Murder Scene

by Richard Montanari

  ‘I understand.’ Patrick consulted his notes. ‘Well, it looks like Camilla took over the property from her parents – your great-grandparents – when they died in the 1960s. She ran the property as a general manager of sorts until the early 1990s. It was listed as a boarding house, but I believe it has served as a hotel, as well, back in the 1800s.’

  ‘Why didn’t I know anything about this?’

  Patrick looked up. His eyes answered most of the question, the part about parents and children and communication. And secrets.

  ‘I’m afraid I can’t answer that, Will.’

  ‘You’re right. It was an unfair question. I’m sorry.’

  ‘Not at all, my friend,’ Patrick continued. ‘As I was about to say, in addition to the real estate, there is quite a substantial trust attached.’

  ‘What kind of trust?’

  ‘In the event that you decide to keep and renovate the estate, and subsequently operate the property as a boarding house or a bed and breakfast, or any sort of rental property, the trust allows for a twenty-five-thousand-dollar sum for repairs and bringing the property up to code, as well as a ten-thousand dollar a year stipend to help defray basic operating costs.’

  The numbers were all jamming into each other. ‘For how long?’

  ‘There is one hundred thousand dollars in an account in a Chardon, Ohio bank. Chardon is the county seat of Geauga County, the next county east of Holland. It is a money market account. But you can only draw ten thousand a year for the next ten years. The final payment will include any interest accrued.’ Patrick tapped his briefcase. ‘I have a certified check for twenty-five thousand dollars with me.’

  ‘Camilla set this up?’

  ‘Her lawyer did,’ he said. ‘But yes. It was Camilla’s wish. I have a copy of the signed document.’

  ‘If she was indigent, why did she have these assets?’

  ‘I’m afraid I can’t answer that one either. I do know that this provision kicked in upon Camilla’s death. The money was not available to her by the provisions of the trust. Perhaps her parents thought she was incapable of running the property on her own. It happens quite a lot. Mental illness, physical limitations, criminal record.’

  Will’s mother had never talked much about Millie. What she had told him made it seem as if the woman was a bit scattered. As Will understood it, Camilla lost her husband at a very young age and never remarried. Will had no idea she owned property. She was just the dotty, mysterious aunt from somewhere in Ohio.

  ‘Believe it or not, the property has a name,’ Patrick said.

  ‘A name?’

  ‘Yes,’ Patrick said. ‘Godwin Hall.’

  After Patrick left, Will went cycling to clear his head. It did not help.

  Godwin Hall.

  The two words moved something inside him, something obscure and indefinable. Had his mother said something about it? Had something bad happened there?

  After an hour or so of riding in somewhat of a spell, Will Hardy pointed himself toward the apartment.

  How do I begin? he thought.

  It had been five days since his meeting with Patrick. Will had spent an hour or so before each night’s bedtime looking at the photos, researching the scant history of the property online.

  He did not discover much. He learned that the area around Abbeville had a long history, having been settled in the late 1700s by Dutch settlers. Indeed, this is where the name Holland County had its origin.

  None of this would matter to his daughter.

  18

  Detta sat on the sofa, the blanket over her legs, her phone in her hand. Will brought a chair from the dining room. He put the large envelope on the coffee table.

  ‘I met with Patrick Richmond last week. Do you remember Patrick?’

  Will did not expect a response. He did not get one.

  ‘Patrick is my lawyer. Our lawyer. I think you met him once or twice. Anyway, he called me last week, said there was something we needed to talk about. He got a package from an attorney in Ohio.’

  On the word Ohio Detta looked up. She remained silent.

  ‘Well, as you know, my mother’s family was from Ohio. My grandmother Janna had a stepsister. Her name was Camilla. Camilla Strathaven.’ Will decided to just keep talking. To him it sounded like he was reading from a book, telling a story about other people.

  ‘They lived in this town called Abbeville. Aunt Millie died a few months ago, and it turns out that she owned some property there. A big house called Godwin Hall. According to her will, she wanted us to have the house and the land.’

  Detta looked up at him again. There was a world of fear and hurt and betrayal in her eyes.

  ‘As you know, things have not been good with my work. To tell you the truth, my tenure is pretty well finished.’

  Will had never said these words before. Even to himself.

  ‘And this place, this city,’ he said. ‘I just don’t know what is here for us anymore, do you know what I mean?’

  Detta eyes began to fill with tears.

  ‘The property in Ohio is ours if we want it,’ Will said. ‘We don’t have to make any decisions right now, but I thought we could take a trip to Ohio and see what it’s like. If we like it, if we feel comfortable there, maybe we could stay for a while. It would be a fresh start, for you and me. For us.’

  Detta began to chew her fingernails. Sometimes this was a good thing. It meant she was thinking about something. Perhaps she was considering the idea.

  ‘I did a little research on the area,’ Will said, forging ahead with his pitch. ‘There’s a campus of Kent State University right near there. I can send my résumé and see if they’re interested.’

  Nothing.

  ‘It wouldn’t be like before. I wouldn’t be on the tenure track. In fact, I would be teaching part time to start, if they’ll have me. Just to see if we like it there.’

  He reached over to the envelope on the coffee table, opened it. He took out the large photograph of Godwin Hall. Once again, the sight of it fluttered something within him, something at once unsettling and secretive. He put the photograph down on the sofa next to his daughter.

  After a few moments Detta glanced down at it, but only for a second. She went back to chewing her nails.

  Although they had three months leeway on the sublet, everything went quickly. Will contacted a former student who worked for a Mercedes dealership in Newark. He closed the deal on a pre-owned Mercedes Sprinter in just a few hours.

  There was not much to pack. Everything in the apartment had been destroyed in the fire. What they had in storage – winter clothes, some sporting equipment, and three bicycles – fit neatly into the back of the Mercedes, with a great deal of room to spare. The smaller pieces of furniture in storage were donated.

  Through it all Detta remained silent. Will had many times wished she would lash out in anger, or refuse to take part in this new tablet of terrible mistakes, or tear into him with the fury of her anguish and grief and pain.

  She did not.

  Will watched the man’s face, searching for a sign. Dr Gerald Marsh was a world-renowned neurologist, currently the head of the department at New York Presbyterian.

  Will had suffered his first serious head trauma at thirteen. It happened on the day of the fire in Dobb’s Ferry. When he returned to find his house engulfed in flames, he did what he knew his father would have done. He ran into the structure, his T-shirt over his mouth. He did not take more than two steps into the back door when the building began to fall under its weight. Will was struck in the back of the head by a falling ceiling joist.

  The official diagnosis was head trauma and concussion, and Will spent more than a week in the hospital’s ICU. He had no clear recollection of the day his mother perished in the fire. In fact, it would be months before he could remember much of anything of his life before the tragedy. There had been a number of black holes in the years since.

  Dr Marsh made a few entries on Will’s chart. He took off h
is glasses, turned in his chair. Will found that he was holding his breath.

  ‘Everything looks good,’ he said.

  Will felt a wave of relief wash over him. He had hoped for the best, prepared for the worst.

  ‘That’s great.’

  ‘I still want you to have an MRI every six months or so. At least for the next two years. If you decide to stay in Ohio I can give you any number of referrals. You’re going to be close to Cleveland Clinic, and they are top flight.’

  ‘What about complications?’ Will asked. ‘My memory?’

  ‘Too soon to tell, I’m afraid. Your short-term memory seems to be fine. As to regaining long-term memory, we’re going to have to wait and see.’

  As Will prepared to leave, he stole a glance at the computer screen, at the image of his brain. Will had studied the human mind for nearly two decades, and knew that most of it was still unknown. What was memory? Where did it live? How is it formed, catalogued, stored?

  Somewhere in there, Will thought, in that mass of gray tissue, was the memory of Amanda’s face.

  As long as he didn’t lose that, he would survive.

  On March 21, the day of the spring equinox, Will pulled over on a marginal road next to the expressway. He got out of the truck.

  He looked at the New York skyline. How different it was now. How foreign and strange. He hadn’t grown up in the city, but he’d met Amanda there, had asked her to marry him there, had spent his professional life there. His daughter was born in the city. Each celebration of their lives had been marked by an intersection, a block, a neighborhood, a scent, a sound. All of it New York.

  But now it no longer was home.

  Without a word, Will got back into the vehicle, and together he and his daughter headed west.

  Spring – Abbeville

  Being the True Diary and Journal of Eva Claire Larssen

  March 22, 1869

  It is springtime. Abbeville is beautiful, with the snow all melted and the grass turning green!

  April 2, 1869

  This morning Mr Schuyler gathered the girls at Godwin Hall and told us about all the festivals that will take place in and around the village over the coming months. He said folks come from everywhere and that there would be much to do. Especially the grandest festival of all, Appleville, which is held every twenty-five years to celebrate the return of the white raven.

  As he talks I touch the gold locket at my neck. It is my own white raven.

  April 5, 1869

  Of all the rebirth in Abbeville this spring, the biggest change is in Dr van Laar. He suddenly seems younger, I guess I would say. Before the first day of spring, he had been listless, an old man slipping into the darkness. Now there seems to be a lilt in his step, and grand purpose in his day.

  April 12, 1869

  I am so exhausted. We didn’t finish cleaning until after midnight. When I left the Hall I could hear something, some sort of commotion coming from down near the river beneath Veldhoeve. I stole to the edge of the forest and saw Dr van Laar working in the moonlight. He was clearing an area near the river bank, tearing out brush and hedges. He seemed to be a man possessed.

  April 14, 1869

  Each night, from my window, I watch Dr van Laar clear the groves. I watch as he measures, takes elevations, tills the soil by hand. There are many day-laborers at Zeven Farms who could surely do this work. This must be something special. Perhaps it has to do with his departed wife.

  May 2, 1869

  It is becoming known in the village that Willem and I are a pair. Willem has gone to Cleveland to attend school and I see him only rarely when he comes home to visit. When he is gone he writes me almost daily. At night, when I miss him so, I touch the gold locket at my breast and I feel as if he is here with me.

  May 21, 1869

  With the van Laars on a trip to the city, I let curiosity get the best of me. I let myself wander to the river behind Veldhoeve, and there I saw what Dr van Laar had been working on these many weeks. He had cleared a large number of groves – seven in all. At the entryway to each grove was a small bronze plaque with words written in Dutch. I do not know what they say.

  19

  Ivy pulled into the parking lot at the Abbeville station house at just after noon. Coffee in hand, she was just about to unlock the back door when the call came over police radio from County Dispatch. She keyed the rover.

  It was a burglary call.

  ‘Show me responding,’ Ivy said.

  The two-story house was set back from the road about one hundred feet on a semi-wooded lot. There were two outbuildings along with the three-car garage. The house and two sheds were painted a lemon yellow. The garage was a shade or two darker. To Ivy’s eyes it looked like an attempt to match the colors that fell just a bit short.

  Ivy exited her vehicle, walked across the driveway and around to the side door. Before ringing the doorbell she examined the lock, the doorjamb, and the windowpanes. All intact.

  A few seconds later Peggy came to the door. Peggy Martin was Ivy’s age, a part-time Realtor in and around Abbeville. She invited Ivy in. Once in the kitchen, Peggy poured Ivy a cup of coffee without asking. They caught up briefly on town and personal chatter.

  ‘How are the kids?’ Ivy asked.

  ‘Mark is doing fine. He works for Merit Brass now. Dating a nice girl. She’s Methodist, but still.’

  Mark Martin had always been a painfully shy young man, into ham radio and video games, anything to keep him from socializing face to face. Ivy had pegged him for a loner the rest of his life. She was glad to hear this.

  ‘So what happened here, Peggy?’

  ‘Well, let’s see. I dropped Tammy off at her job, then did some grocery shopping. Stopped to talk a little bit too long with Cass Kellogg. You remember Cass?’

  ‘Sure do,’ Ivy said.

  ‘Anyway, she can and does go on a bit. When I left the store I was running late, so I just came home to take a quick shower. When I walked up on the back door I saw the glass broken out.’

  ‘The door was locked?’

  ‘Always.’

  ‘Can you show me?’

  ‘Sure.’

  They walked across the kitchen, down a short hallway, to a small entry room that served as a mud room. Ivy noticed the glass on the floor. A broom with a dustpan leaned against the wall.

  ‘It was like this?’ Ivy asked. ‘All the glass on the inside?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Ivy examined the door jamb. It appeared that whoever had staged the burglary had shattered the glass, reached inside, and turned the deadbolt lock.

  ‘What was taken?’ Ivy asked.

  ‘Well, the only thing missing, as far as I can tell, is my mom’s vase.’

  ‘What kind of vase?’

  She thought about it. ‘I have no idea, really.’

  ‘Is it expensive?’

  ‘I can’t imagine it would be worth anything to anyone except me and my brother. It was just Mom’s vase.’

  ‘Did you ever have it appraised?’

  ‘Gosh, no.’

  ‘Can you describe it for me?’

  She did. Yay high, yay wide, blue, with a gold rim.

  ‘Anything else missing?’

  ‘To be honest, I just don’t know, Ivy. I haven’t really looked everywhere.’

  ‘Any drawers pulled out, closets emptied?’

  ‘Nothing like that.’

  Ivy made the note. ‘How long were you gone this morning?’

  ‘No more than an hour, give or take.’

  ‘I have to ask,’ Ivy said. ‘Is Tammy dating anyone?’

  ‘No one special,’ she said. ‘Why do you ask?’

  ‘Just wondering if she has a boyfriend who comes over, spends time in the house.’

  ‘No one lately. She’s going through a phase.’

  ‘Has anyone else, outside of family, been in the house lately? Tradesmen, cable TV installers, like that?’

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘Not that I know of. I’ll
ask Don when he gets home.’

  ‘Do you have any pictures of the vase?’

  ‘Not per se, but I might have some pictures where it’s in the background. That kind of thing.’

  ‘That will work.’

  Ivy spent the next ten minutes checking out the rooms in the house. In the master bedroom the drawers in the dresser did not look rifled, the closets looked orderly. A jewelry box on top of the nightstand was closed. Ivy opened it to see a collection of inexpensive earrings and bracelets. A pair of watches. Nothing luxurious, but still worth stealing, if money was the reason for the burglary.

  So, if it wasn’t money, she thought, what were they looking for?

  A blue vase?

  The only place in Abbeville that might be in the mix as far as selling a stolen antique was a curio shop at the eastern edge of the village called Time Past. The owner was a woman named Angel Harrow.

  Ivy stopped in and spoke to Angel, who had not had anyone visit the shop trying to sell a blue vase recently. The woman said she would keep an eye out and give a call if someone did.

  Ivy lingered in the small parking lot, collecting her thoughts. Before long she heard the police radio crackle in the SUV. She opened the door, picked up the handset, responded.

  ‘This is Ivy, go ahead.’

  Garbled speech. It sounded like Melissa Kohl. Missy Kohl was one of the two Abbeville Police officers on duty for today’s day shift.

  ‘Missy?’

  There were more than a few long moments of silence, followed by equal time of radio static. Ivy was just at the outside signal range of the tower. New radios with wider reach were also on the long list of things she intended to pitch for at the next budget free for all.

  ‘Can you say again, Missy?’

  More muddled speech.

  ‘I don’t know if you can hear me,’ Ivy began. ‘But I’m just entering the county now. If it can wait, I’ll raise you on the radio when I’m in signal range. If it can’t, call me on my cell.’

  Ivy listened for a response. For a few moments there was only radio silence. Then, clear as a bell, for only the second time in her life as a law enforcement officer, Ivy heard these two words over a police radio: