by B. T. Lord
John looked at his wife. “Three? No wonder you were so sleepy in the car.”
Lavinia shrugged. “It isn’t often I find a book I can really sink my teeth into. And this one is a doozy. Takes place on Boston’s Beacon Hill. I’ll lend it to you if you’d like, Sheriff.”
“I’d love that,” Cammie answered absently, her mind intent on the time line provided by Lavinia. At three am, the elderly woman heard a truck backfiring that probably wasn’t a truck backfiring at all, but a gun firing. That fit with Doc’s estimate of time of death.
“It took me a little while to fall asleep and I was finally drifting off when we heard it again.”
This time Cammie gaped at Lavinia. “You heard a second truck backfiring?”
“Yes. I was quite upset, I can tell you. It took us both forever to fall asleep after that.”
“How long after the first sound did you hear the second?”
“About a half hour, I’d say.”
“Did you hear any vehicles outside at any time between the first and second sound?”
“Now that you mention it, I did hear a truck drive by. It must have been about fifteen minutes after that that I heard it backfire again.”
Cammie’s heart was racing. “Have you ever heard a truck backfiring around here before that night?” she asked, trying to keep the elation out of her voice.
Lavinia and John exchanged surprised glances. “You know, I don’t think we have,” John replied. “Not since Hugh Penser next door got his new Ford. That old truck of his was one piece of –“
“When did Hugh get his Ford?”
“Last year, wasn’t it, Livy?”
“Yes it was. Just before the Fourth of July. Remember him showing it to us at the barbeque? Hugh and his wife always have us over for a Fourth of July barbeque, and he is so proud of that truck. It isn’t really new. It’s only a few years old. But thank goodness, it doesn’t backfire.”
John looked at Cammie and saw the expression on her face. “Sheriff, you think those sounds were actually gun shots we heard?”
Lavinia gasped as Cammie tamped down her growing excitement. “I’m not sure, John,” she answered evenly. “But I wouldn’t rule it out. Is there anything else you remember about that night?”
The couple looked at each other and shook their heads. “As I said earlier, after the second sound, it took us awhile to fall asleep. It seemed as though we’d just fallen asleep when the alarm went off at six thirty. We were on the road by seven.”
“You’ve been a big help, both of you.”
“Would you like to take another muffin for the road?”
Ordinarily Cammie would have refused. Lavinia’s muffins were tasty, but fattening. However, she was feeling so good, she nodded. “I’d love to, Mrs. Ellis. Thank you.”
Cammie stooped under the police tape, and once more using her pick, let herself into Eli’s house. She stood on the threshold and quietly took the house in. No one had been inside since the night of the murder, and there was a melancholy feeling to the place, as if it would never again know joy and happiness. Cammie’s eyes darted to the empty mantelpiece, wondering again who could have taken the trophy. If they’d left it on her backseat as a message, they’d forgotten to provide her with written instructions on how to figure it out. Nor did it explain what became of the photo of her and Eli.
She slowly approached Eli’s bedroom and paused in the doorway. She slipped on a pair of latex gloves before entering. Slowly and diligently, she began searching the room. Fifteen minutes into it, she still hadn’t found anything that would fit the scenario she’d come up after speaking with Lavinia and John Ellis. She stood in the middle of the room and looked about her. It was then that her eyes strayed to a painting that hung slightly crooked on the wall next to the bed. It was an abstract painting of a sunset over Waban Lake, painted by a local artist that Mrs. Kelley had loved. Cammie remembered her saving for months until she was finally able to buy it.
The emotional encounter with Eli, followed by the anguished discovery of his body and Jace’s possible complicity had so consumed her, she’d never noticed the painting hanging there. Now she stood staring at it, an elusive thought just on the fringes of her mind poking at her. Then it came to her. This painting had always hung in Mrs. Kelley’s bedroom. In fact, she recalled Eli telling her countless times how much he and his father hated the bold splashes of orange and red - too garishly bright to represent the true beauty of a Maine sunset. Yet here it was in Eli’s bedroom. Why would he place a painting he hated so much in a location he’d be forced to see it in day after day?
She shrugged. It was always possible he’d done it for sentimental reasons. Even though he disliked the painting, he knew his mother had loved it. And he’d loved his mother.
It was also possible the renters had placed the painting in the bedroom.
Cammie started to turn away when she paused. In her mind’s eye, she saw Eli lining up the packets of sugar in Zee’s the last day of his life. Precision, he’d said. Precision is what got me to the top. He was right. Despite years denying it, she was ready to admit that he’d been one of the best hockey players ever to grace the ice. Whoever was responsible for placing the painting in his old bedroom, the least she could do it was straighten it as a homage to his artistry and precision.
She started towards it when a thought occurred to her that made her abruptly stop. Turning on her heel, she hurried out of the room and into Mrs. Kelley’s. She turned on the light and caught her breath. There on the wall was the clear outline of where the painting had originally hung. Now, it was still entirely possible that Eli or his old tenants had moved it.
Then again…
She strode back into Eli’s bedroom. Carefully stepping over the empty bedframe where the mattress and box spring had been taken away by Forensics, she lifted the slightly heavy painting from the wall.
“Bingo,” she whispered under her breath.
Leaning the painting against the footboard, she bent forward and carefully studied the neat round bullet hole embedded in the plaster.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Cammie celebrated her discovery by devouring the blueberry muffin Mrs. Ellis had given her. On the way back to the office, she called Forensics and told them what she’d discovered. She next dialed Doc, careful not to reveal that the food in her mouth was one of Mrs. Ellis’ muffins. If Doc knew she hadn’t gotten one for him, she’d be thrown out of the bed from paradise and forced to face the media horde outside her home.
She phoned Rick and told him she was about to arrive at HQ. He was waiting for her in the parking lot along with a crowd of reporters. Questions were screamed at her, cameras and microphones were shoved in her face, and it took the combined efforts of both herself and Rick to make it inside HQ intact. Yet even being besieged by the unruly group didn’t dampen her good spirit.
“Sheriff, there’s a package on your desk from Augusta,” Emmy called out.
“Thanks Em.”
As they walked towards her office, she filled Rick in on the discussion with the Ellises, followed by her discovery of the bullet hole.
“Why didn’t Forensics find it?” he asked.
“Once they saw Jace with the murder weapon under his body, they thought it was an open and shut case. The positive results of the gun residue test on his hands clinched it. They pretty much rushed through the rest of that morning. After my phone call this morning, they’re practically flying over to Eli’s house as fast as they can.”
“So what exactly does your discovery mean?”
“It means someone fired a bullet, then deliberately covered up the hole with Mrs. Kelley’s painting.”
“Do you think Jace could have done that? He could barely walk when we found him,” Rick asked.
“Exactly. He was lucky to put two thoughts together, much less think about covering up a bullet hole with a painting. Which brings up the sounds of two shots going off a half hour apart. If Jace showed up and fired one shot,
why wait a half hour to shoot off a second shot?”
“He could have passed out,” Rick pointed out.
“True. But why shoot Eli again? Did he shoot Eli, pass out, come to and not remembering he’d shot Eli, try a second shot only to have it go wild and lodge itself into the wall?”
“How good a shot is he?”
“Let’s just say I wouldn’t depend on him if we were being attacked by a rampaging bear or moose. Or even a pissed off squirrel for that matter.”
Rick glanced at Cammie from beneath his brow. “So what do you think?”
She remained silent for a long time, not speaking until they were inside her office. “I’d rather not say right now. There’s still some pieces of the puzzle I’m trying to fit in. But I’m close, Rick. I can feel it.”
Going straight to her desk, Cammie picked up the package and ripped it open. Inside was a report of preliminary forensic findings, the toxicology analysis confirming Doc’s diagnosis of an oxycodone overdose, and a stack of crime scene photos.
She took the stack of photos and sat down. “I’ll pass these on to you after I look at them. Maybe you’ll see something I don’t and vice versa.”
It was difficult to see Eli’s body laid out on the bed again, but she forced herself to push emotion aside and look at the photos objectively. She went through each, pausing at one taken of Jace when they were doing the gunshot residue test on his hands. She started to hand it to Rick, but stopped and picked it up again. There was something about the picture that was calling her attention, but for the life of her, she couldn’t figure out what it was.
“Do you see anything unusual about this photo?” she asked.
Rick took it and studied the image. “Jace looks depressed and confused, like he doesn’t know what the hell the guy is doing to his hands.” He shook his head as he handed it back to Cammie. “Sorry. Looks pretty much what I’ve already seen.”
“Just put it aside. I’ll go back to it after we’re done.”
Together they went through the stack, but nothing jumped out at her. She then picked up the photo again and quietly went over it, inch by inch. The technician’s face was in shadows as he conducted the gun residue test on, as Rick accurately described, a confused and depressed Jace. Seeing nothing about the technician that set her instincts on alert, she turned to Jace. He was wearing his favorite red and black striped flannel shirt. The left breast pocket was unbuttoned and the flap was creased so that it hung at an awkward position.
Cammie frowned. What was in this picture that was screaming at her? Something wasn’t right. But she couldn’t figure it out. And it was frustrating her. She put the picture down.
“I need a break. I’m going to get some coffee. Want some?”
Rick shook his head and followed her out. “No thanks. Too much caffeine and I get the shakes.”
Cammie smiled. “Hot date tonight?”
Rick returned her smile. “Don’t I always?”
Reaching the coffee machine, she poured herself a hefty cup. As she poured in the cream, Emmy approached.
“I’ve finished checking those receipts Rick gave me this morning. Ms. Haskell was in Portland, and the Ritz Carlton in Boston on the days she claims,” she reported.
“Thank you Emmy. Great job.”
Well, that officially exonerated Carolyn. Which left Paltrow.
And maybe Jace.
She returned to her office and took a long sip of coffee. She then sat down and picked up the picture of Jace again.
Her eyes darted back and forth, seeing his red shirt, the flap at an awkward angle. His eyes hollow, the bruises on his face ghastly. Damn it, it was there in front of her. She could feel it. Why couldn’t she –
She sat up straight and stared at the photograph.
“Jesus Christ,” she exclaimed.
Emmy was bent over the computer, deep in concentration when Cammie ran up.
“Em, did you transcribe the conversation I had with Jace in the interrogation room last week?”
“Yes. It’s right here.”
She reached into her desk and withdrew a file. She opened it up and took out a stapled sheaf of papers. Cammie flipped through them hurriedly, scanning the typed words.
“Yes!” she exclaimed. Rick, who was sitting at his desk across from Emmy’s, looked up and immediately came over when he saw the look on Cammie’s face.
“What’s up?” he asked.
She handed Emmy the papers. “Read this paragraph, both of you.”
Leaning over Emmy’s shoulders, he and the young woman read the paragraph Cammie indicated.
“So?” Rick asked.
“What does it say?”
Emmy glanced up at her. “You want me to read this aloud?”
“Please.”
She shrugged, then turned her attention back to the paper and began to read.
“I knew I had to get to Eli’s place as soon as I could. In fact, I almost killed myself getting my jeans on. When I put on my shirt, I was in such a hurry I threw the damned thing on inside out. I know because I couldn’t button it and when I went outside, my stomach just about got frostbitten. But I didn’t care. I just knew I had to rescue you from Eli.”
“Okay, that’s enough. Now look at this.”
Cammie triumphantly put the photo down in front of them. Both inclined their heads and studied the picture.
“God, he really does look like shit,” Rick muttered under his breath.
“It’s not his face I’m concerned about. Keep studying the photo and tell me what you see.”
Emmy and Rick did as she asked. Suddenly, they both straightened and looked at her in shock. She almost laughed out loud.
“Exactly! Jace swears he put his shirt on inside out. But here in the photo, it’s on correctly.”
“What are you saying?” Rick asked.
Cammie’s eyes sparkled as she looked at her staff. “I’m saying that someone definitely set Jace up.”
Rick cleared his throat. “Um, I know how you feel about this whole thing, but I’m not sure –“
Cammie held her hand up. “Why would Jace make such a statement like remembering he put his shirt on inside out if it wasn’t true? He also stated that he lost the necklace I gave him last year – the one with the two crossed hockey sticks. Ever since I gave it to him he’s never taken the thing off. Yet, now it’s missing. Don’t you think it’s possible that whoever took his shirt off got the necklace caught in Jace’s clothing?”
Emmy nodded. “That always happens to me. That’s why I take my necklace off first before I undress.”
Rick shook his head. “But why would someone take off Jace’s shirt?”
Cammie pointed to the bottom of the photo. Just below Jace’s waist was a dark mark on his shirt. “To smear what little there was of Eli’s blood on his shirt. Then they put his shirt back on. It would have been easy to do if he was passed out.”
“I suppose it’s possible,” Rick murmured.
“Who do you think did it?” Emmy asked.
Before Cammie could answer, the phone on Emmy’s desk rang. She picked it up, listened for a few minutes, then handed the phone to Cammie.
“It’s Tudor Montgomery. He needs to speak to you now.”
“Put him through to my office.”
A few moments later, Cammie’s phone rang and she picked up.
“Sheriff Farnsworth speaking.”
“Sheriff, thank God you’re there,” came the clipped British accented voice over the phone. “I need you to come over as quickly as you can. “ There was a dramatic pause, then in a semi-hysterical voice, he blurted out, “There’s been another murder!”
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
Cammie had never been to England, but she’d seen enough photos of Shakespeare’s birthplace in Stratford-Upon-Avon to be amazed at how accurately Tudor had captured the look of the Bard’s home, right down to the gabled windows and half timbered exterior. It looked incongruous nestled in the middle of the Maine
woods, but that was also part of its charm. A visitor drove through a dense forest, turned a corner and suddenly stepped back to 16th century England.
Against the odds, The Shakespeare in the Woods Inn was a success story, with most rooms booked throughout the year. In April, when Tudor put on an extravaganza to celebrate the Bard’s birthday, rooms were booked months in advance.
“This place is freaky,” Rick commented as he and Cammie rushed out of the Explorer. “I always feel like I have to start talking in thee’s and thou’s whenever I walk through the front door.”
“If we shadows have offended, think but this and all is mended. That you have but slumbered here, while these visions did appear.”
“Huh?”
Cammie shook her head. “Never mind. I’ve been listening to Dancing Harry too much.”
As they reached the entrance, they were joined by Doc.
“No murders in fifty years, then two while you’re sheriff. Maybe I should reconsider having you under my roof,” he remarked with an arched eyebrow as they hurried through the doors.
The other worldly atmosphere continued inside. A large walk-in fireplace took up the far wall of the sitting room located to the left of the entrance. Above them, wooden timbers adorned the ceiling. To the right was the dining room where another large fireplace crackled and the lighting was low and muted. In front of them was the check-in counter where Tudor was pacing in frustrated impatience.
“At last you have arrived!” he shouted in hammy overtones. Cammie now knew why he’d left the stage. He hadn’t retired. He’d been booted off for overacting.
Tudor was dressed in his usual tweeds, his reddish blonde hair carefully combed, his voice reminiscent of Sir Laurence Olivier’s rich, dramatic tones. “Upstairs quick before that woman ruins me!”
Doc, Rick and Cammie followed him as he ran up the curving staircase to the second floor. Above them they could hear the unmistakable sounds of a woman screaming in horror and despair.
“Sounds like one of Tudor’s critics,” Doc mused as they bolted down the corridor and came to a halt before the Tempest Room.