Roses, Wine & Murder: In the City of Steeples

by Rose Young

  Georgi brightened up, “Can you bring me a large decaf latte with extra brown sugar and a heated apple tart from Muddy Waters Cafe?”

  Roxanne smiled, holding his hand, “Sure thing! An apple tart it is,” she said and winked. He squeezed her hand and cooed, “You’re a good friend.”

  Detective Morrison and Roxanne walked down the grand wooden staircase of the Victorian duplex. Once out the door on Hempstead Street, Morrison turned to her and said smiling, “You’re very sweet to him.”

  “Thank you,” she smiled. “Georgi is a dear heart, and he’s taken a beating for me. It’s the least I can do to treat him to a coffee and a tart. He is honest, true and sweet.” Then she laughed to herself, “I’ve told him he eats so many tarts he’ll become one, and he giggles saying he adores the idea.”

  Morrison laughed, “It could be he has already turned into one; but I won’t say another word about that. You two are quite a pair, aren’t you?”

  She mused, “We have beauty and good taste in common and he’s a nicer friend than some.”

  Morrison opened the door to his SUV for her. “Well, I have people from our forensic team meeting us at Columbus Circle. The man who beat Georgi asked him about Stockman’s laptop so we now know there is some connection to the business.” After Roxanne climbed into the SUV, Morrison respectively shut her door.

  He entered the driver’s side, “This case is heating up quicker than a summer on greenhouse gases, Roxanne. You know, the mayor has contacted me saying he can’t have this ruining our tourist season, rumors fly around here too easily. Of course, I told him we are doing all we can. So, we need to find the perpetrator and close this case ASAP, as usual.

  Besides, the president is arriving in five days and I don’t want this to interfere with the Secret Service procedures. I suspect they’ll leave us to handle our local problems. No need to divert their attention away from presidential protocol.”

  Roxanne nervously clenched her hands, “Detective, I have to admit I’m fearful for our safety. It’s hard for me to stop thinking about these incidents, and Sam will be very concerned that Georgi was beaten up. I hope we find the evidence you need. I’m feeling helpless. Georgi and I need peace of mind. You know I like to be positive, but this is really scaring me.”

  Morrison assured her, “Roxanne, I’ll work on this day and night for you and the chief until we get this solved. Look, I have officers canvassing the area and the Long Island police department is working with us. Believe me, I’m pulling out all the stops.”

  “Thank you, Dan. I know you are. It’s just unsettling.”

  Chapter 9

  Roxanne spotted the yellow crime scene tape wrapped around her garden charge, as they drove down Bank Street. It was a morbid addition. Even though the garden boasted a colorful array of annual flowers, the white and blue scaevola, yellow lantana, pink petunias, blue salvia and a host of perennials, they all looked like prisoners behind the ‘Do Not Enter – Crime Scene’ tape.

  The finely crafted statue of Christopher Columbus stood in the center at 16 feet tall. The white marble shone as it did when dedicated by the Italian community in October 1928. He stared silently toward the sea, ignoring all the fuss below his feet.

  Upon walking toward the garden, Roxanne assessed the scene. The tape entwined the sentinel pair of Rose-of-Sharon trees that flanked the majestic Columbus. The spectacle felt surreal, suddenly a flash of Mitch Stockman’s haunting face reappeared in Roxanne’s mind. She held her chest feeling dizzy, and took a deep breath to settle out.

  Morrison’s voice gratefully interrupted the image. “I never really looked at this statue much,” he mulled, “I guess his attire must be authentic to 1492.” Columbus’s clothing style was layered and looked feminine compared to today’s standards. His hair was split in the middle and shoulder length.

  Roxanne was relieved by his comment and snickered, “I drove by here with my niece when she was quite young, and she thought it was a statue of a New London bag lady holding her lunch. She’d heard us talk about homeless people in the area, so she thought the statue was for them.”

  “Well, from the mouth of babes, the truth is innocent,” he noted. “Now, I’ll look at this statue in a different way.” An idea crossed his mind. “There could be an alternate plaque here,” he said with a smile, ‘Let us eliminate homelessness’.

  “Ahh, they’ll never go for it,” Roxanne shook her head. “Although, think of it this way, Dan, everyone was homeless when they first came to America until they made a home of their own.”

  “I believe you’re right,” he reflected on her point. “Maybe we need to consider history before judging. I do say one of my hero’s is Ms. Z, the director of New London’s shelter. She’s been a constant help to folks who need a home here in town.”

  Dan was interrupted by a dark-haired woman officer approaching them. “Roxanne, this is forensic officer, Carolena Sanchez, our crime scene specialist. Her keen sense and vast knowledge has helped us out a few times. She’s found key evidence in the past that others have missed.”

  “Glad to meet you. We need all the help we can get,” Roxanne admitted, “My friend Georgi was beat up last night, Officer Sanchez. The beast asked him if I had found something here in the garden.”

  Smiling broadly, Sanchez’s warm personality overflowed, “Oh Mrs. Samson, you can call me Carolena, we are in a garden on a beautiful sunny day. Now, let’s see how I can help.”

  Carefully, Carolena scanned the garden. She already had reviewed the case file, photos of the murder scene, and the plaster casts of footprints. Various litter and cigarette butts had been gathered, cataloged and held for analysis. The first accounts of Stockman’s body and the site made it clear a mighty struggle had ensued. But Carolena wanted more.

  “I understand he had Taxus baccata in his mouth. That was a good catch, Mrs. Samson.” And with a bit of whimsy in her eyes, she whispered, “The potential for absolute death in a garden is natures best kept secret.” Morrison raised his eyebrows at the thought. Carolena continued more empathetic, “It’s too bad a nice man was a victim here and several of your plants have been trampled too.”

  “I know, I’m looking forward to watering the garden as soon as it is allowed.” Roxanne was hopeful it wouldn’t be long.

  Piquing her interest, Carolena asked, “Please show me how you water the garden.”

  “I do it from that ground-box spigot over there,” Roxanne pointed at a green square on the surface of the lawn.

  “Let’s have another look at it,” Carolena directed. She quickly lifted the green lid with gloved hands and asked, “Boss, they did brush this and inspect it yesterday, right?”

  “They did and only found Roxanne’s prints,” Morrison replied. They all peered down into the box below the ground. A simple garden spigot was inside with a cavity below it.

  “That’s it, you just attach the hose here,” Roxanne pointed.

  Carolena’s gloved hand swept through the hose attachment. “Well, if the murderer is looking for something and he went to all the trouble of involving you and your friend Georgi Algarve, I have to look deeper. I’ll check everything again, boss. It could be in the soil or maybe it’s still on the victim.”

  “I’ll call the medical examiner myself to find out if there is more the body has to tell us.” Morrison offered, “Check-in with the canine unit that was here yesterday. Take a fresh look at this whole scene, Carolena and expand it. This perp is acting desperate. And we have no witnesses, yet.”

  “Okay boss, I’ll get right on it and I’ll bring in a metal detector to see what more I can find.” Carolena Sanchez radioed the station and asked one of the guys to bring several key pieces of equipment.

  Roxanne confided to Morrison again, “Dan, I’m not used to being involved in anything that I would read about in the papers. This incident with Georgi is just too much, you really need a lead!”

  Morrison understood, “With the police all over this, I expect he’ll leave you a
lone.” A sudden odd feeling caught his attention. He looked over his shoulder nonchalantly. He scanned the streets wondering if the perpetrator was watching them, right then. “Look Roxanne, let me drop you back at Georgi’s apartment.” Passively, Morrison climbed into his vehicle while keeping an eye out through his rearview mirror.

  He stopped at the Muddy Waters Cafe. Roxanne stepped out of the SUV to pick up the coffee and tarts. Morrison radioed his men ordering them to check cars, stop people on the street and broaden their search into the neighborhoods surrounding Bank Street. He dropped Roxanne at Georgi’s and proceeded to call his assistant detective, Jack Peabody. He told him to question the delivery men and distributors who commonly had access through the Vinho Verde basement.

  ***

  Not far from Columbus Circle, a young man was pretending to hang out in his car, yet through his rearview mirrors he watched the scene. He texted his employer, “Cops searching site with blonde… she just left…cops still there.” The return text instructed, “Stay and see if they find anything.”

  Chapter 10

  Day 2 – 12:30 pm

  Mitch’s wife, Marissa Stockman, took a taxi from the Long Island ferry directly to Harlow Towers to check on their condominium. Her deceased husband’s leather traveling bag was on the king-size bed, opened and disturbed. She looked through it for anything important. Moving swiftly into the office to survey his desk, she noted some of his papers were out of alignment. Since he was a meticulous neat freak, she wondered why he’d leave behind even slight disarray.

  She searched the desk for business paperwork, a flash drive or his laptop, which he always carried with him. Finding none of these, Mrs. Stockman looked across the room to the vineyard wall photo and raced toward it. Removing it she revealed the keypad and tapped out the code word, WINE and pulled open the safe. The only content was a small stash of cash. I thought there’d be more, she thought.

  A loud buzzer suddenly jolted her. She closed the safe, re-hung the picture and answered the intercom call from the doorman, “Mrs. Stockman, Detective Morrison is here to see you.”

  “Oh! Well, send him up, Maurice.”

  “Yes, Mrs. Stockman.”

  The elevator door opened and the detective stepped into the spacious penthouse. Multiple windows captured the expansive view out to the Thames River and the Sound. He quickly observed the condition of the condo, neat and refined. Then his eyes took in Mrs. Stockman.

  She was a natural beauty. Her soft auburn, shoulder length hair was swept to one side of her oval face. Her slim figure was hugged by a soft camel-colored dress. He noticed a scent of expensive perfume.

  “You surprised me, detective. I was planning to meet you at the police station in a half hour,” Mrs. Stockman stepped forward to shake his hand.

  “My deep condolences, Mrs. Stockman, I’m sorry to be meeting you under these circumstances,” Morrison said kindly. He had followed her from the ferry docks and wondered why she sidelined to the condominium.

  “You will have to excuse me,” she said, “I’m still in shock and feeling quite out of sorts. I’ve had no sleep.”

  “I completely understand and I apologize, but I need to ask you some questions so I can find your husband’s perpetrator,” Morrison assured her.

  “Of course, let’s step into the living room, shall we?”

  Instinctively, he went to the window as he asked, “Have you noticed anything out of place?” His gaze traveled to the yellow-taped garden far below. How strange, a view of the murder scene.

  “I’m not sure,” she hesitated, “but I rarely come here. This is Mitch’s place mostly. I thought he might have left his laptop or a flash drive on his desk. His papers were askew, and that’s odd because he liked everything in order.”

  “The forensic team was here yesterday checking for prints or anything that might be helpful.” Morrison reminded her of their conversation and observed her reaction.

  “Yes, of course. You mentioned Georgi gave you a key,” she said without wavering. “Did you find his laptop or anything helpful? I want to know why this happened,” she said crossing her arms and folding them against her waist in a protective pose.

  Morrison answered gently, “We did not find his laptop and we are still investigating. Did you need the laptop?

  “Mitch always had it with him and I wanted to take it home with me.” Marissa Stockman moved toward the window and looked out. Slowly she backed away with horror. “Was that where he was found?” Gripping the back of an upholstered chair, she held on while her fingernails bore into the fabric.

  “Yes, I’m sorry to say,” Morrison empathized, “I know this is very difficult.” Mrs. Stockman composed herself and the detective continued. “Could you tell me how your husband came to New London from Long Island?”

  She answered in a daze, “He bought this condominium as an investment and a place to stay while he checked in on his business.” Her voice now quivered, “Who could have done this, detective? It’s just so horrible, so absolutely horrible.” She choked back tears and searched for a tissue in her purse.

  Morrison gave her a moment. “I’m trying to figure that out Ma’am. “How many people do you know in New London?”

  “Oh, I only know Georgi, and hardly at all. I’ve only been here twice over two years. He manages the Vinho Verde. They’re business partners in love with wine. I don’t relate because I don’t drink wine. I’ve teased Mitch and told him wine and Georgi are the other women in his life,” Marissa admitted with a sad smile crossing her face.

  Gesturing with the tissue in her hand, she continued, “Honestly, I’ve never been around Georgi long enough to get to know him. That’s just the way it is, what can I say?” She looked at him hoping he understood. And he did, in a way.

  “I see. Can you think of anyone who disliked your husband or any reason someone would want him gone?” Morrison tried to be delicate, but the job was to ask tough questions.

  “No, no,” she said emphatically shaking her head, “he was well liked by everyone, as far as I know.” Then, as she thought a moment, she suddenly became angry, “I told him to leave the wine business behind so we could travel. I told him not to come to this God-forsaken place, New London. But he wouldn’t listen. He thought if he bought this nice condo, I would change my mind and spend time here with him.

  I’m a realtor in the North Fork and this town, I must tell you, is just not me. Now look what happened to him. He’s dead!” She started to cry. Her cool demeanor was gone. Unfolding the tissue, she turned away to dab her eyes and nose. Then regaining her composure, she became angry again.

  “He must have come across some riff-raff here in New London,” she speculated.

  “Sorry Ma’am, but don’t you have riff-raff on Long Island? In my line of work, they are everywhere,” countered Morrison.

  “Certainly not,” she said with a huff. Her composure kept cracking. “Look, Mitch was hoping I would like it here.” Tears welled up in her eyes. “I can’t believe this has happened. We talked about spending more time together this year. I convinced him to stay in the North Fork for the summer. We have close friends and business acquaintances coming to visit, and I wanted him around to entertain with me.” She carefully dabbed her eyes.

  Morrison diverted, “Mrs. Stockman, it is procedure that while we are investigating we have to ask you to put a hold on any changes with your finances. And we’ll be looking into credit card activities, contracts, and so on. We will also review your husband’s wine business and investigate the financial activity until we discover motives. What other businesses does he have, any in Long Island?”

  “Mitch invested in small vineyards there and here in Connecticut. He has his own money and that is where he wanted to spend it. He wanted to be invested so he could have cases of their first successful vintage.”

  “Are you involved in any aspect of his wine business?”

  “Good God, No! I am not interested at all! I want nothing to do with it or New London. T
his business took my husband away from me,” she retorted angrily, as teardrops again trickled down her cheeks.

  Morrison noted that her tears and anger were normal grieving.

  “I’m sorry,” she said realizing she was ranting. “New London is just not my style.” She wrinkled her nose as if she smelled something foul. “Do you think Georgi is involved?” she asked fearfully.

  “He is not a suspect at this time,” answered Morrison.

  “Mitch spoke so highly of him.” Then she pondered a thought, “Like I said, I don’t really know Georgi well enough, but…, he will inherit the business.”

  “Really, now,” the detective’s curiosity was piqued.

  “Mitch knew I wasn’t interested in the business. But wine was his absolute passion and he loved anyone who shared that passion. I’m not sure Georgi even knows, but that was the agreement we had. He wrote it up in his will, my lawyer has that information.”

  “Did you know Georgi was beaten up last night?”

  “My goodness, no!” she raised her voice, “What happened?”

  “The thug was looking for your husband’s laptop and something left behind at the scene. Was Mr. Stockman carrying anything else of importance on him?”

  “No! Well, I don’t know,” she blurted as she looked around the room, “I can’t think of anything. Is Georgi okay?”

  “He will be,” Morrison assured. “Now if anything comes to mind, anything at all, please let me know right away. How long will you be staying?”

  “I must get back to my daughter tonight. How long do you think this investigation will take?”

  Morrison repeated his often-used line, “We are waiting for the autopsy to be completed and the Medical Examiner’s report to be finalized. It usually takes a few weeks. But I do have one unusual question complicating things. Do you specialize in plants and horticulture or know anyone who does?”

  “Do you mean a gardener? I have a brown thumb.”

  Morrison added, “Or a landscaper, pharmacist or herbalist?”