Roses, Wine & Murder: In the City of Steeples

by Rose Young

  “He came to claim mail addressed to Johnson Jones, you know, the kid who is dead! He could be the murderer!” She stopped whispering and sternly belted out, “Go get him, for Pete’s sake!”

  The police raced their vehicle to the end of the tarmac, just as the guy skipped over the train tracks and headed inside the station. One officer radioed for backup as his partner took off on foot. He jumped one set of tracks and simultaneously, Whoo! Whoo! The high-speed train pulled in for a stop. He leapt out of the way, just in time, to the track beyond.

  Rather than race around the train, the second officer swiftly decided to go through the middle of the stopped train. In one door and out to the other side. Train schedule announcements echoed off the high beamed ceilings of the historic 1848 building. A third and fourth officer arrived from street-side.

  The one in charge rattled off a description, “Medium build, male, six-foot, gray business suit, mid-40s, dark glasses, dark hair.” Systematically the officers combed the inside of Union Station. People were coming and going among the long wooden benches. Finally, they located him in the men’s room, washing his hands.

  “You’re coming with us. We’re taking you in regarding the death of Johnson Jones.”

  “I was just doing an errand! I’m clean!” he gestured by holding up his hands.

  “Oh, a wise guy! Your hands may be clean, but what about the rest of you?” the officer scoffed, “Cuff him!”

  ***

  At 8:30 am, Morrison made a call. “Mrs. Stockman, I need you to come into New London. I have some information regarding your husband’s murder.”

  “Can’t you tell me over the phone?” she asked nervously.

  “No Ma’am, I’m sorry I can’t.”

  Mrs. Stockman squirmed, “Listen, detective, I can’t come. I’m overwhelmed by everything as it is. I’m having a service for Mitch next week, and I have my daughter here for the summer. It’s all too much right now.” She never wanted to see New London again.

  “I understand. But if you don’t come, I’ll have to have you served by your local Marshall,” persisted Morrison.

  “What? Why?” Pangs of fear gripped her heart. She worried about the ransom money and her daughter.

  “I need to talk to you in person, Mrs. Stockman. That’s how important this is.”

  “Detective, I would greatly appreciate it if you would come here and not involve the local authorities. To be honest with you, I’m afraid for my life and my daughter’s.”

  “Can you enlighten me a little?” he asked dryly.

  Mrs. Stockman whispered, “Someone is blackmailing me.” Vocalizing those words made her feel ill, and she shivered with fear.

  “Why are you being blackmailed, Mrs. Stockman?” he queried, now very curious to her state of affairs.

  “Why? They’ve threatened to kill my daughter,” she whimpered.

  “Look, that sounds like a good reason to be afraid, but we caught the guy who went to pick up your package. I need you to come in. I will send you an escort.”

  “You know about the package?” she gasped humiliated, then held her breath. The next thing Morrison heard was a whisper, “I need to stay with my daughter, detective.” He could hear sobbing.

  Morrison paused, knowing he had to remain neutral, “Mrs. Stockman, I will send you an escort on the 11 am Sea-Jet leaving Orient Point.” She was silent.

  Another moment passed and a trance-like voice answered, “I'll be there.”

  She slowly hung up the phone, and held onto her stomach. Suddenly she was relieved. They caught the guy. My daughter is safe. Rocking back and forth, she cried.

  Chapter 24

  Day 4 – 11 am

  Marissa Stockman waited at the Orient Point Ferry terminal for the arrival of the Sea-Jet. Detective Morrison surprised her by stepping off the ferry to greet her.

  “You are my personal escort, detective? I'm surprised,” she showed small relief.

  “It made sense for me to see that you are safe,” he offered.

  Morrison gestured her on to the boat, as he explained, “This has turned into a complicated case. I’m very interested in hearing what you have to say for yourself.” His sport jacket and tie, neat combed hair and polished shoes let her know he was on official business. Badge and gun could not be far from sight.

  She quickly made an introduction as a smartly suited man in his fifties stepped forward, “I’d like you to meet my Attorney, Jonathan Blum.” They shook hands.

  “I shouldn't be surprised your counsel is with you,” Morrison replied undaunted.

  Her attorney made a suggestion, “It’s a bit awkward, but I'd like to ask that we keep conversation off the topic until we are in New London at police headquarters.”

  Detective Morrison sighed, “How about I meet you before we disembark?” They both nodded. “I'll be in the wheelhouse visiting with the Captain if you need me,” he informed. Marissa and her lawyer gladly granted him leave and they now could discuss her situation privately.

  ***

  Captain Griswold was at the helm and knew Morrison well. “Hey, detective, are you here to meet up with Mrs. Stockman?”

  “Yes, but she brought her own escort today, her lawyer, so I have some time on my hands. I’ll visit with you for a while, if you don’t mind?”

  “Of course not,” Griswold answered graciously, “she may well need her lawyer. I haven’t had the chance to tell you what I saw when she last traveled with us two days ago.”

  “What's that? I’m all ears and stuck with you until we cross the Sound,” Morrison jested. He leaned against the wheelhouse wall and watched as the Sea-Jet picked up speed passing the simple black and white striped Orient Point Lighthouse. Once they were past the rough waters near Plum Gut, Griswold appointed his second in command, to take the helm.

  “Let’s sit in the galley, detective,” invited the skipper.

  In a private area with a television on the wall, the duo sat at a small table. Captain Griswold began his story.

  “She was having a drink when I saw Johnny, one of the ship stewards, whisper to her and hand her a small folded envelope. So, I decided, when given the opportunity, I would speak with her to get a sense of what transpired. Since I knew her husband, I gave her my condolences. I then asked her about Johnny, she told me she had given him a tip. She tried to act nonchalant about it.” Griswold wiped his brow.

  “Since she was dealing with her husband’s death, I left her alone. Later, I asked Johnny what it was he gave her. He said it was a small envelope that one of the dockworkers asked him to pass on. Evidently, she lied, but why?”

  Morrison rubbed his chin pondering her actions, “Thanks for the information. She’s in hot water with me already. You know, poison is a woman’s game.”

  Eyebrows raised, Griswold probed, “Why do you say that?”

  Morrison explained, “Mitch Stockman was found with a poisonous plant in his mouth and 60% of women choose poison to kill. It’s easier for them to keep their veneer of innocence.

  Do you remember the movie, Arsenic and Old Lace? It was based on a woman in Windsor, Connecticut. The Hartford Courant newspaper article, in 1916, was titled the ‘Murder Factory.’ She used arsenic and conspired to have wills and life insurance policies made out to line her own pockets. They say she may have done in, up to 60 people.”

  Captain Griswold’s surprise was not lost on the detective. “That’s a true story?” A hint of anguish was on his face.

  “How well did you know Mr. Stockman, Griswold?”

  “He traveled with us often, about twice a month. We enjoyed many conversations about the history of wine in Connecticut, Long Island and around the world. He was one of the very few whom I would visit regularly on the ferry.”

  Griswold became more thoughtful and confided, “It’s a shame, I sure will miss Mitch’s positive attitude about life. It was as if wine pumped through his veins. I remember him telling me about helping prune the dormant grapes at the vineyards in March. Fol
lowing that, he said he loved celebrating spring and would look for the first breaking buds, sprouting a green promise from the old gnarled vines.

  “His next milestone was spying the tiny beaded clusters that formed in June, ‘Small enough for a fairy necklace,’ he’d say. Later in the season, he called them ‘jeweled spheres full of potential’ then he would ceremoniously glorify each event with an excellent bottle of wine from some distinctive region. He was quite the poet.

  “In the fall he was jumping with excitement for the harvest. I remember when he would bring me a fine vintage and tell me, ‘Captain, make sure you have lamb with this one. Season the lamb with rosemary and fennel and you and your wife will fall into a heaven of flavors.’ I told him he was a grape artiste; his paint palette was food and wine and his taste buds were the canvas of ambrosial flavors. Then we would laugh at ourselves.”

  Griswold awoke from his happy recollection. His tone became serious, “For God's sake, you think this was intentional?”

  “It was intentional, Griswold. And Mrs. Stockman is looking very suspicious. Who is this dockworker that passed her the note? He may be the key to prove her innocence, blackmail or worse.”

  “It was Charlie Brass. Charlie's been here forever. He’s 65 and about to retire. He's loyal and reliable,” replied the captain.

  “Well, let's talk to him. Is he working today?”

  “He'll be at the dock when we arrive,” confirmed Griswold.

  The two men went back into the wheelhouse and Griswold took control of the helm. He passed Harbor Light, a white octagon monolith on New London’s shore, and banked toward the mouth of the Thames River. The Sea-Jet zoomed along and the next lighthouse came into view.

  “Did you know, detective, they made a postal stamp of Ledge Light?” The square, red brick Colonial Revival lighthouse with white trim and multi-paned windows grew in size as they approached. It was a proper four-story house, and appeared to be floating on the water. It was perched and fastened to an underwater rock ledge, hence the name, Ledge Light.

  Always ready to share some history, Griswold added, “In 1909, two wealthy men, Harkness and Plant helped fund the building. They wanted to be sure that no average lighthouse would be within view of their waterfront estates. Back then, lighthouses were usually made of metal piping. Lucky for us these men had good taste. When you pass it several times a day, like I do, you recognize it’s a work of inspiration.”

  Appreciating Griswold’s attention to detail, Morrison stared out to the lighthouse and his thoughts wandered onto his case, Maybe the Fates are smiling on me today. I understand Stockman better from Griswold’s friendship, and I have a new lead to follow with Charlie Brass. Mrs. Stockman has a great deal of explaining to do.

  Yet, little did he know, the Fates, the directors of destiny, might have been smiling for their own maniacal amusement.

  As the Sea-Jet turned into the Thames River, Griswold reminisced, “Sometimes I think of my family’s history. They maneuvered tall ships through these waters going way back to the 1700s, nowadays the huge cruise ships, the Coast Guard’s boats and the Navy’s nuclear submarines navigate here.”

  Morrison reminded him, “The annual Sailfest will be here soon, the reunion for tall ships from around the world.”

  “Yes, that’s true, the Morgan whaling ship from the 1800s and USCG’s Barque Eagle from 1936, they’ll both be on tour. As usual, we’ll be crowded with tourists for the big firework show, too.” Griswold glanced over at the detective, “It’s only a few weeks away.”

  Morrison was imagining the throngs of people on City Pier and in the streets of New London. He confided, “I’m in the hot seat with the city. I need to solve these two murders ASAP, especially now that I know they’re connected.” The detective eyed Griswold. “It’s looking like Mrs. Stockman is in deep. I certainly hope she didn’t hire a wild man who’s turned into a serial killer on us.” He sighed excessively, “People from Long Island are asking the Ferry office if it’s safe to come to New London. You see what I’m leading to, Captain?”

  Griswold looked at him askew.

  With a wry smile Morrison answered, “It’s the Long Island blue bloods blaming the New London blue collars for the inconvenience of a murder. And blue is the only thing they seem to have in common.” Griswold laughed, knowing full well the distinct differences the detective was pointing out. He saw it every day on his trips back and forth over the Sound.

  “Everyone wants to be safe and sound, and it’s easy to blame the other guy. Life is more complicated than that, right detective? It’s not so black and white, there’s every shade of grey.” Morrison nodded in agreement.

  Griswold approached the New London dock and the panoramic view of the historic ‘City of Steeples’. Multiple church spires pierced the sky. In the 1800s, ship Captains flush with money from whale-oil funded church construction of their religion. Hence, many steeples rose to meet the higher realms.

  With ease and grace, Griswold turned the ferry around and backed her between two piers. As the passengers disembarked, the detective caught up to Mrs. Stockman and her lawyer. He asked them to wait on board in the enclosed dining area.

  Detective Morrison and Captain Griswold met up with Charlie Brass on the docks.

  “Charlie, can I talk to you a minute?” asked the skipper.

  “Sure captain, what can I do for you?” Charlie was a rugged fellow in good shape for mid-sixties, and sported a shock of white hair that made his dark eyes stand out. His skin was tanned and weathered from years of working outdoors.

  “Charlie, this is Detective Morrison of the New London Police Department. He has some questions for you,” Griswold explained.

  Morrison took his cue. “Mr. Brass, a few days ago you gave something to Johnny, the deckhand, to pass on to Mrs. Stockman. What was that?”

  “Oh that,” replied Brass. “Some guy came up to me and said he had coffee with Mrs. Stockman, and she had left something important behind on the table. It was a small envelope. She was walking onto the Sea-Jet when he pointed her out, the slim woman in a dress. He asked me to give her the envelope, so I said I'd pass it on. He thanked me and tried to give me a $20 bill. I said, no thanks, I'll make sure she gets it.

  “Well I got busy, and at the last second, I gave it to Johnny, told him her name and described her to him. That's all there is.”

  “What did the guy look like?” Morrison asked.

  “He was nothing special, average looking in a gray suit and tie, dark hair, dark glasses, about six-foot tall, maybe in his forties,” Charlie replied, scratching his head.

  Charlie’s easy going attitude didn’t set off the detective’s alarms. Morrison pulled out his phone and showed him a picture of the man they had apprehended at the train station, “Is this the guy?”

  Charlie took a quick look and said, “He’s similar but no, that’s not him. He has the same look but a different face and this one is older than the guy who approached me.”

  “Thanks, Charlie. If you think of anything else or see the guy, give me a call,” the detective handed him his card and shook Charlie's hand.

  “Keep your eyes peeled for me, Griswold,” requested Morrison. “There’s plenty going on between here and Long Island to keep us both busy, and I need all the help I can get.”

  “You bet,” Griswold responded and shook his hand, “and I’ll bring your cargo down for you.” They both smiled, knowing Marissa Stockman was some kind of cargo.

  Chapter 25

  Day 4 – 10:00 am

  At 9:30 am the man responsible for J.J.’s death, was in his silver sedan, pondering his next move. Having left the ferry terminal without $10,000 in the red envelope, he drove away until he found a private location in Cedar Grove Cemetery. Reflecting upon his situation and miffed his hired hand did not retrieve the money, he now had to wait for the next mail drop at 4 pm.

  He wondered, did Stockman’s wife fail to mail the envelope? I doubt it. It’s just the mail schedule, he told himsel
f. Ho la sua attenzione. (I have her attention.)

  His bigger complication was the victim’s name, Johnson Jones, aka J.J., was on the front page of the local newspaper. Annoyed with the events, he loudly expressed, A SNAFU! I-malano-miau! (I can’t believe it!) He continued the rant, grumbling at his misfortune. It usually takes weeks, or months before they discover a body! I should have eliminated the moccolo (snot) later. Mannaggia! (Damn!) This has jeopardized the plan!

  Brooding, the Italian devil reconsidered his circumstances and measured his wits against the small town of New London. Arousing his bravado, the professional bolstered his own ego. I’ll use their ignorance against them. No different than anywhere else. These people are stupido! I always win, ad infinitum.

  The brute reviewed his options. Manipulating Marissa Stockman and Georgi were not a problem and the police were easy, too. They operated in predictable patterns. All he had to do was to keep them guessing.

  Redirecting his energy for killing J.J. too soon, he determined how he would influence the situation. He drove the rental car out of the quiet heart of the 1850s cemetery. Winged-angels and forlorn statues looked down on him from the somber glade of tombstones and beckoned him for benevolence. He ignored them.

  Driving to the local soup kitchen, he persisted toward achieving his first goal: find another man in need of work. He fancied a fresh gamble. It’s time to give the roulette wheel another spin.

  High on adrenaline, the schemer slowly approached the Food Bank, on Montauk Avenue, a local hangout for those in need of assistance. At 10 am several men were lollygagging as usual, outside the building. He sized them up quickly. A scruffy dark-haired fellow, with a strong build, was his anointed target. He looked to be Italian, and was the right size. With diabolic poise, the gentleman pulled his fancy silver sedan in close and lowered the window, “Buongiorno, excuse me.”

  The tan-skinned man perked right up and went to the car to address its smooth operator, who smelled like money. “Buongiorno, sir, how can I help you?” he asked disclosing he had Italian heritage.