The Reflecting Pool

by Otho Eskin

  Roberta places a fresh whiskey sour in front of Arora and she takes a gulp.

  “Okay,” I say. “But what’s this got to do with Sandra Wilcox?”

  “When Wilcox—the assassin—disappeared, the Brotherhood went crazy searching for him and was in almost constant contact with its people around the country—by phone, texts, emails. They became sloppy in their security and we were able to intercept some of their communications. That was when we got a break. During the chatter we intercepted, there was a brief mention of another name. Someone named Sandra. No last name.”

  “You didn’t make the connection between the name ‘Sandra’ and the name ‘Wilcox’?”

  “We didn’t until this morning when the name Sandra Wilcox showed up on our system. As a murder victim. And as a member of the Secret Service.”

  “It looks as though when you sent in your report to FBI headquarters, someone realized Solly had given away the family jewels—the actual name of the assassin. The Brotherhood sent a killer to the motel to remove Solly and stop him from giving the FBI any more information. Was that the ‘screw up’ you mentioned?”

  She slips off the barstool. “I’ve got to brief Carla Lowry on our meeting this evening.”

  “I have a message for Carla,” I say. “The Bureau has a problem. Somebody tipped off the Brotherhood about Solly Nelson. And probably sidetracked the search for the name ‘Sandra’ when her name was picked up on your intercept.”

  She nods. “We’re investigating both possibilities.”

  “I’d say there was a leak from within the FBI.”

  “We don’t know that. Not for sure.”

  “No, but that’s what you’re thinking. That’s why Carla is keeping my involvement secret.”

  “I’ll pass along your thoughts.”

  “Another thought: the murder of Sandra Wilcox may have nothing to do with this Brotherhood organization.”

  “It must. What else could it be?”

  I can think of at least one other thing it could be but decide not to mention just yet the handwritten message from an ancient poem I found hidden in Sandra Wilcox’s bedroom. That would have to wait.

  CHAPTER NINE

  MY FLIGHT TO Portland goes smoothly and I even get a window seat and I try to sleep. That turns out to be hopeless. The specter that brought me to Maine won’t leave me alone: A very old murder or should that be two very old murders?

  I pick up a rental car at Portland airport and make good time on 95 going north. Just past Waterville I switch over to 201. Here I run into highway construction and some serious congestion that slows me down. Eventually the traffic stops completely. I take advantage of this delay by lighting a cigarette. I roll down the car window so as not to leave traces of my vice that will annoy the next person to rent the car. I arrive at my sister’s house a little before three.

  The house is set far back from the road and is surrounded by a neatly trimmed lawn and some flowerbeds my sister has been cultivating for years.

  The place hasn’t changed much since I left many years ago. Some fresh paint has been applied from time to time, a new room was added when Cassie had the twins. Otherwise it’s pretty much the same as when my father bought the place half a century ago. The house holds many lifetimes of memories—some joyful. Some unspeakable.

  By the time I’m out of the car, Cassie is hurrying down the front steps dressed in cargo pants and a vivid purple blouse. She wraps me in her strong arms, tight. “It’s good to see you. It’s been too long.” She steps away and studies me. “Where’s your luggage?”

  “I’m not staying long. I’ve got to get back to Washington.”

  “You just got here.” She tries to hide her frustration and anger.

  “I’m catching a late flight back tonight.”

  “Honestly! You’re impossible, Marko. Come inside. I’ve got some fresh coffee on the stove.”

  I follow her into the house and through a living room, rarely used for anything except Christmas parties and, sometimes, for a memorial service, and we go into the kitchen, spotless as usual and painted crisp white. In this rural area they haven’t got the message yet that gray is in style. I sit at a long wooden table while Cassie pours black coffee into two heavy mugs. I take out my cell phone and my pack of cigarettes and place them in front of me.

  “For God’s sake, Marko, are you still smoking?”

  “I’m giving up cigarettes. I swear.”

  She rolls her eyes while I check for any messages from my office. There’s nothing.

  “How are you doing?” I ask when I put away my phone.

  “Doing just fine, thanks. As you’d know if you ever wrote. Or called.”

  “Sorry. I’m not much of a correspondent.”

  “Are you seeing anybody?” my sister asks. As she always does.

  “Do you mean, am I going to get married any time soon?”

  “Well, are you?”

  “No plans along those lines.”

  “It’s time you settled down.”

  “I don’t have time to settle down.”

  “It’s just that you’re a very good-looking guy. In high school the girls couldn’t keep their hands off you. Is there something wrong?”

  “There’s nothing wrong. It’s just that, at the moment, a serious relationship wouldn’t work.”

  “I’ll stop prying, then.”

  “How is Doug doing?” I ask. “And the boys?”

  “Doug still has his job at the mill. They’re laying off people so it’s a worry. So far, so good. Jess and Carly are fine. They’re at school right now. They’ve grown a lot since you were last here.”

  We drink our coffee in silence. “Why have the police been snooping around?” I ask.

  “They’ve reopened the Clyde Fenton case.”

  I feel a knot in my stomach. “I thought that investigation was closed.”

  “So did we all.”

  “How did this happen?”

  “About two weeks ago some hunters were up around Crawford’s Creek and found a half-buried skeleton. They thought at first maybe it was a deer except it didn’t look like a deer. It looked like a man and they reported it to the sheriff. You know, Stuart Carpenter, he’s sheriff around here now. He went up there to take a look and determined the remains were human. They’d been buried many years ago. Somehow the grave must have been exposed, maybe by the heavy rains we had a month or so back. The medical examiner in Bristol collected the remains.”

  “What did they find?”

  “The remains are definitely human. Male. Not much left except the skull and some teeth. You know, after all these years—animals and insects, scavengers and all. Unfortunately, it doesn’t look like the victim ever went to a dentist. So no positive identification from the dental records. But they’re pretty sure it was Clyde Fenton and they think Clyde was murdered.”

  “I don’t suppose anyone in Grand Forks is mourning Clyde.”

  “Of course not. But this opens up all those memories of Rose’s murder. All those old wounds.”

  “You say Stuart Carpenter is sheriff now.”

  “Joined the force as soon as he got out of the service. Was deputy for umpteen years. Made sheriff three years ago. Or thereabouts.”

  “He any good?”

  “He has a good reputation around here. Until now we haven’t had cause to have any official dealings. Just the usual social things. He says he remembers you.”

  There’s the sound of laughter outside and running feet and two teenage boys appear—skinny and disheveled. That would be Jess and Carly, Cassie’s twin boys. They stand awkwardly at the kitchen door, mute. I can’t remember which one is Jess and which one is Carly.

  “Say hello to your uncle Marko, boys.”

  The boys mumble something I assume is “How do you do, sir?”

  “You two run along now,” Cassie says. “Get yourselves cleaned up. You look a holy mess.”

  The two boys slip away and Cassie pours more coffee. “Is ther
e going to be trouble, Marko?”

  “Kind of depends on Stuart, doesn’t it?”

  Cassie buries her face in her hands. “This business with Clyde Fenton brings back so much grief. I thought I’d forgotten it. Of course, I can never forget.”

  “None of us will forget,” I say. “And yesterday it hit me again. I was investigating a murder and the victim reminded me of Rose. She had the same blue eyes and it all came back to me—how she disappeared, the search parties, how we found her in the forest. It seemed like I lived through every moment over the last twenty-four hours.”

  “Remember how she was laid out?” Cassie asks. “Right there in the living room. All those people came to pay their respects.”

  “I remember you and Mom serving the mourners bologna sandwiches.”

  “Mom and me here in the kitchen, making those damn sandwiches. Taking them out to the living room. I’d never seen such a bunch of hungry men. Eating the sandwiches. Talking. Even laughing. And Rose, in the middle of the room. In that box. I can still see that closed box. They couldn’t fix what Clyde did to our Rose. Are we going to have to live through all that again?”

  I hear the sound of tires on gravel.

  “That’ll be Stuart,” Cassie says. “I’ll bring him in.”

  They speak softly to one another on the front porch then come into the kitchen where I’m waiting. Stuart Carpenter is dressed in a light-gray police uniform and black leather boots. His pants and shirt are stiff with starch and pressed into sharp creases. Did Stuart change into a fresh uniform before coming here? He holds a Stetson in his left hand. At his waist he carries a revolver in a shiny black holster that matches his boots. He’s put on some weight since high school and he’s a little paunchy now, a little jowly. But basically, he’s still in good shape.

  “Hello, old buddy!” Stuart strides across the kitchen, smiling, and we shake hands. “I’m glad you could come. Really glad.”

  “Coffee, Stuart?” Cassie asks.

  “I’ll never say no to one of your brews.” The policeman sits at the table, elbows on the table top, carefully placing his hat on the seat next to him. “How long’s it been, Marko? Must be ten years at least.”

  “I’d say closer to fifteen.”

  “How long you staying? More’n a few days I hope.”

  “I’m tied up with some business in Washington. I have to be back in the office tomorrow morning.”

  Cassie puts a mug in front of Carpenter.

  “They tell me you’re a big shot in Washington,” Stuart says.

  “Mainly just an office drudge.”

  “Cassie says you’re a police detective now.”

  “That’s right. Homicide.”

  “I always thought you’d turn out to be a cop or a criminal. I’m glad you made the right choice.”

  “Cassie tells me you want to talk to me.”

  “I hate to open up a painful subject …”

  “You mean Rose’s murder?” I say. “Then don’t.” I don’t know how I feel about Stuart Carpenter just now. Is he just an old friend from high school days? Or is he a policeman doing his job? Maybe both.

  “I can’t believe it’s been almost twenty years.” Stuart scoops several spoonfuls of sugar into his coffee. “Well, I guess there’ve been some developments.”

  “I understand you found Clyde Fenton,” I say.

  “That’s right.”

  “You sure it’s him? After all this time, there can’t be much of him left.”

  “It’s Clyde. We’re pretty sure. We found the keys to his house under his body. Rusted and corroded all to hell. But they’re his house keys. And the keys to his pickup. It’s Clyde Fenton, all right.”

  “You think he was shot?”

  “The way we figure it, Clyde got wind the police were on to him. Tried to hide out in the forest. Somebody tracked him down and shot him in the head.”

  “Maybe it was a hunting accident,” I suggest, without much conviction.

  “Doesn’t seem like it. We found the round that killed Clyde. Lodged in a tree trunk where he was lying. A forty-five round. Not fired from a rifle. Definitely a handgun. Up close. That’s the way we think it went down.”

  “What difference does it make?” Cassie asks. “It was twenty years ago. Why bring up these terrible memories? Rose’s death almost destroyed this town. Do we have to go through it all again?”

  “We have to close the case.”

  “What’s the point?” I say. “Everyone involved is dead. Clyde Fenton’s dead. Rose is dead.”

  “Not everyone. Not quite.”

  “Who, Stuart?” Cassie demands. “Who’s left?”

  “The person who killed Clyde Fenton. That’s who’s left.”

  “How about witnesses?” I ask. “Fingerprints? Any physical evidence?”

  He shakes his head, not looking at either of us.

  “Then you’ve got zip. You can’t reopen the case. There is no case to reopen.”

  “It’s murder, Marko.”

  “You’ll get no medal for opening an investigation into the death of Clyde Fenton.”

  “Damn it.” Cassie can barely restrain herself. “The man who shot Clyde Fenton should get a medal. They should put up a statue to him in the middle of town.”

  “I know how you two feel about bringing up memories of Rose’s murder. Probably most of the people here in Grand Forks feel the same way. I don’t want to see that happen any more’n you do.”

  “Then don’t do it, Stuart.” Cassie is angry now. “Drop it.”

  “There’s no statute of limitations on murder, Cassie. The state officials in Augusta are going to have to review my investigation. To be certain I haven’t overlooked anything. I can’t just walk away from this.”

  There are tears in Cassie’s eyes. “I don’t think I can bear to go through it again.”

  “I need to show Marko something,” Stuart says. “Down at the station house.”

  “What do you need to show Marko?” Cassie demands.

  “It’s okay,” Stuart says. “It’ll only take a few minutes. There’s something Marko must see so I can close the case.”

  I stand up. “Let’s go. Show me what you’ve got.”

  “Thanks for the coffee.” Stuart stands, puts on his Stetson, adjusting it properly, using the tips of his fingers on the brim. He stops at the kitchen door. “It’ll be all right. I’ll have Marko home by dinner.” Stuart nods and leaves.

  “Is there going to be trouble?” Cassie asks me, her face strained with worry. She reaches out and grasps my arm. “Are you going to be in trouble? Is this going to be the end for us?”

  What can I say?

  Stuart is already in his police cruiser, the motor running when I get in. It’s a white Ford with the words “Franklin County Sheriff” painted on the sides in large black letters. I slip into the passenger seat and Stuart says nothing until we’re on the main road.

  “I’m real sorry this business with Clyde reopened memories of your sister. I never meant that to happen.”

  He drives in silence for a few minutes. “You think about Rose?”

  “All the time. I remember going out with the search party to look for her. I remember the yell from one of the men who first found the body.”

  “That was Lonnie White,” Stuart says. “I don’t think Lonnie’s ever gotten over the sight. He still has nightmares after all these years.” We drive in silence for a while. “You know I used to date Rose,” Stuart says.

  “Were you in love?” I ask.

  “Love? Hell, I was sixteen years old. What’s a sixteen-year-old boy know about love? We used to go out to the movies. Then she went away to college. Then she was dead. Somebody went out and found Clyde Fenton and shot him. Probably shot him where he was sitting, leaning against that tree trunk. If I’d found Fenton, I’d’ve shot him myself. I just thought you ought to know that.” Stuart drives on.

  The police station is located in a strip mall, sharing a building with the f
irehouse. Stuart parks the car in a spot marked “Sheriff Only.” I follow Stuart through a small reception area. A deputy sitting behind a counter starts to get to his feet, but Stuart waves him down. The walls are covered with helpful signs and posters warning about preventing forest fires and instructions about performing the Heimlich maneuver and the FBI’s most wanted. It’s hot and stuffy in the room. No air-conditioning. This is northern Maine. No call for air-conditioning here.

  Stuart walks through a door behind the counter and we’re in what appears to be a combination squad room and office. Stuart and I are alone.

  In the far corner is a small table on which lies an evidence bag.

  “That’s what we collected at the murder site,” Stuart says. “Everything except the human remains. Those’re at the medical examiner’s office. I’d like you to take a look. You being an experienced homicide detective and all. I thought you might see something we might have missed.”

  I go to the table and go through the small pile. A few shreds of leather and fabric. Part of what was probably once a boot. A rusted key ring.

  And a Bulova watch. With an expansion bracelet. Fused and almost totally rusted away.

  “You said Clyde was buried,” I say.

  “That’s right. That’s the only reason there’s anything left.”

  “Did you find the murder weapon?”

  “Not a trace. I expect the killer tossed it in one of the lakes. Along with whatever tool the killer used to dig the grave.”

  I’d been on the trail since sunrise, wearing a heavy wool coat my mother insisted I take. I picked up the trail at the southeast edge of Travers’ field—well-defined boot prints in a patch of dried mud, the left heel badly worn. The same boot prints the police found near Rose’s body and had positively identified as Clyde Fenton’s. I followed the trail into the forest for several miles then almost lost him at Clarkson Creek where he must have crossed the creek, then doubled back, and it took me almost an hour to pick up the trail again.