False Cast: a small town murder mystery (Frank Bennett Adirondack Mountain Mystery Series Book 5)

by S. W. Hubbard

  “I know. For years, Marilee and her daughter made stuff special order at home and everyone told them they should open a shop. And then they did, and they failed in short order.”

  “That’s the problem with trying to make money from a retail establishment around here. To be successful, you’ve got to appeal to more than just the locals. Tourists wouldn’t ever stumble upon that place.”

  Penny looked over her shoulder at the receding bakery. “Marilee and her daughter are so sweet. They were so full of high hopes for their business. I hope they didn’t lose their shirts.”

  “They were naïve. They thought they could just bake the stuff and customers would come. They could’ve used some marketing advice from your buddy, Gage.”

  Penny squeezed Frank’s knee. “How come you don’t like him?”

  Frank kept his eyes on the road. “I like him fine. I barely know him.”

  “Well, happy news—you’re going to get to know him better.”

  Good lord, he hoped Penny hadn’t invited that twit over for dinner. “Oh?”

  “This weekend we’re going to go to the Abolitionist Reenactment at the John Brown Farm historical site. Gage is involved in the Essex County Historical Society and he asked me for my help.”

  “Whoa, back up. Gage Shelby is one of those people who gets dressed up in moldy old civil war uniforms and shoots a musket?”

  “I believe muskets were used in the Revolutionary War, dear. They used breech loaders in the Civil War.”

  “You scare me when you know things like that.”

  Penny tapped her head. “Librarians have a vast storage capacity for arcane information. And, no, Gage isn’t getting dressed up, but he is very involved in the Historical Society. He’s worried that he’s the youngest member. See, they’ve been doing the reenactment at the John Brown site exactly the same since Gage was a kid. He thinks we need to make it more relevant. He thinks the Historical Society will die out if we can’t get younger people engaged in local history.

  What was this we business? “By doing what? Setting the old Civil War camp songs to a hip-hop beat?”

  Penny laughed. “That’s not such a bad idea. It worked for Hamilton. No, Gage wants to shoot a short video with John Brown’s Farm as a backdrop, and share it on social media. On one hand, John Brown could be seen as a warrior fighting for racial equality. On the other hand, his raid at Harper’s Ferry was an act of violent extremism. So, hero or terrorist—it all depends on how you look at it. That’s the question Gage wants to explore in his video, and tie it in to what’s going on in the world today. He wants me to narrate it. Apparently, several of the old people in the Historical Society wanted to do it, but Gage wants someone chatty and friendly.”

  “That’s certainly you.”

  “Thanks, dear. So you’ll come with me?”

  Damn straight he would come if Gage Shelby had plans to collaborate with his wife. “Sure. How could I miss a star being born?”

  By the time Frank and Penny arrived at the baseball diamond, the game was in the second inning. About twenty parents sat in the bleachers, fans for both teams intermingled. He didn’t know Nancy Tomlinson, but he’d looked up her driver’s license after his conversation with Jimmy the clerk. Five foot six, one hundred sixty pounds, brown hair, brown eyes, thirty-five years old. There were other women in the stands who could answer to that description, but only one wasn’t with a husband.

  “Sit in the third row,” Frank murmured to Penny, urging her forward. He sat a couple of rows behind Penny where he could observe without being noticed by Nancy. Maybe Nancy would recognize Penny as the Trout Run librarian, maybe not. But she’d surely recognize Frank. He nodded to a few of the other parents. If they thought it odd he wasn’t sitting with his wife, they didn’t comment. They were all too absorbed in the game, which was tied two-two.

  Just as they sat down, the stocky kid at bat for Al’s Sunoco belted one to the outfield and the crowd roared. The hit would have been a double, but the right-fielder flubbed the throw to second, and the runner continued to third.

  “Way to hit, Joey,” a dad yelled. The Stevenson’s parents groaned. The woman Frank had pegged as Nancy Tomlinson chewed her thumbnail.

  Penny slid down the bleacher to take a seat behind the woman, but slightly to her right. Nancy was not what he’d expected. Not a flirtatious divorcee, but a plain, solid, dependable mom.

  And a worried one.

  The next batter hit a high fly to right, and the same kid who’d bungled the throw to third got under it. Nancy brought her shoulders up to her ears and squeezed her eyes shut.

  The ball dropped into the kid’s mitt, and the Stevenson’s parents cheered.

  “He got it that time, Nancy,” one of the fathers said.

  Nancy opened her eyes and clapped when she saw the Stevenson’s team heading in as the inning changed.

  Penny leaned forward. “That was a good catch.”

  Nancy turned toward her with a grateful smile. “I get so nervous when Max plays. Sometimes I can hardly bear to watch.”

  “My aunt used to pray the rosary whenever her son pitched,” Penny said.

  Frank kept his eyes focused on the game and repressed a smile. This rosary-toting aunt had sprung to life on the spot. Penny had no close relatives and she hadn’t been raised Catholic.

  Nancy sighed. “It’s not fair that they put so much pressure on the kids. Max gets so upset every time he makes a mistake. How about your son? Which one is he?”

  At that moment one of the boys caught sight of her and waved. “Hi, Miss Penny!”

  “I’m the librarian in Trout Run. I came by to cheer for the kids in my summer book club…and maybe recruit a few more. Would Max be interested?”

  From then on, Nancy and Penny chatted like old friends. Frank watched the game and listened. Sports…school…junk food…appropriate reading…inappropriate TV—one thread ran through the entire conversation: anxiety. Nancy Tomlinson seemed to be a real worrywart. Could someone like that take the colossal risk of helping a man to break out of jail?

  After the fifth inning, Nancy got up to use the restroom on the far side of the field. Frank watched her walk—she was broad in the beam and had the kind of haircut mothers got when they couldn’t be bothered with blow dryers and curling irons. Pam was more attractive by a long shot. Still, that didn’t always matter. In Frank’s experience, men who strayed were more interested in variety than an upgrade.

  “What do you think?” Penny asked, slipping back to sit with him.

  “What do you think?”

  “She seems nice enough…anxious…a little whiny…very concerned about her son. Honestly, she doesn’t strike me as the type to run off with a prisoner.”

  “I was thinking the same thing. But what were we expecting? We knew she was a nurse and a mother, not a gang member. When she comes back, see if you can steer the conversation toward her job.”

  When Nancy sat back down in the bleachers, Penny began a long soliloquy on her own job: the rewards of running the library versus the challenges of finding enough money to keep the doors open. Finally, she ended with, “Looks like you’re a nurse. Do you work at the Cascade Clinic?”

  “Ha! I wish. The clinic would be a nice place to work, but I couldn’t live on what they pay. No, I work at the jail. Instead of stitching up kids who fall off their bikes, I stitch up inmates who get in fights.” Nancy gazed into the outfield. “Not what I imagined when I enrolled in nursing school. Thought I might be an OR nurse at the medical center in Albany. But they don’t give jobs like that to nurses who don’t have a degree from a big-name school.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah, you have to know someone to get hired there. It’s all an inside game. Just like with this Little League. The coaches’ kids get to play all the best positions. Max would like to play first base, but they always put him in the outfield. Or on the bench, like now.”

  Frank’s ears perked up. Nancy’s tone had shifted from anxious
to aggrieved. That sense that life was unfair and she’d gotten the short end of the stick might lead her to do something reckless.

  “That’s a shame.” Penny’s voice was noncommittal, but Frank could sense his wife’s natural sympathy ebbing. Anyone paying attention could see that each of the players had been rotated out of the game for one inning. And a couple different kids had played first, even if Max hadn’t.

  Eventually, the game ended with a base-clearing walk-off homer from the Al’s Sunoco power hitter. The Stevenson’s team trudged off the field and Nancy Tomlinson rose to meet her son. “Bye,” she said to Penny. “Nice—” For the first time she noticed Frank and blinked rapidly. “Uhm, nice talking to you.”

  She hurried away.

  “I didn’t think the coaches were playing favorites, did you?” Penny asked.

  “Prisons are full of people who blame others for their predicaments. Maybe some of that rubbed off on Nancy.”

  Chapter 23

  Sunday dawned clear and bright.

  Perfect weather for the historical reenactment at John Brown’s Farm.

  Frank had secretly been praying for more rain, but now that he and Penny had arrived at the little cabin outside of Lake Placid, he found himself taking an interest in the proceedings despite his wariness of Gage Shelby.

  Ten men and two women dressed in 19th Century farmers clothing milled around. Gage was there, discussing something intently with one of the costumed men. They gestured toward the green but muddy field surrounding the farmhouse. Gage walked him to a certain spot, and placed another re-enactor a few feet away.

  “What are they going to re-enact?” Frank asked Penny.

  “Well, John Brown came here in 1848 with the idea that he would train freed slaves in the techniques of farming. Unfortunately, we’ve only got one black re-enactor to play the part of the slaves. Gage must be trying to figure out how to frame the shot.”

  “I’m surprised you have even one, given that Essex County is about ninety-nine percent white.”

  “I think he drove up from Albany,” Penny admitted.

  Finally, Gage finished his conversation and glanced around. His face lit up when he saw Penny, and he trotted toward them.

  “Great! You’re here.” Gage nodded briefly to Frank, then pulled Penny aside. “We’ll shoot your intro and conclusion first, then I’ll shoot the re-enactment and I’ll edit it later.”

  He posed Penny in front of the farmhouse and aimed a video camera on a tripod. “Look straight into the camera. Three…two…one, roll.”

  Frank watched with pride as Penny started chatting about the life of John Brown, his two wives and twenty children, his fervent abolitionist beliefs, his violent methods, and the assessment of historians that he had been mentally ill. She talked to the camera as if she were talking to one of her book clubs at the library, and John Brown soon came alive as a real person.

  “Fantastic!” Gage shouted. “You’re a natural.”

  Frank had to agree.

  “Now let’s do the conclusion.” Frowning, Gage fiddled with something on his video camera. “Anita!” he called.

  To Frank’s surprise, Anita Veech emerged from the crowd of onlookers and approached Gage. He spoke to her, using his hands to describe something. She nodded and walked over to an SUV, got something out of it, and brought it to her boss. Apparently, Anita was Gage’s assistant in more than just his app development venture. Frank wondered if she minded working on weekends.

  Penny took a drink of water and continued. This time she was more somber as she told the tale of Brown’s conviction for murder, conspiracy to incite a slave rebellion, and treason; his execution by hanging; and the return of his body here to the farmhouse. When she finished, Gage hugged her, an outpouring of enthusiasm that Frank couldn’t begrudge the younger man. Penny really was terrific.

  “How did I do?” she asked Frank.

  “You knocked it out of the park. Everyone will want to join the Historical Society with you as the spokeswoman.” Frank guided Penny to a seating area where they could watch the recording of rest of the proceedings. A small crowd filled the other chairs.

  “I think that tall guy in the blue shirt is going to play John Brown,” Penny said.

  Gage cued him to begin and the man started reciting John Brown’s most fiery speech. "Here, before God, in the presence of these witnesses, from this time, I con—, conse—”

  “Cut. That’s okay. Try again.”

  The re-enactor took a deep breath and looked up at the sky. "Here, before God, in the presence of these witnesses, from this time, I consecrate my life to the destruction of slavery!"

  “Better,” Gage said, “Remember to look into the camera. Try again.”

  The man stumbled again. Finally, on the fourth try, he made it through but he sounded like a nervous kid in the class play.

  “He’s not very good,” Penny whispered.

  A man seated behind them was less discreet with his opinion. “That sucked. Too bad Gatrell’s not here. Ol’ Ronnie made a crackerjack John Brown.”

  “That’s because Ronnie is every bit as crazy as John Brown was,” another spectator said.

  “Ronnie Gatrell is a member of the Historical Society?” Frank asked Penny under his breath.

  She shrugged. “His family has lived in the area for generations. I guess it makes sense.”

  The re-enactor was back on camera, muddling through one more John Brown speech. "Now if it is deemed necessary that I should forfeit my life for the furtherance of the ends of justice, and mingle my blood further with the blood of my children and with the blood of millions in this slave country whose rights are disregarded by wicked, cruel, and unjust enactments, I say let it be done!"

  “Ronnie did that one real good last year,” the theater critic behind Frank said. “I bet he was thinking about the APA and banks that took his land when he said it.”

  Before Frank could comment, six men appeared carrying a wooden coffin. They set it down next to John Brown’s tombstone, and a woman in a long gray dress and white apron dropped to her knees and draped herself over it, sobbing.

  “That’s John’s wife, Mary Anne,” Penny said. “John managed to get three of his sons killed in his attacks on slaveholders, one in Kansas and two at Harper’s Ferry. I’m not sure if they were Mary Anne’s sons or the sons of his first wife, Dianthe.”

  Frank watched the little tableau of tragedy. “I bet Mary Anne would have a lot to say to Pam Gatrell. It’s not easy being married to a zealot.”

  Chapter 24

  Monday got off to an auspicious start. Earl quickly determined the only Denny in the eighth grade class at High Peaks Middle School. “Denny Webber. His Dad’s name is also Dennis. They live on the Trout Run-Verona border, pretty near the Gatrells. In fact, I bet their property backs up to the Gatrells’.”

  “So Denny and RJ have probably been playmates for a long time,” Frank said. “Do you know the parents? Are they part of the ‘Run Ronnie Run’ coalition?”

  “Nah,” Earl said. “Mr. Webber is kinda serious—a real straight arrow. He drives a forklift at Stevenson’s Lumberyard.”

  “I think I’ll drop by and see him there. If I can get permission to talk to Denny now, I can see the kid right after school.”

  Stevenson’s Lumberyard bustled with activity. Frank maneuvered around a flatbed sixteen-wheeler waiting to drop off a load of logs and found a place to park near the warehouse. He asked a passing worker where he could find Dennis Webber and soon found the man ferrying pallets of two-by-fours with a small forklift.

  Webber parked the vehicle and jumped down with a worried face. “What’s wrong? Please don’t say my wife had an accident driving to Placid.”

  Frank patted his shoulder. “No, nothing’s wrong. I just wanted to ask your help with something.”

  The crease of worry in Webber’s forehead relaxed a little, but didn’t disappear.

  “I understand your son Denny is friends with RJ Gatrell.” Frank
said.

  “What did they do? If Denny drove his ATV on the road, I’ll kill him!”

  Geez, Earl was right when he said Webber was a straight arrow. The man immediately jumped to the worst conclusion. “Believe me, Denny has done nothing wrong. I’m, uh, assisting, in the investigation of Ronnie Gatrell’s escape. I’d like your permission to talk to Denny this afternoon. I’d just like to explore whether RJ may have told him anything that might be useful to us.”

  Dennis Webber’s earnest gray eyes searched Frank’s face. Then he glanced over his shoulder, and seeing the nearest warehouse aisle empty, gestured for Frank to follow him. They ducked into a small break room, where stale coffee scorched on a burner. Webber started talking before they had even sat down at the scuffed Formica table. “I told my wife we should contact the police, but she said we didn’t know anything for certain and if the cops wanted us, they’d call. So I guess you have.”

  Frank felt a flicker of excitement. His hunch had paid off. He was about to learn something the state police didn’t know. But he could see that Webber was conflicted about talking to him. “You’ve been good neighbors to the Gatrells for a long time, haven’t you?”

  “Fifteen years. The boys have been playing together since they could walk.” He paused. “He’s a good kid…it’s not his fault his dad is, well—”

  “You’re not a great friend of Ronnie’s?”

  Webber shrugged. “My wife and I are homebodies. Ronnie is more of a partier. But RJ is a good friend of Denny’s. The boys could play together for hours—building forts in the woods, fishing, and now that they’re older, riding their ATVs. But recently….”Again Webber glanced around as if he suspected the break room was bugged.

  “Something changed between them?”

  “In October, Denny asked for a video game system for his birthday. I was against it—kids should play outside—but my wife said that the boys were spending too much time at RJ’s house playing video games there. Denny would come home and tell his mom about Pam and Ronnie arguing. My wife said if we got Denny the game system, then we could keep an eye on them both at our house, so we got it.”