into his eyes and smiled. "Oh, but you don’t like veggies, do you Frank?”

  “Beets are fine.” When he reached into the refrigerator to pull out one of the containers, their hands brushed together. She nudged him playfully with her hip. "No, that’s cat food, silly! These are the beets.”

  “My wife always said I couldn’t even find food in the refrigerator.” He laughed, but inwardly cringed. Why in the world had he brought up Estelle?

  But Penny didn’t seem to notice. “You want wine?” she asked as he fixed himself a plate from the assembled leftovers.

  “Sure, I could use a drink.”

  “Rough day?”

  He hadn’t wanted to talk about Heather LeBron, but something about the concern in Penny’s brown eyes and the way she leaned across the table with her chin in her hand made him want to pour out the clutter of conflicting ideas in his mind. He couldn’t discuss the details of an open case, but he could get some insights into a young woman’s mind.

  “You went to boarding school, didn’t you?” he asked without preamble.

  “Yes. I hated it.”

  “Did you ever think of running away?”

  He knew she must wonder why he was asking her this, but she simply answered the question. “Almost every day. Once I read a book about a girl who ran away and lived with her dog in the wilderness of Alaska. That was very appealing. But running away from a boarding school in Connecticut, I figured I’d be more likely to end up squatting with street people in Hartford. That kept me from taking off. For all that I fancy myself an iconoclast, I’m a weenie at heart.”

  Frank suspected that's what Heather LeBron was, too. Despite her bravado, her dreadlocks and tattoos, he didn’t see her as bold enough to carry out the sabotage of Reiger’s sleeping bag and arrange an escape from the school when she had nowhere to go.

  “Is this about Heather LeBron?” Penny asked. “Is it true the poor girl was strangled?”

  “Yes, the Beat got that much right.”

  “This case matters to you more than most, doesn’t it?”

  God, he wished she wouldn’t look at him like that, with her eyes sort of squinted and her smile so sad. He jumped up to rinse off his plate.

  “I feel like maybe I could have prevented her death if I’d been a little more attentive to what was going on over at the academy,” he answered from the neutral zone of the sink. “Anyway,” he said briskly before she could offer him condolences he didn’t want, “tell me what’s going on at the library.”

  Penny seemed to sense that he wanted the distraction. She chatted on about the computers Clyde was letting her order and the collection of Adirondack folklore she hoped to build. “And I want to start a summer reading club for kids—bring them together for book discussions so they see that reading is fun, not a chore.” Penny gestured and Frank watched the silky sleeve of her blouse slide back along her slender arm. "This could be so much more than a little place for ladies to check out romance novels. Just yesterday I showed Elinor how to do some research on pain management, so that when she and Clyde see his doctor they can make an informed choice on his treatment.” She thumped the table for emphasis. “Information is power, and that’s what I see this library as—empowerment for people who are overwhelmed.”

  “All this is going to take a lot of your energy, Penny. Doesn’t leave you much time for your job in the city.” Penny looked up at him from under her bangs as she fiddled with her long silver necklace. "I’m thinking of quitting that job and moving back to Trout Run.”

  “Really? Why?”

  "There are people here who need me.”

  Chapter 24

  Meyerson’s background check on Glen Costello had turned up precious little information. No arrests, no restraining orders, no traffic violations. He’d been ques­tioned in the heat prostration death of the student at his and Payne’s school in Utah, had cooperated with the investigation, and ultimately the death had been ruled an accident. He now owned a school called Vista del Mar on the west coast of Mexico and lived on-site.

  The state police had no luck, as yet, in getting through to Costello directly in Mexico, and Meyerson was trying to coordinate assistance from the Mexican authorities. In the meantime, Frank set Earl to digging for information on the man and his new school on the Internet.

  Earl had his nose to the screen when Frank came into the office after lunch.

  “Turn anything up?”

  “I found the Web site for Costello’s school. This Vista del Mar is like a boot camp Club Med. The pictures show these kids laughing and playing volleyball on the beach, but the description of the program sounds like the way Payne talks—points, levels, repercussions, limiting inappropriate distractions. Then there’s a Web site for this watchdog group called TeenTurnaround. They rate all the schools for troubled teens.”

  "Really? That’s sounds interesting. What do they say about Payne and Costello?” Frank asked.

  “Not much good. Here’s the ratings.” Earl handed Frank a page he’d printed out.

  “Well, it’s hardly a ringing endorsement, but it doesn’t say anything we don’t already know about the place,” Frank said after scanning the report. “And ‘not recommended’ isn’t their lowest ranking.”

  “No, they save that for a few places that are full-time punishment, with no education at all. Wait'll you see what the kids who went to all these schools have to say.”

  “You mean there’s stuff on there from alumni?”

 
“The TeenTurnaround site is linked to this message board where kids and parents who’ve gone through the boot-camp school experience can chat. That’s what I'm reading now.”

  Earl tilted the screen so that Frank could see, and they scrolled through pages and pages of messages from teenagers, many of them complaining about the treatment they’d received, but a significant minority claiming that the schools had truly helped them. Sniping between the two camps accounted for half the messages.

  Frank skimmed along. The messages from the teenagers all sounded like they could have been written by Heather—full of angst and melodrama. But one titled warning from a mother caught his eye.

  “I want to warn any parents on this message board who are considering sending their child to one of these schools to DO YOUR HOMEWORK. Visit the school in person, ask to speak to the students, get recommendations from other parents. If I had done that, my son would not have suffered as he did. I was desperate because of his alcohol and drug use and wild behavior. I sent him to the Langley School in Utah based only on a brochure and a telephone conversation with the owner, Glen Costello. I feel that Mr. Costello misrepresented the techniques the school used and pressured me into a decision. My son was there for six months and he is still recovering from the experience. Thankfully, now, he is under a doctor’s care. PARENTS, PLEASE BE CAREFUL.”

  “If I want to find out more about this woman’s story, do I have to post a message on this board for everyone to read?” Frank asked Earl.

  "No, you can reply off-list directly to her. Just click here.”

  Frank quickly sent an e-mail introducing himself and asking the mother, who had signed her self simply Greta K., to contact him. "Now I guess we sit and wait to see what happens.”

  “What are you doing to find my son?”

  A man in a very expensive suit and a very starched shirt stood before Frank's desk. According to Doris’s terrified introduction, he was Morton Levine, Justin’s father.