Jumping Rise

by S. W. Hubbard

  “This is not a very good camera,” Sanjiv commented. “You could take better pictures with a new model phone.”

  “But she was a young woman with no phone,” Frank said. “Stranded here without transportation and without a means of communication with the outside world. That’s what I find so odd.”

  “She could have asked to use our phone in the office,” Sanjiv said. “I would have allowed it if she needed something, but of course, not to just sit and chat.” Sanjiv flipped more quickly through the nature photos. “Ah, here are some people.”

  Frank squinted at the photos: several family shots with a man and woman on either side of a teenage girl holding a violin. Another one also included an elderly woman—grandma, presumably. “That’s obviously the sister,” Frank said. “Is the man in that picture your Mr. Kinsella?”

  Sanjiv shook his head. “No, the man who reserved the room was quite tall. This fellow is about the same height as his wife.”

  “Keep scrolling,” Frank directed.

  The earlier pictures showed the violinist on stage at various moments in her performance and from various angles. They were all similar, and Sanjiv flipped quickly.

  A flash of color caught Frank’s eye. “Go back to that last one and zoom.”

  Part of a blue banner with gold letters appeared in the background of one of the shots. “What does that say?” Frank asked.

  “—gional Festival of—” Sanjiv read the truncated phrase aloud.

  Frank jotted the words in his notebook. “It’s a pretty slim clue, but if we can figure out who the sister is, maybe we can figure out who Caitlin is.”

  Chapter 15

  Frank arrived at the office with five dusty boxes full of registration records from the basement of the Mountain Vista and a lead on some sort of regional music festival. Earl’s legendary patience would once again be put to the test.

  “Any further word on Blaine?” Frank asked Earl after successfully slipping past Doris, who was preoccupied with a phone call.

  “Still in the hospital, but improving.” Earl stretched a large rubber band into a cat’s cradle. “The Essex County sheriff’s deputies are over there trying to get him to say who his visitor was, but he won’t talk.”

  “I still don’t understand how he got in by saying he was Blaine’s brother. You have to show a photo ID to visit a prisoner,” Frank said.

  “Guard at the front desk claims he did have a photo ID that said Riley Timmons. Riley is Blaine’s sister, and she was on the list. Riley could be a girl or a guy.”

  “So Blaine planned all this and his friend worked up a fake ID. How did Blaine get word to—”

  Earl stopped Frank’s rant with a raised palm. “Frank, it’s the Essex County Jail, and Blaine’s not exactly El Chapo. It can’t be that hard to get a message out of that jail. Most of the prisoners are only in there for a few days or weeks. Blaine probably knew someone who was getting released.”

  “Great.” Frank dropped the boxes next to Earl’s desk and sat down across from his assistant. “This is going to ruin Blaine’s chance for the pre-trial diversion program.” He looked over his shoulder at the door separating him from his secretary. “How’s Doris taking this?”

  “She was pissed when I came in this morning,” Earl reported. “I’ve honestly never seen Doris mad like that. She says Blaine spit in the eye of everyone trying to help him.”

  Frank was surprised to learn Doris’s reaction mirrored his own and hoped that meant he was excused from helping Blaine in the future. He turned his attention to the project of IDing the girl he’d pulled from Mallard Lake. “Get comfortable, Earl. I have a lot to tell you.”

  After filling Earl in on the events at The Balsams, Frank told him their next steps. “I want you to see if you can track down the music festival the sister, Rachel, played in. If we can find her, we can find Caitlin’s parents.”

  “But her murder isn’t our case, right?” Earl clarified.

  “No, but don’t you think the State Police will appreciate it when we ID their victim?”

  Earl grinned. “There’s nothing I enjoy more than making Lt. Meyerson happy.” He rubbed his palms together and plunged into his research.

  “Any luck?” Frank asked as he observed Earl scowling into his computer screen after a half hour of steady tapping and clicking.

  “You can’t believe how many classical music festivals there are,” Earl grumbled. “New England Regional, Northeast Regional, Tri-State Regional, Youth Regional. Festival of Strings, Festival of the Mozart Society, Festival of Young Musicians, Festival of Baroque Music. I have to find one that puts both halves of our phrase together and uses a blue and gold color scheme in their signage.”

  “If anyone can do it, you can,” Frank said in an effort to support Earl in work he himself wouldn’t touch with a ten foot pole.

  “You owe me a cherry danish for this.”

  The kid no longer worked for praise alone.

  “I’ll go right now.” Frank tossed his pen on his desk and headed over to The Store, Trout Run’s best source of midmorning energy supplements and town gossip, both of which he could use right now.

  He tried to scoot past Doris, but she ended her call as he approached. “Frank, I’m really embarrassed about what Blaine did.”

  “Not your fault, Doris. Blaine has made his own bed.”

  Doris took a deep breath. “I know. But Frank, my sister-in-law is sick about this. She had her hopes up for this rehab program, but now....” She twisted her hands and gazed up at him plaintively.

  “I’m afraid that’s off the table now, Doris. The best he can hope for is to give up the names of his suppliers in hopes for a lighter sentence.”

  Doris’s eyes lit up. “And you’ll help him do that?”

  Frank felt his stomach lurch. What had he done? “I was speaking hypothetically—”

  Too late. Doris had tuned him out. “You’re a prince, Frank! I’ll call Blaine’s parents right now.”

  Frank practically ran out of the office. Even the brief stroll across the green drew a bead of sweat to his brow. By the time he opened the market’s door, Frank welcomed the anemic gust of air conditioning that met him. Although the singed aroma of coffee that had sat on the burner too long filled the air year round, in the summer it was joined by the cloying scent of artificial grape from the Slushee machine. Frank glanced at the large round table under the front window. Sweet! Both Rollie Fister and Augie Enright sat there drinking coffee. He’d hit the wellspring of Trout Run gossip.

  Frank fixed a mug of coffee, grabbed a cinnamon bun for himself and bagged a danish for Earl, and joined the boys.

  “Hot enough for ya?” Frank led off with the weather in the time-honored tradition. Truly juicy scuttlebutt wouldn’t be offered up on the first pass.

  The hardware store manager and the handyman volleyed their predictions of highs, lows, humidity, and rain. This led seamlessly into a discussion of the upcoming nuptials of Rollie’s great niece, which were going to be held, foolishly, in “a cow pasture.”

  Augie shook his head. “Can’t imagine why anyone would want to get married outdoors when we have such a beautiful church.”

  Trout Run Presbyterian was indeed charming, but un-airconditioned, and the interior temperatures in July were hot enough to melt candles. Frank lifted his eyebrows. “Can’t argue with a bride.”

  “She’s all riled up anyway,” Rollie reported. “Because Doris’s nephew Blaine was supposed to be a groomsman, and now the wedding party is one short.”

  Ah, what a segue! “Your niece and her fiancé are friends of Blaine’s?” Frank inquired with practiced innocence.

  “Not Emma,” Rollie said, defending his flesh and blood. “Todd worked with Blaine at one time.”

  “Back when Blaine worked at all,” Augie added.

  “Where was that?” Frank asked.

  “Bill McKenna’s machine shop. Todd plans to buy Bill out over the next five years. Then Todd’ll own the busines
s, and Bill can retire.”

  “Good plan.” Frank filed the information away. His lawnmower had been sputtering lately. A tune-up was in order, and while Todd worked, maybe he could shed some light on who had visited Blaine in the county jail.

  “How’s Doris holding up?” Augie’s eyes gleamed. He might not be familiar with the word schadenfreude, but he certainly knew how to enjoy another person’s pain.

  “Fine. Keeping busy.” Frank wouldn’t allow the gossip to encroach on his secretary.

  “Can’t imagine how Blaine got mixed up with that poison,” Rollie said. The two men wagged their heads in mournful unison. “Probably someone not from around here.”

  Frank let the comment pass. The citizens of Trout Run attributed all evil to outlanders. He was ready to move on to his next target. “How’s your garden this year, Rollie?” Frank cast his line in the water on the off chance he might get a hit. “Mina Patel was telling me she’s having a terrible time with cabbage worms.”

  “Oh, she needs this new insecticidal soap I got in at the store. I’ll be sure to show it to her next time she’s in.”

  “Nice lady, Mina,” Augie said. “I was over at the Mountain Vista last Tuesday rewiring some switches. She fixed me some tea. Best damn tea I ever tasted! Had flowers in it, I think.”

  Frank smiled at the thought of Mina winning over a Lipton-drinker like Augie with Indian Jasmine tea. “They’re having a busy season this summer.” He knew better than to ask Augie directly about whether he had noticed Caitlin. The man had an overactive imagination, and Frank had learned the hard way not to prime the pump if he wanted reliable intel. Better to just keep him talking about the motel and see if any random useful observation might tumble from his lips.

  “Oh, my yes. Every room filled. Lots of hikers. I gave one a ride, in fact.”

  Frank dunked his cinnamon roll into his coffee. “Oh?”

  “A cute girl. Caitlin. I saw her at the motel when I was fixing the switches and said hello. Then when I left to go to my next project, I saw her walking alongside the road, so I offered her a lift. She wanted to hike Finley Notch. I told her she’d be all wore out before she even got to the trail. Didn’t look strong enough for that trail anyway—it’s straight up. And she was wearing sneakers.” Augie slapped the table. “Thought I might get in trouble when I said that. Girls today don’t want to hear they can’t keep up with the boys.”

  “She wasn’t mad?” Frank worked hard to sound bored. He wasn’t about to tell Augie that he’d given a ride to a girl who later turned up dead. Since Caitlin’s next-of-kin hadn’t been notified, there were no official news reports of her death. Of course, gossip would trickle out soon enough, but Frank wanted to keep Augie’s memory of the event untainted by melodrama.

  “Nah. She was a shy little thing—wouldn’t say boo to a mouse. She seemed grateful for the ride, though. Said thank you a few times. I said it wasn’t no trouble ‘cause the Finley Notch Trailhead was right on my way to the Verona thrift shop where they needed me to build some more display shelves. Wasn’t a soul around at the trailhead. Asked her how she planned to get back to the motel after her hike, and she said she’d get a ride with a friend. I told her don’t go accepting rides from strangers. Not safe, even in Trout Run.”

  “You were a stranger,” Rollie observed.

  Augie bristled. “Sure, I was a stranger to her, but not to Mina and Sanjiv. Caitlin could tell I was okay since I worked for them.”

  But sometime between when Augie dropped her off and Frank pulled her from Mallard Lake, Caitlin had met someone who wasn’t okay.

  And she paid with her life.

  Chapter 16

  When Frank returned to the office with the cherry danish, Earl accepted it without a thank-you. “Took you long enough.”

  “Sorry. I got a lead from Augie Enright. He gave Caitlin a ride to the Finley Notch trailhead on Tuesday.” Frank looked over Earl’s shoulder. “Any joy on the music festival?”

  “I think this is the one: The Northeast Regional String Festival.” Earl bit into his Danish and pointed at the screen. “Their colors are blue and gold, and the type in their logo matches the type in the banner fragment visible in the picture.”

  Frank felt a rush of excitement as he read the words on Earl’s computer screen. According to the “about” section of the event’s website, the Festival was a yearly competition for talented young instrumentalists. The way Frank interpreted the high-minded mission statement, the festival seemed to be an essential step in what amounted to the classical music Olympics. If a young musician won this competition, he or she moved on to higher-level national and international competitions, with the grand prize being an opportunity to give some recitals in Europe.

  Frank suspected that part of the allure of the competition was seeing your kid’s name in print, and sure enough, a little clicking brought him to the list of participants and this year’s winners. There, under violin, senior level was the name Rachel Ardsley Lupton.

  “The only other Rachel participating is Rachel Chow, cellist. I think Rachel Lupton’s gotta be Caitlin’s sister,” Earl said.

  “Great work, Earl,” Frank said. “I’ll see if Caitlin has a drivers license or any criminal record. You see if these girls have a presence on social media.”

  AFTER LUNCH, FRANK dialed Lew Meyerson. He put the phone on speaker so Earl could hear the exchange.

  “Yeah?” The state police lieutenant answered on the first ring.

  Frank could dispense with niceties just as easily. “Earl and I have identified your vic. Caitlin Lupton from Westmere, New York. Two misdemeanor arrests for possession. Augie Enright gave her a ride from the Mountain Vista to the Finley Notch trailhead on Tuesday, so that’s when she left Trout Run.”

  “What?” Frank could hear the interest in the state trooper’s voice. “How can you be sure?”

  Frank explained about the photo of the music festival banner and Caitlin’s sister, Rachel.

  “You examined that evidence before we got there?” Meyerson fumed.

  “I didn’t remove anything from the room. You have the camera.” Frank didn’t add, you could’ve followed up the lead like Earl and I did.

  “What about this man who gave her a ride? You know him?”

  “He’s the Presbyterian church sexton. Does odd jobs around town. Harmless old fool, and yes, I checked where he went after he dropped her at the trailhead and the timing adds up,” Frank said, heading off Lew’s next objection.

  Long silence. “I hope you haven’t taken it upon yourself to call the parents.”

  “No. I left the bad job for you. Here’s their contact info.” Frank could hear Meyerson’s infuriated breathing over the phone as he wrote down the address and phone number Frank read to him. “Earl looked up the girls’ social media profiles. Caitlin’s got nothing. But Rachel has been posting photos of herself from Europe. Apparently she’s on tour playing her violin.”

  Meyerson’s only response was a grunt.

  “So, you have the autopsy results yet?” Frank asked.

  “That’s privileged information.”

  Frank shot a look at Earl. “Don’t mess with me, Lew. I just saved you days of work. Tell me what the medical examiner found or I’ll call him myself. He likes me, you know.”

  The implication remained unspoken that Doc Hibbert wasn’t particularly fond of Meyerson. Earl grinned as if he were listening to the audio of some late night comedian’s routine.

  “She didn’t drown.” Meyerson delivered information in a terse staccato. “No water in her lungs, but her eyes were bloodshot, there was a high concentration of carbon dioxide in her blood, and some bruising around her nose and mouth.”

  “Sounds like someone pressed a pillow over her face,” Frank said. Had that happened in The Balsams, right down the hall from where Frank and Penny had slept?

  “That’s what we’re thinking. Probably a jealous boyfriend flipped out. Then he dumped the body in the lake.”

&nbs
p; “Time of death?” Frank asked.

  “Sometime between midnight Friday and noon Saturday. Can’t get more exact because the body was chilled in the cool lake water, then heated up lying on the hot dock.”

  “What about the toxicology report? Any drugs or alcohol?” Frank probed.

  “Not back yet. They sent it to Albany. All backed up, as usual—probably will take a few more days,” Meyerson said.

  Frank was pleased he’d extracted this much information from the state police. He figured he had nothing to lose by pressing for more. “Anybody from the other houses admit to knowing her?”

  Lew hesitated. Then he must’ve figured, “in for a penny, in for a pound” because he continued to share information. “The house across the lake that’s used for corporate retreats was empty that weekend. One of my guys is following up with the administrative assistant who does the scheduling for the place, but I’m pretty sure that’s a dead end. The other family that owns a place on the lake, the Etheridges, had twenty people staying at their house for the weekend, but every one of them said they don’t know the victim based on the description we gave them. Of course, Hale and his sons also claim not to know her. Now that we know her name, we’ll have to question them again. That’s a lot of people to follow up on.”

  “My gut says the killer is from The Balsams.” Frank pounded the eraser end on his pencil on the desk. He had to admit, his gut reaction was based on disliking the Hales. “Of course, someone from the Etheridge house could have loaded the body in a canoe and paddled up to The Balsams’ dock to dump the body,” Frank grudgingly admitted. “But if you wanted to get rid of a body, it would make more sense to weigh it down and dump it in the middle of the lake. Then Caitlin might never have been found.”

  “Man kills his girlfriend in a moment of passion and dumps the body in a panic,” Lew countered. “Luckily for us, killers don’t always use their heads. I agree The Balsams is the most obvious conclusion,” Lew said. “But any good lawyer could make the argument she was tossed in from a passing boat and the currents during the storm washed her up to The Balsams’ dock.”