The Hotspur Affair: A Richard & Morgana MacKenzie Mystery

by Jack Flanagan

  When Kyle came within earshot of Morgana and myself, he halted and whispered over his shoulder, “Richard, I think I ripped my pants.”

  Upon hearing my brother’s astute assessment of his situation, Morgana’s lips tightly pursed. Her cheeks ballooned. She clenched her stomach; her knees knocked together. At the same time, she began to make a succession of muffled whimpering sounds.

  “I noticed,” I curtly whispered back, fighting back my own fit of laughter.

  Morgana continued making her noises.

  “And it’s bad,” I added, which sent Morgana into another round of giggles.

  “Will you two stop it,” she grimly warned in a whisper. “Or I’ll pee right where we stand.”

  Peterson must have gotten wind of what was happening, and, as ever the loyal sidekick that he was, quickly sprang to Kyle’s aid. With military-like precision, he strode to the open grave, removed his campaign hat, said a prayer, walked backward, like Kyle had moments before, and took a position at his boss’ right side. The deputy then discreetly used his own campaign hat to support Kyle’s desperate rearguard action. For added protection, Morgana and I stepped up next to Kyle’s left side, closing ranks with him to protect his other flank.

  We kept Kyle’s predicament pretty much under wraps. We moved as a unit to keep those paying respects and offering sympathies always in front of us. Even Joe, who saw what had happened to Kyle, had quietly taken the initiative “to extend the line” at those critical moments when we were nearly overwhelmed by well-meaning well-wishers.

  After twenty or so minutes, our grave-side ceremonial duties came to an end. “Well, that’s that then,” said Kyle as my uncle’s dentist, Betty Snord, made her way down the gentle slope back to her car. “It has been a long and tiring morning. Now we just have the luncheon to get through, and we’ll be finished for the day.”

  “You may be finished,” said Morgana, who had just looked at her cell phone, “but Richard still has a meeting with Chester.”

  “Is that thing still on?” I said. “I thought that was called off since the Stoner Papers were nicked.”

  “Apparently not, Dear. Chester just sent a text saying that you are to meet him not at his office but at his house at two o’clock.”

  “At his house? At two? It is almost that now. What for? And why did Chester text you?” I grumbled.

  “Because I told him if he needed to reach you that, he should use my number.”

  “What?”

  “The other day, he asked me what would be the best way to contact you. And I said that if he ever wanted to reach you, he would have to call you at home. Or if we were out, he should call or text to my phone, and I would relay the message.”

  “Why did you do that?” I asked, showing some annoyance.

  “Do you ever have your phone turned on?” rhetorically asked Morgana.

  “My brother never has his phone turned on,” blurted Kyle.

  Almost true. I have had my cell phone on at times, usually when I am expecting a call. What can I say; I am not a phone person—cell phone or otherwise. I just don’t like being on the phone.

  “Do you have your cell phone with you now?” My wife inquired with a smug grin, believing she knew the answer.

  I tapped about on my jacket pockets and then on those of my pants. I reluctantly answered, “No. I don’t seem to have it with me.” I started to wonder where I had my phone last? I thought that I had put it into my jacket’s inside breast pocket, but it wasn’t there.

  “Your phone is probably on the nightstand on your side of the bed,” speculated Morgana, “as usual.”

  That made sense. I remembered that I placed it on the table the other night when I emptied my jeans pockets before putting the pants into the laundry basket.

  “Well, that mystery is solved,” I said. “Now, I am to be at Chester’s place at three o’clock, you said?” I reiterated.

  “Two!” corrected Morgana. “Two o’clock at his house. And he wants you to come alone.”

  “Alone?”

  Morgana handed me her phone. “Read it yourself; it’s the second text,” she instructed. “You move your finger—”

  “I know how to—”

  “You still use a flip phone,” my wife reminded me. “You don’t text—”

  “I got it, thank you.”

  The text read pretty much as to what Morgana had said. I was to meet Chester at his home. I was to come alone and to be there precisely at two o’clock. The message also had another puzzling request—our meeting “ . . . should be free of interference & distractions.”

  “‘Free of interference . . . ,’ I have no idea what that means,” I said aloud.

  “Don’t bring a cell phone?” speculated Joe. “Normal people are always on their cell phones no matter where they go.”

  “I don’t.”

  “Didn’t we just establish that you aren’t normal?” said Morgana. “But don’t worry. We still love you.”

  “What do you think this pow-wow with Chester is about?” asked Kyle.

  “It must be about those missing documents. What else could it be?” I said, being a little miffed.

  “Odd,” responded Morgan, “even for Chester.”

  “How so?” I said.

  “I don’t know. I sort of expected him to be here, but I didn’t see him.”

  “Well, text Chester back. Tell him I’ll be there. I might be late, but I’ll be there.”

  Morgana’s fingers went very busy on her phone. Within seconds, her phone chirped an incoming message.

  “And his text reads like he doesn’t want me there with you?”

  “Well”—I glanced down at Morgana’s cell—“the text is clear enough, don’t you think? Alone does mean alone.”

  “Yeah, but it just doesn’t . . . I don’t know. It’s not like Chester to be so—” Morgana then blinked her eyes several times as she gently shook her head. “Never mind.”

  “Ah, Kyle,” Joe said as he walked next to my brother, “your rear guard is flagging if you know what I mean.”

  Kyle did—so did we all. Kyle repositioned his hat.

  “You certainly did a number on yourself, Sheriff,” commented Peterson as he took a quick sneak peek at Kyle’s wardrobe malfunction. “You’re going to catch your death.”

  My brother took the comments in surprisingly good humor. “Thank you all for your concern and assistance.”

  “No, problem, Big Fella,” I quipped.

  “I would like to get home as soon as possible and get a different pair of trousers on for our luncheon.”

  “Good idea, Kyle,” concurred Morgana between muted giggles.

  As we cautiously walked down the slope to our awaiting limo and driver, I spotted none other than Claire Ciel tramping out from the nearby woods and heading our way.

  “Sheriff,” she furiously hailed, waving a white-gloved hand. “Sheriff MacKenzie! I need to talk to you.”

  “Damn. What does she want?” muttered my brother. “I’m a little exposed out here.”

  “You certainly are,” quipped Morgana.

  “Let’s close ranks, everyone,” I requested under my breath. “We have an incoming bandit at two o’clock.”

  “Roger,” replied Joe with a grin.

  With another muted giggle, Morgana clasped my hand and moved closer to me. We all stood shoulder to shoulder to meet our unexpected guest.

  “Claire,” said Kyle, feigning as much warmth as he could. “What can I do for you?”

  “Sheriff, I think I saw one of them,” she eagerly declared.

  “One of them?”

  “One of them! One of the men who manhandled me and kill . . . eh, attacked your uncle.”

  “They were here, in the cemetery?” I said with disbelief.

  “I don’t know if they were both here, but I am pretty sure that one of those SOBs was here a few minutes ago.”

  “Now, Claire,” said Kyle calmly, “you told us that you couldn’t identify the two peop
le that attacked you. You said that they wore ski masks and gloves. You said—”

  “I know what I said, Sheriff. I also said that one of the bastards had a scar just above his right wrist that peeked out just above his glove.”

  “And this person whom you saw today—”

  “ —was of the same stature and height. And he has the same scar that goes from his wrist to the base of his thumb.”

  “Where is this guy now?” I impatiently asked.

  “Walking down the hill to where his car was parked, I suppose.”

  “What type of car was it?” I asked, frantically scoping down to where the cars were parked.

  “I don’t know car names. It’s a black car,” Claire indignantly declared. “As soon as I identified him, I ran up here to tell you, Sheriff.”

  “Are you sure, Claire,” interrupted Kyle, “that the man you saw here today was one of the intruders at my uncle’s house?”

  “Kyle!” I said. “Claire said he was one of the guys. We ought to go and at least talk to him, don’t you think? He might be getting away if he hasn’t gone already.”

  “Well, I can’t go chasing around,” he shot back.

  “Yeah, I know. Your pants,” I bitterly remarked.

  “Peterson,” ordered Kyle, “go see what is what down there.”

  Without hesitation, the young deputy and I trotted down the hill in pursuit. When we reached the gravel road that snaked through the cemetery, we saw only our limo and its driver behind the wheel and Peterson’s police cruiser. There were no other cars nearby, nor were there any visitors about. Everyone, it appeared, had gone either to the luncheon or to enjoy the rest of the sunny autumn day.

  “There’s no one that I can see,” remarked Peterson as he looked in every direction. “It’s pretty dead around here.”

  “Very funny, John. How long were you waiting to say that one?” I asked between breaths.

  The young deputy thought for a second and then blushed. “Oh, sorry. Forgive me. No pun intended. I just meant—”

  “Never mind. Forget it,” I said. “But you’re right. It appears that everybody has left. Whomever Claire saw, he is gone now.”

  “Don’t worry,” said Peterson confidently. “The sheriff and I will find the ones who attacked Ms. Ciel and your uncle.”

  Yeah, that will be the day, I thought—but didn’t say. “I hope so, Deputy.”

  “We will,” reassured Peterson. “We will.” The deputy straightened his campaign hat and eyed our waiting car a few yards away. “I’m going over to your limo driver to see if he knows anything.”

  “Good idea,” I said. “I’ll mosey down to the cemetery entrance and have a look around.”

  While I walked down the gravel drive toward the formidable stone gates, my mind wandered to shadowy thoughts. The idea that I would be taking permanent residence on the hill someday unnerved me a bit. Contemplating that I was in my mid-sixties and approaching my statistical end in a few years was sobering. I pondered how many years I may have left before the death coach finally came for me. Will my death come unexpectedly and quick, or will I have a slow, lingering, painful death? Each step that I took brought another variant thought on the same theme—my death was just around the corner. My walk through the valley of dreadful thoughts continued till I reached the stone arch entranceway.

  “This place is ready for Halloween,” I said, eagerly to be distracted.

  Because of the lack of maintenance and being late in the season, I suppose, the hedges surrounding the cemetery were, to put it mildly, a bit shaggy and overgrown. The weathered gray fieldstone columns of the arch suffered from the illusion that they had organically grown out from the untrimmed bushes. The cold wrought iron spiderweb-like thing that arched overhead some twelve feet or so from one column to the other added to the gloom. The entrance’s summary effect was one of foreboding and the imminent sense of doom to all who passed under it.

  I quickly walked through the archway to the street beyond to have a look-see. To no one’s surprise, no mysterious strangers were lurking around. My search had only brought me to witness several cars pass by along with a flock of birds overhead. The cars were soon followed by a white panel truck advertising Charles Cole Chimney Sweeps heading in the direction of Bennington. While my eyes locked in on the painted image of a smoking chimney on the truck’s rear doors, I wondered if I ever had had our chimney swept.

  My momentary lapse into a ‘house maintenance frame of mind’ dissipated when a black sedan slowly pulled up and stopped next to me. The darkly tinted passenger window promptly came down to reveal two middle-aged gents in dark suits in the front seats. In an indistinguishable European accent, the fellow closest to me asked if I happened to be Mr. Richard MacKenzie of all things.

  Surprised by the question and not thinking things through, I unhesitantly replied that I was. My questioner briefly turned to his driving companion. They exchanged a few words in a language that I didn’t recognize. The stranger then looked back at me. “Mr. MacKenzie, we have come to get you. Please get in back seat and come with us.”

  “What?” I said.

  “We have come for you. Get into back of car now.”

  To say that I was a little taken aback by the gentleman’s request would be an understatement. “Who in hell are you? What is this all about?”

  “We talk on the way. Please, get in car, Mr. MacKenzie,” repeated the stranger. “Please don’t make this trouble. We are to bring you to— ”

  “I don’t think so,” I railed.

  “But—”

  “There are no buts about it.”

  Thoughtless about any broader context of the fellow’s demand—or of possible repercussions to my response—I instantaneously began a robust and, in retrospect, a very abusive, one-sided dialogue as to what I would or would not do at that moment.

  The fellowed calmly leaned toward the open window. “I think it best that you come with us. I fear Mr. Luger will grow impatient.”

  My strong opinion about entering the unfamiliar vehicle came to an abrupt end when I spied the grip of a handgun holstered beneath the stranger’s suit jacket.

  “Don’t make trouble, please,” the stranger calmly insisted, clasping the lapels of his jacket together. “Get into the car, Mr. MacKenzie. Make Mr. Luger happy.”

  With no more discussion on my part, I obediently opened the rear door and entered the back seat, closely followed by my new acquaintance, who sat next to me. “Mr. MacKenzie,” he said sternly, “put on seat belt. It’s the law, you know.”

  With a flippant, “Glad to meet you too,” I strapped myself in.

  #

  CHAPTER 27

  The car made a hasty U-turn and sped away from the cemetery along the county road as my backseat companion eyed me from head to toe.

  “Give me your cell phone? I must have it,” demanded my back seat companion.

  “My cell phone?” I blurted.

  “Yes, your mobile phone. Please, give it to me. We must have it.”

  “Don’t worry about his phone,” interrupted the driver as he looked into the rearview mirror. “He doesn’t have one. His wife has phone.”

  “You don’t own a mobile phone?” said the guy next to me.

  “Of course, I have a phone,” I answered. “My phone is at home.”

  “You possess no mobile phone, Mr. MacKenzie?” he said again in disbelief.

  “I have a cell phone. But it is at home,” I repeated.

  “So, you won’t give me your phone?”

  “Please, pay attention. You heard your friend. I don’t have my phone with me.” Though I spoke with defiance, I was unnerved. How on earth did the driver know that I didn’t have my phone?

  “You talk like big man,” responded my back seat companion slapping my knee.

  It hurt.

  “My brother is the county sheriff—”

  “Yah, I see that man. He is much bigger than you. He is a very big man.”

  “Yes, he is
large”—there was no point in denying an obvious truth—“but he is a very important man, and he has very powerful friends. My brother, Kyle, the Sheriff, he doesn’t like people who kidnap his older brother. It won’t be long before his entire department and every Vermont State Trooper starts looking for me.”

  My desperate, fanciful prediction met with no counterargument. So I defiantly— stupidly in retrospect—continued protesting my abduction. “If you take me across state lines, you’ll have to deal with the New Hampshire, or Massachusetts, or the New York State police and the FBI!”

  “Let me assure you that we mean you no harm,” said the driver. “You’re our guest for a pleasant ride in the countryside to meet—”

  “Somehow, I don’t see this situation that way. From where I sit, I was coerced by two unsavory characters, by gunpoint, at my Uncle’s funeral, to get me into this car so they could take me to God only knows where. In the USA, that is called kidnapping.”

  My two companions chatted briefly in a common tongue. After their exchange, the talkative fellow next to me said, “We think you are very much mistaken. We didn’t kidnap you. You came willingly. You are going to a friend of yours. No one, as you Americans say, ‘put a gun to your head.’”

  “Forgive me,” I said—letting my mouth do its own thing—“but you obviously have a gun under your jacket, and you threatened me a few minutes ago by saying that Mr. Luger is growing impatient.”

  Both men nervously laughed.

  “You are afraid of Luger?” asked my backseat companion.

  I answered as cooly and as bravely as I could, “I would be a fool not to be, don’t you think?”

  “That is very wise of you, MacKenzie,” said my companion with a new tone of seriousness. “We all are afraid of Herr Luger and his friends.”

  That remark didn’t make me feel any better. But stubbornly, I asked again, “Where are you taking me? You don’t—”

  Our ride suddenly became rough and bumpy, accompanied by sounds of crunching stones under the car. I gave a glance out the windows to get my bearings. We had turned onto an unpaved road that ran through a pine forest and parallel to the Grand Branch River. I surmised that we were riding along on the Old Farm River Road—a traffic venue that I wasn’t very familiar with. We zigged and zagged along on the rocky ribbon of byway that ran between mountain slopes and flat floodplains. We passed several large fields and vast woodsy tracks. My suburban life was nowhere to be seen; I was smack dab in the backcountry of Vermont.