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

by S. W. Hubbard

  “Tomorrow! I can’t wait until tomorrow! Something is terribly wrong. I’d drive up there myself, but I’m babysitting my grandson for the next three days. I can’t drive around the Adirondacks looking for Joe with a sick toddler in my backseat. Can’t you help me?”

  He heard the pleading in her voice. He also heard the warning in Meyerson’s. No showboating. Stay in your own backyard. “I’m not sure it’s in my jurisdiction, ma’am.”

  She began to sob. “Please…my husband is missing. Why won’t you take me seriously?”

  “With all due respect ma’am, it’s not a crime to come home late from a fishing trip.”

  “You don’t understand. Joe’s not like that. He doesn’t drink. He doesn’t sneak around. He always calls. He would move heaven and earth to find me if I were missing. Aren’t you married? Wouldn’t you do that for your wife?”

  She couldn’t have planned her assault any better if she’d spent a month researching. Frank looked at his desk. He couldn’t even claim to be busy. Every task he’d been procrastinating on, Earl had done. He’d been such a marvel of efficiency since auditioning for his promotion that all their paperwork was up-to-date, and even the dreaded Spring Fling traffic plan had been resolved. And Earl had just left, which meant the morning patrol was underway. Frank sighed. “All right ma’am. I suppose I can drive out there. Expect to hear from me in forty-five minutes.”

  He headed out to his truck and called out to Doris as he passed. “If Meyerson should happen to call, tell him I’m doing a personal favor for a friend.”

  Frank hoped he wouldn’t find an empty boat floating on the pond. Mrs. Cottlemeir had insisted her husband was in good health and always wore a life jacket while in the boat. Of course, that’s what he did when he was with her and what he promised to do when he was away from her.

  What he actually did was no doubt another matter.

  Frank left Route Nine at the erstwhile campground, turning onto two-lane paved road, and again onto a narrow gravel road with no name, and finally onto a dirt track marked by a crooked wooden arrow nailed to a tree. No doubt about it—the camp fell in the unincorporated area outside Verona, totally outside his new jurisdiction, totally off the grid. No electricity, no running water, certainly no cell service. But he was here now—no point in turning back without checking on Mr. Cottlemeir.

  His truck lurched along and Frank downshifted to keep it from losing traction on the steep descent to the lake. Soon he saw the cabin—little more than a shack, really—with a concrete block chimney and just one window on the side facing him.

  Frank could see fresh tire tracks, so the man had made it here. But no sign of Mr. C’s truck. And Frank certainly hadn’t passed it on the way in. If it had stalled or been abandoned it would be clearly visibly because it couldn’t be driven more than a few feet off the road in woods this dense.

  He got out of the truck suddenly intensely aware that he shouldn’t have come here alone. Yet there was no good reason to leave without checking out the cabin. The forest was so silent that when a woodpecker knocked on a tree behind him, Frank jumped.

  He circled one side of the cabin and looked out at the lake. A flat-bottomed fishing boat bobbed next to a rickety dock. A bait bucket sat on the shore.

  Unease crept up his spine. Mr. Cottlemeir hadn’t packed to leave, yet his vehicle was gone. Had he driven out to get something and never returned? Would someone eventually notice a car in the Grand Union parking lot that hadn’t moved for days? A car with a man whose heart had stopped sitting behind the wheel?

  Frank approached the house. There was a screen door, with the main door open behind it. Not that unusual. If anyone wanted to break into this flimsy shack, a locked door wouldn’t stop him, so might as well let the fresh air in.

  He stepped up on the porch and noticed a hole in the screen.

  A perfectly round hole.

  He breathed deeply to steady himself.

  That’s when he smelled it.

  Fish. Not fresh. Like the alley behind a seafood restaurant on a hot day.

  “Mr. Cottlemeir? Trout Run Police. I’m coming in.”

  He stepped across the threshold, blinking as he left the bright afternoon for the dim interior. A dark, sticky tide ran across the sloping floor toward him.

  Blood. More blood than could be shed by any fish living in Crescent Lake.

  Large, corrugated boot prints tracked through the blood, becoming fainter as they reached the door.

  Frank paused. He needed to preserve the scene, but if there was any possibility that Cottlemeier was still alive….

  He shined his flashlight around the dim interior. The cabin was just one open room. Bunk beds to sleep six on one side.

  A propane-fueled stove with a rough countertop on the other.

  A bigmouth bass lay sliced open on the counter.

  Cottlemeir lay in a heap at the foot of the stove.

  His face was gone.

  Frank had to drive back out to the main road before he picked up a cell phone signal to call in the shooting. Forty-five minutes later, Meyerson arrived with a full crime-scene team. Glaring at Frank, he donned a Tyvek suit and entered the cabin, barking out orders to his men. Half an hour later, he emerged and yanked open the door of Frank’s truck.

  “What were you doing out here?”

  “Hi, Lew. Nice to see you, too.”

  “Don’t start with me, Bennett. Yesterday you were nosing around at the Adirondack Loj. Now, you’re out of your jurisdiction again.”

  Frank was too tired and discouraged to get into a pissing match with Meyerson. He’d spent the last hour thinking about Ronnie, about how everyone, even he, had underestimated what Ronnie was capable of. Like John Brown, Ronnie had crossed the line from self-appointed freedom fighter to terrorist. And now, a totally innocent man was dead. “The guy’s wife called me, worried about her husband. She wasn’t able to describe the cabin’s location precisely. Once I got out here, I realized it was outside the Verona lines, but I figured I might as well check it out if I’d already driven twenty miles. Don’t tell me you would have turned around.”

  Meyerson scowled. “Tell me everything you know.”

  So Frank methodically recounted every detail of the call from Mrs. Cottlemeir and his discovery of the body. He also reminded Meyerson that the campsite where the hikers had found the trash was less than fifteen miles from their current location. He finished with, “Ronnie Gatrell is a stone cold killer.”

  “We won’t know for sure that Gatrell killed Cottlemeir until we get the results from the CSI unit,” Meyerson said. “He didn’t leave us a message this time.”

  “I know damn well what they’ll find. Those boot prints will match the size and brand that Ronnie stole from the Giant View house. The bullet they dug out of the wall will have been fired by a seven millimeter Remington just like the one Ronnie stole.”

  “You’re probably right, but I’ve still got to talk to the owner of the fishing camp and to Cottlemeir’s family.”

  “What about the truck? Do you have an APB—”

  “Of course we do,” Meyerson snapped. “We can’t be certain until we establish the time of death, but since the victim was cleaning a fish when he died, Ronnie—or whoever—must’ve killed him no earlier than Saturday afternoon or evening or as late as Sunday afternoon. That means he could have driven anywhere from six hundred to fifteen hundred miles by now.”

  Frank’s head still echoed with the cry of anguish that had come through his phone when Mrs. Cottlemeir had called him again to ask what he’d discovered and he had to tell her that her husband wouldn’t be coming home. He’d said, “There’s been an accident.” He wouldn’t, couldn’t, say more. Couldn’t say, “Your husband’s been gunned down by a man who wanted his truck.” Couldn’t say, “Your husband’s dead because no one took his killer seriously. No one thought he was truly dangerous.”

  Except me.

  And I didn’t do enough to bring him in.

 
; “Man, what rotten luck—to go away for a little fishing and end up in the one cabin in the Adirondacks where an escaped prisoner wants to hide out,” Earl said after Frank got back to Trout Run and filled him in on what had happened at the fishing cabin. “It’s like being one of the three people out of a hundred thousand at the Boston Marathon to get hit with that terrorist’s bomb.”

  “Yeah, what are the odds?”

  Frank set his coffee cup down. What were the odds? Astronomical.

  He crossed the office to stand before Earl’s desk. “The Marathon bombers intentionally placed their bombs at the finish line because they knew that would be the most crowded place. What if Ronnie didn’t just stumble onto that fishing cabin? What if someone knew Cottlemeir would be there with his truck and that person tipped Ronnie off? What if it’s the same person who’s been delivering food?”

  Earl reared back as if Frank had spit in his face. “You think someone in Trout Run set up poor Mr. Cottlemeir to be murdered? C’mon—people might have sympathy for Ronnie, but no one would do that.”

  “Maybe they never imagined Ronnie would kill the guy. They just figured they’d offer Ronnie an ideal opportunity: remote location…one lone man…grab the truck and go.”

  Earl nodded slowly. “Yea-a-h, I could see that. But why did it go so wrong? It’s not like they fought over the truck keys. Ronnie stood in the door of the cabin and—”

  “Executed him. And calmly walked over and took the keys.” Frank banged his fists together. “Whoever’s helping Ronnie doesn’t really understand who they’re dealing with. But I do. And I think Meyerson is finally taking Ronnie seriously.”

  “Does he believe now that someone’s helping Ronnie?”

  Frank’s eyes scanned the office. The straggly potted plant that Anita had commented on reproached him from its spot atop the file cabinet. Some things never changed: the office décor and Meyerson’s unwillingness to ever admit Frank was right. “He’s not telling me. But this murder makes the sheriff and the jail staff look even worse for letting Ronnie escape, and the state police look incompetent for letting him slip through their fingers so many times. Meyerson had his back up at the crime scene, but honestly, if we come up with some leads for him, he’s going to take them.”

  “We need to know certain things.” Earl pulled out a yellow legal pad. “One—how did the helper know Cottlemeir would be at the cabin last weekend?”

  “It’s gotta be someone who either knows Cottlemeir or, more likely, knows the guy from Keeseville who owns the cabin. I’d love to talk to him, see who he knows in Trout Run. But Meyerson’s going to interview him. I can’t go near the guy.”

  Earl kept his eyes on his note pad as he doodled a fat moose. “I know people in Keeseville.”

  Frank chuckled. “I bet you do.”

  Earl looked up and grinned. “I’ll just keep an ear tuned to what people are saying.” He wrote on the notepad again. “Okay, two—if someone knew Cottlemeir was going to be at the cabin, how would that person alert Ronnie? If someone’s helping him, how are they communicating?”

  Frank picked up the dying philodendron and dropped it in the trash. “If we knew that, we’d know everything.”

  Chapter 27

  News of Joe Cottlemeir’s murder topped every newscast from Saratoga to Plattsburgh, but the people of Trout Run and Verona knew more about the crime than any reporter.

  They say he was unrecognizable.

  …nearly decapitated

  I bet Ronnie’s on his way to Mexico in that truck.

  No, they say Ronnie’s got enough weapons and food to hole up for months. If the Feds try to take him, it’ll be another Ruby Ridge.

  “They” was the most widely quoted source. But even though the information people traded was wildly inaccurate, Frank sensed that the tide had finally turned against Ronnie. Rollie Fister reported a rush of business from people buying new locks, and all along the school bus routes, parents waited with their kids.

  Frank squinted out the office window toward Malone’s Diner and finally took up a pair of binoculars. Just as he suspected, the neon green R3 sign no longer hung on the diner’s front door.

  He decided to let Marge back into his good graces and eat an early dinner at the diner. If Marge was aware of Frank’s recent absence, she didn’t let on. His favorite table, the small booth for two near the window, was free. He settled in and studied the menu. After being away for more than a week, Frank thought everything looked good.

  A repeated pinging sound made him look up. There in the back booth against the wall sat Anita and Olivia. They weren’t speaking to each other. Anita gazed into the screen of a laptop placed beside her chef’s salad, while Olivia was utterly engrossed in a cellphone she cradled in her hands. The phone pinged again, and Olivia’s thumbs moved across the screen.

  Texting! Lucy had been right. Anita had quickly gotten Olivia the phone Lucy and Edwin had denied her. Frank raised the menu in front of his face and peeked over the top. Other than the phone, Olivia looked like her usual self. He needn’t have bothered being discreet. Anita and Olivia were both so absorbed in their devices that Frank could have stared at them as if they were pandas in the zoo and they wouldn’t have noticed.

  When the waitress arrived, Frank ordered the chicken potpie and surrendered his menu. Now he watched Olivia with no cover. Who could she be trading messages with so intently? Some boy? Why wasn’t she playing board games with her girlfriends? Why wasn’t she doing her homework or reading a book?

  Why weren’t mother and daughter talking to each other?

  The waitress cleared their plates and dropped off their check. Anita closed her laptop, and still without saying a word, the two rose and headed for the door.

  As they passed him, Frank looked up. “Hi, Olivia. Hi, Anita.”

  Anita nodded curtly, but Olivia looked happy to see him.

  He scrambled for something better to say than “how’s school?” The Spring Fling talent show was coming up. All the kids loved that. “Are you getting excited for the Spring Fling?”

  “Yeah. I know some kids who are doing a dance routine in it.”

  “Maybe you’ll dance or sing next year, eh?”

  Anita kept walking toward the door.

  “Maybe.” Olivia tossed her long hair before she followed.

  In her earlobes, tiny silver earrings sparkled.

  When the chicken potpie arrived, Frank found his appetite had vanished. He prodded at the crust, fuming. What would Anita allow Olivia to do next—get a tattoo? Follow rock bands around all summer long?

  His thoughts were interrupted by a loud conversation at the counter. The Stulke brothers spouted off to anyone who would listen. “Ol’ Ronnie outsmarted the heat again,” one said.

  “Yep, he got himself a truck now. They won’t never catch him now, right Marge?”

  Marge snorted. “I didn’t think Ronnie had that much balls. But I guess he does.”

  Balls? Did it take balls to shoot an unarmed man in the back?

  Frank shoved his plate across the table and stood. “Ronnie Gatrell is not some quirky folk hero,” he sputtered as he turned toward the door. “He killed a man, the father of three, sneaked up behind him while he was cleaning a fish for his dinner and shot him in the back of the head. Ronnie is a vicious, cowardly psychopath, and if I find out who’s been helping him, I guarantee you that person will be looking at time behind bars.” Frank started to open the door, and doubled back, pointing a finger at Marge and the Stulkes. “And I’m not eating here again as long as you tolerate people like them undermining law enforcement.”

  That evening when Penny asked why he was packing a bag lunch for the next day, she set off a tirade.

  “Calm down, Frank. Pierced ears are not the first step on the road to a life of prostitution.” Penny pulled out a can of hearty minestrone from the pantry and offered it to him. “And since when do you care what those moron Stulke brothers say about anything?”

  “It’s the pr
incipal of the thing. Anita is buying Olivia’s love, intentionally bribing her with things that Lucy and Edwin said she shouldn’t have. And I don’t care about the Stulkes. I care that Marge tolerates them.”

  “Maybe it’s not a bribe, dear. Maybe these are gifts from a mom who feels bad that she missed five years of her daughter’s life. Can you blame Anita for wanting to do something to make it up to Olivia?”

  “Why are you defending her when you know how devastated Lucy is?”

  “I’m not defending her. It’s just…well, there are no easy answers here, you know. I don’t see Anita as evil. I don’t blame her for wanting to mother her own child. Anita came into the library yesterday, did I tell you that?”

  “No. What did she want?”

  “She applied for a library card and she took out three books: Healthy Meals in Minutes, Raising Happy Teens, and The Hunger Games. That last one is a young adult novel.”

  “Yeah, I know. I’ve seen Olivia reading it.”

  “Exactly. I figured Anita must be checking it out for Olivia, so I told her that I knew Olivia had already read it. And Anita said, ‘I know. That’s why I want to read it.’”

  “So you think Anita is trying to be a good mother.”

  “I do. I want to hate her, for Lucy’s sake. But somehow I can’t seem to do it.”

  Chapter 28

  “Donald and I hung out at the Thirsty Moose last night.” Earl set a cup of coffee and a maple Danish on the desk as Frank squinted at his computer screen.

  “Nice.”

  “In Keeseville.”

  Frank spun around. “Did you hear something?”

  “The guy who owns the cabin is president of the Ausable Rod and Reel Club. He knows everybody and everybody knows him. The kind of guy who buys strangers drinks and offers rides to hikers. He’d let just about anyone who liked to fish use that cabin.”