Murder Scene

by Richard Montanari

  When they took a short break, Will called Detta just to check in on her. As expected, as always, it went to her voicemail.

  The next item was the Drexel Heritage bedroom set. Will made the first bid at ten dollars. A man on the other side of the group immediately bid twenty dollars. Will looked at the woman. He did not see the high sign. Will bid thirty dollars. The woman, his confederate, bid forty.

  At this, the woman smoothed the sleeve on her coat, put her hand in her pocket.

  Will bid forty-two dollars.

  ‘Can I get fifty?’ The auctioneer looked around the crowd, at the woman, at the man, who had already dropped out, it seemed. ‘Do I hear fifty?’ He asked this five more times. It might have been ten more times. Will had never heard anyone talk as fast as this guy. ‘Do I hear forty-five?’

  No one said a word. The auctioneer seemed to meet the gaze of everyone in attendance. When no one spoke up he pointed at Will and said:

  ‘Sold.’

  Will looked back at his compatriot. She winked at him. Apparently, he had just bought something at an auction.

  A few minutes later they did this same routine again, this time bidding on the pair of maple bedroom sets. Will got these items for sixty-five dollars.

  He was starting to like Holland County.

  As Will prepared to leave, he found the woman in the rust-colored coat, his partner in auction intrigue, standing at the table where they were selling coffee. He walked over.

  ‘Get you a cup?’ she asked.

  ‘No, thanks,’ Will said. ‘I just wanted to stop by and say how much I appreciate this. It was very kind of you.’

  The woman paid for her coffee. ‘It was my pleasure.’

  ‘I’m still not sure what happened.’

  ‘Just a bit of country commerce. You took right to it. I think you have a knack.’

  ‘I don’t know about that,’ he said. ‘Name’s Will Hardy, by the way.’

  The woman extended a hand. Will took it.

  ‘Ivy,’ she said. ‘Ivy Holgrave.’

  With a little bit of wrestling, Will got the headboards, footboards and side rails out of the Sprinter, and down into the basement at Godwin Hall. He made a note to get some high lumen LED bulbs. If he was going to do any kind of work down here, it would have to be a lot brighter. After making himself some coffee, he got on his laptop and tried to find some websites devoted to furniture refinishing. There were just over ten million hits.

  He decided to visit Hale Hardware.

  If visiting the Historical Society museum was a glance back in time, stepping into Hale Hardware was setting foot into the way Abbeville looked and smelled a hundred years ago. By the door there were racks of seed packets and for sale signs, aluminum buckets and wash basins. Along the first aisle were hacksaw blades, wood and cold chisels, to the left were nuts, bolts, screws, nails and bolts.

  The floor was a well-worn and stained wood planking. Overhead were strung pet beds, leashes, leather harnesses.

  ‘Can I help you find something?’

  Will turned to see a robust and ruddy man in his forties. He wore a blue work shirt, red braces. He had a full beard, just going gray. His nametag identified him as Dave.

  ‘Well, I just picked up some old bedroom sets, and I’m thinking about refinishing them.’

  ‘Okay, I think we can steer you in the right direction on this. May I ask you a question first?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘How serious are you about refinishing?’

  Will did not expect this. ‘I’ve never done it before.’

  ‘Are you looking to do a good job?’

  That was two odd questions in a row. He was starting to think it was Dave’s way. ‘I guess I am.’

  ‘Are you a patient sort?’

  ‘I’m from New York.’

  ‘So, all due respect, not in abundant supply.’

  Will laughed. ‘I would say no.’

  ‘I’d use something called Zip Strip.’

  ‘Sounds good to me.’

  ‘Do you need all the trimmings?’

  ‘I do.’

  Dave put it all together in a big basket, and walked Will to the back counter.

  ‘This is a great store, by the way,’ Will said.

  ‘I thank you.’ He pointed to the small nook at the back of the store where an older man and an even older man sat. They were gray and grayer versions of Dave. ‘My dad and grandfather thank you.’

  The men turned from their game of checkers, nodded their pipes. Will waved. He’d have to work on his Abbeville Meerschaum Pipe Nod.

  ‘I saw a photograph of this place,’ Will said. ‘I think it was from right around when you opened.’

  ‘That would have been 1881.’

  ‘Wow.’

  ‘Whereabouts did you see this?’

  Will pointed over his shoulder, not really knowing if he was pointing in the right direction. ‘At the Historical Society. I stopped in the other day. Great little museum.’

  ‘It is that.’

  ‘Eli gave me a brief history of the area.’

  ‘Ah, Eli. He was the real deal.’

  The word jumped out. ‘I’m sorry. Was?’

  Dave handed Will his credit card receipt. He scanned Will’s expression.

  ‘I guess you haven’t heard, then.’

  ‘Heard what?’

  ‘Hate to be the bearer of sad tidings, but Eli passed away.’

  Will felt gut punched. ‘What happened?’

  ‘Can’t say I know all the facts, but I heard tell that he was found at the bottom of those steep steps leading up to the museum. Had a broke neck.’

  ‘When was this?’

  Dave glanced at the back of the store. ‘Dad, when did they find Eli?’

  The man took his pipe out of his mouth, thought for a moment. ‘Early yesterday morning, it was.’ He reached for the lighter on the table. ‘It was the Benchley girl found him.’

  ‘Lita Benchley does some of the cleaning for the village buildings,’ Dave said. ‘And she’s no girl, by the way. Sunset of fifty, I think.’

  Dave bagged Will’s purchases.

  ‘Eli was one of the old guard,’ Dave added. ‘He and my granddad were in the same outfit in Korea. Granddad is still going strong. I had the notion that Eli would outlive us all.’

  As Will walked back to Godwin Hall, he considered how fleeting his relationship had been with Eli Johnson, how the man had lived so many years, only to lose his life to something as awful and tragic as a fall down the steps.

  36

  Ivy did a search on the internet for Dr William Hardy. What she found was heartbreaking. At first it was her interest and curiosity about who was moving into Godwin Hall. She figured that whoever would do so had a history in hospitality, or perhaps a retiree couple chasing that dream of opening a bed and breakfast in the country, like Reina and her husband at Red Oak.

  The articles detailed the man’s life as a professor of forensic psychology at New York University. Included in the background of these articles was how Will had written a book about the movies called A Flicker of Madness, a New York Times bestseller.

  But it was the reason the articles were written in the first place that broke her heart. Dr Hardy had taken on a patient, a troubled young man named Anthony Torres, who had ultimately started a fire that killed Hardy’s wife, Amanda. According to the articles Torres had a history of arson.

  In all she’d found dozens of reports about the incident. Anthony Torres had perished in the fire, which happened at Will Hardy’s home in Greenwich Village. The follow-up articles continued for a week or so, mostly focusing on the state system through which the young man had passed, the shortcomings of foster care and child service agencies.

  The accompanying photographs showed the badly burned façade of the brownstone where the murder had occurred. There were also photographs of Hardy, one of him taken at the university; another in desert camouflage, taken in Iraq.

  The article stated t
hat Will Hardy had one daughter, Bernadette. There were no photos of the girl.

  Before Ivy closed her laptop she again looked at the photo of Will Hardy at his desk at NYU, and the caption.

  Forensic psychologist.

  Ivy knew that she could have had the information sent by fax or email, but she decided to take the drive to Richfield, as much to clear her head as anything. After meeting with Gary Baudette, she took with her the reports, which included the fingerprint and hair and fiber analysis, as well as the initial toxicology report from the body of the still unidentified girl.

  Ivy stopped at a small diner on Granger Pike and scanned the documents, her pulse beginning to race. She knew that the coroner’s ruling was inside this folder.

  In the eyes of the law there was murder, manslaughter, and justifiable homicide. There was also felony murder, in which a person dies while the defendant was involved in the commission of a crime.

  Ivy quickly skipped through the documents to find the one that would make all the difference. In moments, she had it.

  The coroner ruled that the cause of death was exsanguination. And because there was no weapon found on the scene, the manner of death, in his opinion, was homicide.

  The girl had bled to death, and it was no accident. It was what Ivy believed to be true all along. The photos showed deep puncture wounds to the girl’s brachial arteries.

  This was a murder.

  She could now build a case.

  Carl Tomlinson owned a sod farm in North Bloomfield. Now in his seventies, Carl had been the Abbeville police chief for twenty years before Ivy’s tenure. He had been circling retirement for a few years when Ivy’s mother had her stroke, and when Ivy returned to Holland County from the Cleveland Police Department, Carl had lobbied the then mayor and city council hard for Ivy to get the job.

  Although they had never been family-close, Ivy had looked up to Carl in a way that some might consider to be a father figure. He had given Ivy her first job on patrol, and had been instrumental in her transition to what would surely be her last job as a law enforcement officer.

  Carl was chief when Delia went missing, and he stood at Ivy June’s side in those crucial, terrible first months. Ivy had never forgotten the kindness the man showed, far beyond the call of his duty. Ivy had always wondered if it had been more than a kindness, if Carl had felt in some way responsible that Delia’s disappearance had happened on his watch.

  She missed Carl, and had too many times put off calling him and stopping out to see him, especially now that he was widowed. She always felt good and comfortable and safe here, not the least of the reasons being that Carl was a pushover for rescue dogs. He never had fewer than six or seven.

  On her way from the SUV to the house she was greeted by a Sheltie wearing a green bandana, a pair of older pugs, a one-eyed black Lab who’d been rolling in something ripe, and Carl’s oldest dog, a Corgi named Jemima, slowly bringing up the rear.

  Ivy greeted the dogs, glanced up to see Carl stepping down the front steps.

  Carl looked good. A little heavier, maybe, a little grayer, but retirement, and the life of a country squire – such as it was when you ran a sod farm – was agreeing with him.

  They sat on the sunny enclosed porch, a French press on the wicker table between them. They got their personal small talk out of the way first.

  ‘How’s Ivy June?’ Carl asked.

  ‘She’s good.’ Ivy told him about her mother’s hip replacements and current rehab status.

  ‘I can’t see her sitting around for too long,’ Carl said. ‘She was never a house cat.’

  ‘She’s getting stronger every day.’

  They sat in silence for a while. There was news about Abbeville that Ivy remembered to share.

  ‘Eli Johnson passed away.’

  ‘I heard that,’ Carl said. ‘He was a good man. A veteran.’

  Ivy reminded herself that there was now one more flag to put on a grave this Veteran’s Day. One more so far.

  ‘Millie Strathaven passed, too.’

  Carl shook his head. ‘Seems like the whole village is under siege. Millie couldn’t have been more than a few years older than I am.’

  ‘And the Hall has new owners,’ Ivy said. ‘There’s talk of it reopening.’

  ‘Now that’s some good news.’

  Ivy wasn’t sure about that. She did not share particularly warm feelings about Godwin Hall.

  Like all cops, in the life or out, the talk made its way to the job. Ivy told Carl about her current cases. He took it all in, studied his coffee cup.

  ‘It’s a different world now, Ivy,’ Carl said. ‘I’m not sure I would be a cop now, if I was a young man. Not sure if I’d be cut out for it.’

  ‘Sure you would.’

  ‘When I was coming up, and you had differences with another man, you put up your hands. Now you pick up a knife or a gun.’

  Ivy could not argue with this.

  She told him basic details about Paulette Graham and Lonnie Combs. She also told him about the latest victim.

  ‘This new case,’ he said. ‘This girl. You say it was by the Gardner farm?’

  ‘Yes. Right close by.’

  ‘And it’s a homicide?’

  ‘Just got the ruling.’

  ‘How was she discovered?’

  ‘You remember Dallas Lange?’

  ‘Sure, I remember Dallas.’

  Ivy told him how Dallas had seen someone driving what looked like Chevy Deacon’s truck right around the time.

  ‘The Deacons,’ Carl said without a hint of nostalgia or wistfulness. ‘I think I arrested Ray Deacon a dozen times. I told him he should just start getting his mail down at the station.’

  ‘Apples and trees, right?’

  Carl nodded.

  ‘You think Chevy Deacon did this thing?’ he asked.

  ‘He’s a lowlife and an abuser, but I just don’t know about this. All we have is Dallas Lange’s possible sighting of the truck.’

  Ivy decided to take a chance and bring Carl more fully into the fold. She’d more or less decided to do this on the way over. It might have been the real reason for her visit.

  ‘Can I show you something?’

  ‘Of course.’

  Ivy didn’t even bother to say that what she was about to show him was confidential. He was the one who taught her all about it.

  Ivy took out her phone, scrolled through a few photographs, found the one she wanted. She turned the screen to face Carl. He put on his glasses, took the phone from her.

  ‘My goodness,’ he said.

  ‘Did you ever run across anything like this in your time on the job?’

  Carl looked even more closely at the screen. ‘Those are crow’s wings.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘They’re affixed to something.’

  ‘They are,’ Ivy said. ‘Swipe to the next photograph. It’s a close-up.’

  Carl did so. ‘Will you look at that.’

  Carl studied the photographs for a while. Ivy sensed that he recognized something in them, but perhaps could not quite pin it down. She was right.

  ‘I want to say I’ve seen this before,’ Carl said.

  ‘As part of a case?’

  Carl stared off into the woods for a moment. ‘I don’t know. My memory isn’t quite what it used to be, Ivy. Time was when I knew half the license plates in Abbeville.’ He looked at the photo. ‘Then again, this might just be something I saw in a movie or a book. But I’ll be doggone if it isn’t familiar.’

  ‘I can get you a copy of these photographs if you think that might help.’

  ‘I think it might.’

  ‘Email okay?’

  ‘Young ’un,’ he said with a smile. ‘Email’s fine.’

  As Carl handed back her phone, a shadow caught the edge of Ivy’s field of vision, something entering the porch through the doorway into the house. She looked over to see that it was a dog she had not seen earlier, a young female German Shepherd. When Ivy leaned
forward the dog made eye contact, then looked away, lowering her head. No aggression, but she wasn’t backing up, either. This was her room.

  ‘Who’s this movie star?’ Ivy asked.

  ‘That’s Francesca Lindor.’

  ‘Seriously?’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘She’s named after the baseball player?’

  Francisco Lindor was the young All-Star shortstop for the Cleveland Indians.

  ‘Apparently so,’ Carl said. ‘The breeder is a fan.’

  ‘That’s a lot of name for a dog to carry around.’

  ‘She’s a big dog. Retired bomb squad. Cadaver training, too.’

  Ivy again looked at the dog. She was beautiful. A lustrous black and tan coat, almond shaped eyes, good shoulder definition.

  ‘She was on the job only a few months,’ Carl said. ‘Word is she was the best they ever had.’

  The dog made a few passes in front of Ivy, getting a sense of her threat level.

  ‘What happened to her?’ Ivy asked.

  ‘The way I hear it, she and her partner were working a house when some kind of IED went off in the next room. She never got over it. My back door slams and she runs for cover.’

  Ivy watched the dog check and recheck the corners of the room. No invading hordes.

  ‘She’s still ready and willing, but you know how it is,’ Carl said.

  Ivy did. She’d been through the same process, the same heartbreak, the same long road back.

  Carl sipped his coffee. ‘Too big for me to handle, I’m afraid. She’s only on a pit stop here.’

  Francesca Lindor made another pass behind Ivy, then curled twice near Carl’s feet and lay down. Ivy took one more look at her baby browns. Something passed between them.

  ‘No,’ Ivy said. She hadn’t meant to say this out loud. It just came out.

  The dog got up, padded over to Ivy, suddenly full of energy and canine bonhomie.

  ‘I’m sorry?’ Carl asked. ‘No what?’

  ‘I can’t take this dog.’

  Carl looked at Francesca Lindor, back at Ivy. ‘Did I miss something?’

  Yes, you did, Ivy thought. You missed the look. Once that look happened between Ivy and any dog, the bond was forged. Ivy tried to glance anywhere but the dog’s big, sad, soulful eyes.