Pete stopped and pointed. “This wasn’t a sod house like those you’ve seen out on the prairies. This was built solid out of lake stone and logs, by settlers seeking a fresh start after the Civil War. Abraham Lincoln signed the Homestead Act in 1862 to encourage western migration. It provided settlers up to 160 acres of land each. Of course they had to reside on their piece of land for at least five years before they received ownership. Many of the settlers in this area had to work the copper mines as well in order to survive. The winters were harsh and the land was untamed. Farming was not an easy task up in these dense woods.”
“Sounds like you’re something of a history buff yourself,” Shelby said, clicking a picture of Blake and Pete standing in front of the partial wall. “Are there actually records of the family who lived here?”
He nodded. “I looked them up when I bought the place. It was a Finnish family by the name of Latvala who built the original house.”
“That’s so cool. The Drunken Sailor is young compared to that.”
“Where’s that storm cellar you mentioned?” Blake called out. He had walked to the backside of the crumbling chimney and was looking around, stepping carefully over fallen stones and rough ground, using his cane to poke the debris at his feet.
Pete took the path of greater resistance, cutting straight through the ruin. He stepped over stones and clumps of weeds, and then hoisted himself over the low stone partition to the other side. Standing beside Blake, he stretched his arm and pointed. “Do you see that raised area over there? From the other side it looks like a dugout. You can’t see the entrance from this side.”
Shelby caught up with them as they headed toward the storm cellar. Jake had trotted ahead, nose to the ground like a true bloodhound. She looked out across the field and stopped, amazed by the view. The trees in the distance were more vibrant than she ever remembered seeing. Red, orange, and yellow came together in a blaze of color. She switched the camera to panoramic and took a picture.
“What the heck?” she heard Pete mumble.
She lowered her camera and moved close to the lip of the grassy berm. The men already stood below looking down. Hands on his hips, a puzzled frown lined Pete’s forehead. Blake reached out and helped her down the hill.
“What’s going on?” she asked.
“That is not my padlock.”
Blake hunkered down and examined the heavy-duty padlock attached to a newly installed steel door. Not exactly the style of door an 1862 homestead family would typically find available. He looked up at Pete, a question in his eyes.
Pete shook his head. “And that is not my door.”
<<>>
Not knowing the legal ramifications of breaking into his own cellar without his new renter’s permission, Pete decided to speak with an attorney first. He walked them back to the house, waved them off, and went inside with Jake to make the call.
“That was interesting,” Blake said, pulling onto the highway. “Heath has a hidden trap door in the floor of his kitchen and his partner rents a piece of land for access to an old storm shelter. What are they both hiding?”
“Do you think we might be getting off onto a rabbit trail here? After all, we’re supposed to be investigating Sadie’s murder, not Heath and Bart’s nefarious dealings. Whatever they are.”
He shot her a crooked grin. “You’re probably right. But I’d find it personally satisfying and an added bonus if we were able to collect enough evidence against them to have them thrown back in jail.”
“Let’s focus on solving Sadie’s murder first, okay?”
“Deal.” He reached out and took her hand in his.
They rode in companionable silence for the next few minutes, each lost in their own thoughts. Shelby, in the middle of her favorite daydream about directing a local production of Much Ado About Nothing was brought back to reality with the pressure of Blake’s fingers gently squeezing her hand. They were turning in at the entrance to the B&B.
“You know,” he said, “I think it’s really great we can be partners. When Don and I were out following up a lead he would never let me hold his hand.”
She snorted a laugh. “You’re crazy.”
“One of my most attractive qualities.”
Shelby didn’t respond but lifted her sunglasses to stare wide-eyed at the black sedan parked in front of the house. At their approach, the back door opened and Jerri Roper stepped out pulling her long coat together against the cold. She gave them a friendly wave and waited beside the car for them to pull up.
“I think we may be sliding back down that rabbit hole I promised to avoid,” Blake said, his tone apologetic.
He shut off the ignition. They stepped out and approached the car. Blake’s suspicion was evident in the set of his jaw and the stiff, formal tone he used with Jerri. “What brings you out here today, Ms. Roper?”
She glanced up at the house where Alice peered at them from between the kitchen curtains, and motioned toward the seat she’d vacated. “Make yourselves comfortable. I think I’ll go inside and share a cup of coffee with Alice.”
Once they were inside the car and the door shut, the man in the passenger seat flipped the visor mirror down and regarded them in the reflection. “Nice to see you again, Shelby.”
“George.”
“Mr. Gunner, I’m sure your wife told you about me, and since last night when my partner and I mistakenly took your nocturnal activities as illegal breaking and entering and followed you and your friend, you’ve probably come up with some conclusions of your own. But before we get to that, I need your word that none of what we discuss here will be shared outside of this car. Sam and I have been working this case for months and lives are at risk.”
Blake gave a curt nod.
“So you are Feds,” Shelby said, trying not to sound excited, but failing. She leaned in to get a better look at George’s partner. He sported a flattop military haircut and looked like a G. I. Joe action figure. A jagged scar ran from his right ear to his chin, dividing thick, bristly, dark beard like a pale river on a physical geographical map.
George flipped out his badge for Shelby’s benefit. “Special Agent George Roper. This is my partner Sam Wilson. We’re working in conjunction with a special task force that involves a dozen offices around the country and multiple federal agencies.”
“You’re part of the AC team?” Blake’s words held surprise and respect.
“What’s the AC team?”
George shifted in his seat and met Shelby’s eyes. “Anti-trafficking Coordination Team. The Department of Justice, Labor, the FBI, and Homeland Security all have a finger in the pie.”
Blake looked grim. “Are you saying Flintlock and Linder are trafficking women?”
“We could pick them up right now and probably have enough evidence to put them away for good, but the thing is…”
“You want the big fish.”
“Exactly.”
“Oh my word,” Shelby said, shaking her head, “that’s what the storm shelter is for. They’re going to lock women down there. I can’t believe they’d be involved in something like this. Sex trafficking?”
“Storm shelter?” George’s interest was peaked.
Blake nodded. “Last night I found a trapdoor in the floor of the kitchen, but before I could open it and get a look, Heath was turning in the driveway. Today Pete Dugan told us he’d rented a piece of land to Bart Linder and it just happened to have a storm shelter on it. Since I don’t believe in coincidence, we went out there to have a look. Linder already had a steel door and a padlock installed without the owner’s permission.”
“You don’t think there were girls down there, do you?” Shelby felt hysteria building in her chest. She couldn’t imagine the horror of being locked in a pitch black hole in the ground, knowing what was to come would only be worse. Sex slavery in America? She knew it existed. She’d read news stories. But right here in their peaceful little port? It was incomprehensible.
Blake took her hand. “I’m
sure no one was down there, babe. We would have heard them.”
“It’s common practice for women to be drugged so they don’t cause trouble or make noise,” George said, ignoring her distress. “We’re pretty sure they already have at least three hidden away somewhere. Probably in that space you discovered under the kitchen. I don’t think they’ve had time to move them. We’ve been keeping pretty close tabs on the house.”
“What do you want from us?” Blake asked.
“Flintlock is getting antsy and paranoid. Especially since you two paid him a visit. We intercepted a text he made to someone in Houghton. His contact used a burner. There were no names exchanged, but Heath was definitely taking orders. His contact said to find a safer place for the girls until they were needed Thursday night.”
Blake sat back and expelled a breath. “I guess Linder is already a step ahead. He signed a rental agreement with Dugan the night before we spoke with Heath.”
“Linder is a cool customer,” George said. “He’s the one I worry about. Flintlock does whatever he’s told. Linder’s official prison records show he paid his time and didn’t cause trouble, but a closer investigation revealed something quite different. He gets other people to do his dirty work. He’s sadistic and sneaky. The prison psychiatrist believes Bart Linder is a sociopath. Good to know, right? One more nutball in the world.”
“I knew there was something off about him. He’s much too smooth. I’ve dealt with pathological liars before, but it’s more than that.”
“I know what you mean. No remorse. No feelings of any kind. Makes it easier for them and harder for us.”
Sam had remained silent until now, although he’d made little grunts throughout the conversation. When he finally spoke, his voice sounded like he’d gargled seashells as a child. “We’re only telling you this because you have a history of law enforcement. You understand this is a delicate operation.”
“Of course,” Blake said, meeting his hard stare in the rearview. “What can we do to help?”
“You can stay out of the way!”
“Sam…” George chided.
He shook his head, his face reddening. “We’re already dealing with enough bureaucratic red tape without adding these inexperienced...” His scathing tone wasn’t bad enough. He cast a scornful glance in Shelby’s direction. “…actors to the mix.”
Blake reached across and thrust the door open. He nudged Shelby. “Let’s go. We don’t have to listen to this.” After climbing out, he leaned in. “I’m not a cop anymore so I’m not required to play this one-sided cooperation game with you Feds. You asked for my help, my input. I gladly shared because I truly care about shutting down this filthy operation. But you can’t ask for help one second and lambaste us the next. Here’s my free advice. Stay off my property.” He slammed the door.
“That went well,” Shelby said.
Jerri, obviously watching for her cue to leave, exited the house as they came up the steps. “Went that well, huh?” she observed, seeing the looks on their faces. “Sorry. He’s really sweet when he’s not playing secret agent games.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Blake pulled off his coat as he moved toward the stairs. “We need to step up our investigation. If the FBI make their arrests soon we may never learn who really killed Sadie.”
Shelby suddenly pressed her hands to her cheeks. “We haven’t checked on Fanny yet today. I promised her we’d find out who murdered her squirrel.”
“You think it’s that easy, do you?”
“A promise is a promise. We have to try.”
He sighed, exasperation competing with humor. “Pete said the camera system was installed so it should be up and running. Guess we could go by and check the video, see if the culprit has shown himself.”
“Or herself.”
“Of course. We wouldn’t want to rule out the possibility our squirrel murderer is a girl. But statistically speaking, boys are much more likely to torture small animals, and truthfully, I don’t want to live in a world where girls start mimicking the bad behavior of psychotic boys.”
“You mean like Cynthia?”
He stopped outside their bedroom door. “You don’t give up, do you?”
“Blake, it’s past time to have a conversation with your ex-girlfriend.”
He ignored the jibe and threw open the door, moved to the closet and exchanged boots for tennis shoes. Shelby sat on the bed and watched. He knew she was right. He didn’t know why he’d been hanging on to the threads of the past so tightly. Practically rewriting history so it would fit into the comfortable niche he’d designated for it in the back of his mind. It was so much easier to think of his mother as a drowning victim than a murder victim, and so much easier to think of Cynthia as the sweet girl he left to go to college, than the girl who played with his feelings, stomped on them, and embarrassed him in front of the entire school.
Taking a deep breath, he turned around and opened his arms. She was inside them instantly. He kissed the top of her head. “I’m sorry, babe. I haven’t been very objective lately, have I?”
She very kindly didn’t respond, but tightened her hold around his back.
“I’ll only admit this once, so listen up. You’re right and I’m wrong.”
She pulled back to look up into his face, her eyes twinkling with moisture in the light. “Say what?”
“Sorry, no repeats.”
She stretched up and kissed him deeply, moving her arms up and around his neck.
“I mean it,” he mumbled against her lips.
She pulled away laughing and wiped at her eyes. “Fine. Don’t give me what I want.”
“I didn’t say…”
“Come on. We have to see Fanny, remember?”
They took Lake Street, passing the wharf. A couple of teenagers strolled hand in hand down to the end of the pier. A few fishing boats were still out but most were already done for the day. Shelby pointed at the beach area. “Look, there’s Jack!”
Jack walked barefoot in the sand close to the water’s edge, flapping his arms in the air, apparently mimicking the seagulls around him. Blake slowed the truck, keeping an eye on his grandfather. He saw Jack sit on a big rock outcropping, pull something from his coat pocket, and throw it to the birds.
Taking a deep breath, he picked up speed, turning away from the beach scene. Every once in a while he thought Jack might be struggling with dementia, but the episodes came and went so fast that he was never sure if he had imagined it or not.
Shelby seemed to read his mind. She put a hand on his arm. “He’s all right. Being outside in the open, free to come and go as he wishes – that’s what he needs. We can’t monitor him. He’s your grandfather, not your ward. Besides, I talked to him the other day. He seemed fine to me. And he’s sleeping in the boathouse again, so he’s staying warm and dry at night. What more could we ask?”
“I’m thankful he’s still around. Last spring when he collapsed on the beach I thought we’d lost him.”
“He’s taking better care of himself these days. I think he’s really happy you came back to town so he could get to know you as his grandson.” She smiled softly and ran her fingers through the hair at the nape of his neck. “I’m a little jealous sometimes. The people here… they might be quirky but they’re your family. You grew up with them. They cared for you. They helped you over the rough patches and sent you out into the big world to make something of yourself. My father’s idea of childcare was to send me to school with a shot glass full of peanut butter for lunch. I’ll never forget the day my first grade teacher saw me eating lunch with one finger.”
He turned his head slightly and felt her hand warm on his cheek. Whenever she let him see tiny glimpses of her dysfunctional childhood, he knew she wasn’t trying to one-up him but to gently nudge him toward thankfulness. His life had been unconventional but he had grownups that cared and did their best to fill in for his absent parents. “Your stories make my life seem magical, babe. But you know, these people
are your family now too. They care about you as much as they care about me.”
“Probably more,” she teased. “It feels good having family, doesn’t it?”
He turned onto Summer Street and saw Fanny standing at the edge of her front yard. She was looking up at her porch, waving her arms around. Was everyone in Port Scuttlebutt going crazy? Pulling up to the curb, he cut the engine. Fanny’s attention didn’t waver. She took a step closer and waved again. The front porch light came on and she spun around to face them as they climbed out of the truck.
“Did you see that?” she asked, hands on her amply padded hips. “That boy put flashing lights on my house. Do you know what that will do to my owl population?”
“It’s all right, Fanny,” Shelby said, taking her arm and leading her toward the house. “It’s only temporary. Owls will be hunting small prey in your yard again in no time.”
Blake followed, glancing down the street. A blonde woman opened her screen door, stuck her head out, and quickly ducked back inside letting it bang shut. He stopped and made a mental inventory of the neighborhood. There were half a dozen houses spread out on each side of Summer Street. He knew the man who lived in the blue house two doors down on the left-hand side. That was Lenny Smith. He owned the gas station. The two houses closest to Fanny had bikes and toys scattered across their yards. Four houses down on this side of the street, a balding man balanced on a ladder, pulling leaves out of his gutters. He didn’t recognize him.
Fanny lived at the farthest end of the dead-end street. She had the biggest lot and the smallest house. Her cottage was tucked snugly in the middle of thickly growing evergreens, cedars, and balsam firs. The tiny square area designated for a lawn was overgrown with weeds and divided by a cracked and crumbling sidewalk that led to crumbling porch steps.
He followed the women into the house. Fanny was in the kitchen filling a teakettle with water at the sink and Shelby sat on the floor in the tiny adjoining sitting room in front of a rickety table where the security system was set up. The components were old enough to be in style when Reagan was president. Fanny’s thirty-something-year-old 12-inch television served as the monitor to the nearly obsolete VCR Tucker had donated to the cause. She’d pressed rewind and was waiting impatiently, fingers tapping on the tabletop.
Much Ado About Murder (Double Barrel Mysteries) Page 19