Vinland: A Dan Burdett Mystery (The Cape Cod Mystery Series Book 1)

by T. Hunt Locke

  Prologue

  Preparations to abandon the encampment were underway. The man in charge looked glumly at the churning waves which washed ashore. He walked to the water’s edge, kicked the drenched sand, and growled in frustration. “One more year, Thor, please grant me that!”

  His friend, sitting away from the surf on a nearby dune, looked up. “Leif, it is of no use to invoke the old Gods. Even Thor is of no help.” Leif Erickson smiled and walked over to his friend who was busy charting a rough map on purposefully dried animal hide.

  “Perhaps not, Tyrkil, but your new god, the Christ, also offers no assistance.”

  Tyrkil relaxed away from his task. He put his elbow on his knee and rested his chin on a clenched fist. “Perhaps we are in the region of different gods,” he began thoughtfully. “But, if this is so, we must introduce ourselves. Perhaps make an offering.” Tyrkil dipped his hand into a basket and grabbed a handful of red berries. “These funny grapes will make for great trade back in the homeland.”

  “You are right,” Leif agreed. “I should thank Thor rather than shackle him with curses. And the map? We will return.” He turned his attention to the mainland which lay across from the tiny island. The Skraeling, the people native to the land, were forming in great numbers. It would not be long, a week, a day, before they would attack. “We will return with a force to claim Vinland as Viking land.”

  “And that is what I shall call this map,” Tyrkil pronounced, his work finished. “Vinland.”

  A baby’s cry was more distressing to Leif than the wails of a warrior preparing for battle. He turned to see his wife. Gudrid had become his lover first. Rescued from a shipwreck, a gift from God. Thor or the Christ he was not sure. She shared his wild abandonment for adventure. A son, Snorri, had recently been delivered. This alone had been a sign that Vinland was the land where they would make their fortune. He took Snorri into his arms and playfully rubbed his nose into the little boy’s forehead.

  Gudrid walked to down to the incoming tide. “They are wicked,” she said with a mixture of disdain and fear.

  The previous year, just before the onset of winte, a gathering had been arranged between the native people and Leif Erickson’s tightly knit band of Vikings. At first, all signs were encouraging. A small trading network had been formed even. A peaceful relationship held for the first few months of the Viking arrival. The Skraeling had an appetite for milk, the strange creamy liquid which was foreign to their diet, and one they considered a delicacy. Leif, Gudrid, and their band became enamored with the small red grape which seemed to grow wildly in abundance. Limitless forests of sturdy timber lay just inland and up along the coast. Just down the coast, Leif’s brother had told of a mighty waterway. Viking expansion sat at its peak. Leif Erickson envisioned a kingdom.

  A small fjord, across from the island which had become the Vikings main encampment, led to a small lake. The small body of water proved useful. Leif established this area as his repair docking station for the expedition’s longboats. Moorings had been installed. Timber could be easily obtained further inland. New sturdy boats would be built for further exploration.

  The Skraeling looked on. A meeting was arranged. Perhaps a formal treaty could be forged thought Leif optimistically. Initially things went well. A smattering of language had been transmitted though hand signals worked as well. The Natives arrived with an assortment of furs and Gudrid had made sure to have milk at the ready. Leif made it known they were interested in the ‘wine-grapes’ more than furs. The next day bushels of the ‘grapes’ were delivered. A Skraeling lady, a lady of stature in her community, became fascinated with the just born Snorri.

  The next day Gudrid woke up in a fright. “I have seen a ghost!” she shouted in anguish. She held Snorri tightly as she recounted the apparition which had entered their abode.

  “A shadow fell across the door,” Gudrid whispered to her huddled audience. “And a women entered wearing a black, close fitting tunic; she was rather short and had a band around her chestnut colored hair…she walked up to me and said, ‘what is your name?’

  ‘My name is Gudrid. What is yours?’

  ‘My name is Gudrid,’ she replied’”

  The reaction was one of fright. Who were these people? Agents of the Devil was the commonly held conclusion. Another more troubling occurrence took place later on the very same day. Leif heard a fight break out on the other side of the pond. He had strictly forbidden the trading of weapons with his new neighbors. The Skraeling had become fascinated with the deadly Viking sword. A young and ambitious native man had attempted to steal one. He was chased down, hacked to death, and deposited in the water.

  Soon, a full-fledged battle was underway. War cries, native and Viking alike, filled the air. Seagulls took to the sky. The swans raced away from the fracas. Leif joined the fray. If he was distressed to see his trading mission gone awry, he took to the battle with gusto. Leif Erickson was a Viking raider. Soon the battle became a rout. The Skraeling Chief hurled a captured Viking ax into the pond cursing its magical powers.

  The battle had been won. But now as he peered across the rapidly rushing waters he knew a storm was gathering. As leader, Leif understood a tactical retreat was necessary. Preparations would be made to return to their new home of Greenland. His father, Eric the Red, would be pleased. Vinland to Greenland to Europe, a new trade route, and a vast fortune to be made. But not today.

  Leif handed Snorri back to Gudrid and put his arm around her shoulders. They slowly walked up the dune to the newly and sturdily built mound. Tonight they would sleep in their new home. Tomorrow a long and arduous journey awaited. Leif’s imagination drifted to dreams of conquest and glory. Perhaps, in this land, future generations would look to him in the same way he venerated the mighty Thor.

  Chapter One

  The North Atlantic coast is a wicked habitat. Something is always lurking just over the horizon. Even on the serenest of summer days the hint of sinister behavior echoes through the breeze. Build tough. That is the trick. This is true for people as well as homes. Only the sturdy survive.

  Dan Burdett surveyed his work. ‘Yeah,’ he knew, ‘Strong, Cape Cod strong.’ The small once decrepit and decaying shell of a salt box was now home. Cape Cod, the world’s largest barrier peninsula had always had a hold on him. The smells, the sounds, and yes that ominous sound willowing through the wind, had continuously beckoned him through the years. He was home. Dan Burdett was a Cape Coddah.

  He set back to the task of clearing the debris from his sandy yard. Soggy pine cones and their needles were strewn as far as the eye could see. A tropical storm, just below hurricane level, not quite a Jumping Jack Flash category five, had whipped through the Northeast all the way up to Boston and beyond. Now the beaming sun brightly displayed Mother Nature’s work. Stuffing the last of the cones in the sack he stopped to admire his work. His home, the one he had painstakingly restored, had stood up against the Atlantic’s fury.

  It was enough. A beginning. Symbolic, if not triumphant. And winter had yet to arrive where Mother Nature would show her true strength. But a small victory, any victory, had been a long time coming. His wife had called it a ‘sad sack of shit.’ Yet she had clung to it tenaciously during their bitter divorce proceedings. A sad sack of shit on Cape Cod was worth its weight in gold. Betty Hartin knew about such things. He had been cast aside. Betty traded up.

  The Sam Adams Boston Lager went down smooth. He walked around the cottage examining every nook and cranny. Fall had barely arrived which meant it was time to think about the long winter. It also helped him foc
us. The time was now to think of the present, of the future, and discard the past. Then, another sound trickled through the breeze.

  “Admiring your work?”

  Burdett turned around. He recognized the voice but hadn’t seen the face in years. It brought a smile.

  “Julia Beckham, it has been some time hasn’t it?”

  Julia’s wide brimmed toothy grin glistened in the sunlight. It was a smile that had leveled many a man and rested easily in the Sun’s embrace.

  “Yes it has, Dan. I’d known you had moved down here, and I peeked in on your little building project, but figured I’d let you get settled.”

  She knocked firmly on the dark gray Cape shingles and gave an impressed nod. He was deflated by her reference to ‘little building project’ but, in fact, it was that. “Patti mentioned you had moved back as well and, shit, what am I doing, come on in and have a beer.”

  Julie had also met some sorrow in her not so distant past. Her pain was not self-inflicted. Dan shouldered the burden for his mess.

  She hesitated. “Ok, but just one. And I’ll opt for a glass of wine.”

  Julia walked around the yard examining the cottage’s exterior. Impressed, she commented, “Things are looking up at 11 Channing Terrace. A kayak even!”

  The kayak meant something. If he was rebuilding a house, Dan Burdett was also rebuilding a life. “Time for new hobbies. Anyway, I’ve heard it said that forty is the new thirty.”

  “Swan Pond just a short walk away,” Julia pointed.

  “And then into Swan River.”

  “Aha, heading right into the deep blue sea, Mr. Burdett. Sounds like an adventure to me.”

  “Well, maybe not that far. I’ll settle for a paddle down the river and a beer at Clancy’s.”

  Julia smiled. “The fireplace, fantastic, and the chimney, well done,” she said while accepting the glass.

  “Thanks. You know, this was bought by my father-in-law, ‘ex’ I guess you could say. He always loved the place. And my grandfather and dad were masons, bricklayers, so the big brick pipe seemed to fit.”

  Julia, a high end realtor for the New York and Boston upper crust set, nodded. “That in itself adds twenty thousand to the property.”

  “Perhaps, but won’t sell. This is it for me.”

  “Always the loyal one, Dan,” she said with a shrug.

  “Let me show you the interior.”

  Her words led his mind back to a night far gone as he headed for the front door. Bank Street Beach, Harwichport, a seventeen year old Julia and a nineteen year old Dan, side by side, hand in hand, lying half-naked on the sand. A bottle of Riunitti Red provided the courage while the full moon set the scene. The setting was intimate, a coming of age moment, magical. Finally, he had pulled back. ‘I have a girlfriend, Julia.’

  ‘I know, Betty Hartin,’ she had replied. The invitation remained but the moment soon passed.

  Dan followed her inside. ‘Oh the mistakes I have made,’ he thought to himself. Now, twenty years later, he still felt that teenage awkwardness.

  Julia floated around the small cottage taking note of his attempt at interior design.

  “The loft is fantastic, Dan.”

  “Thanks,” he replied trying to keep his eyes above her shoulder level. It was an angelic face which lay perched above a stunning figure. Julia Beckham was a knockout. “I’ll have custody of my kids for one weekend a month. I thought this would be nice for them. You know, a bit of an adventure.”

  She gave a weak smile. “Divorce must be difficult. But you have your children and that is the important thing.”

  Julia had experienced her own personal tragedy. She had lost her husband in a freak accident. If Dan had experienced sadness, at least he could hate his ex-wife. He did, heartily. All Julia could do was deal with loss.

  “So you are over at Cape Cod Community College. Good for you. I always thought you were cut out for teaching,” she continued.

  He was grateful for the change of subject. “I am. It was best to step away from the law for awhile. I finished a master’s program in Medieval History and landed a classroom there. The caveat being I teach a class for their paralegal program. Been there a year now.”

  “You got me. I should have stopped by sooner.”

  “No, not at all, I haven’t been much on socializing, trying to put things back together. I’m glad you came, Julia.” In fact, he had been trying to get up the gumption to give her a call. He had kept flipping to her page on the Coldwell Banker website. Honestly, there had always been something about Julia Beckham.

  She took a seat in one of the rattan wicker chairs which occupied the four corners of the living room. “Actually, I need to talk to you about something.”

  “Ok, shoot.” He detected a hint of worry in her voice.

  “I need your expertise. It is somewhat complicated. Strange you might even say and, perhaps, nothing more than an old man’s ramblings.”

  Dan laughed. “Who is the old man? And what is he rambling about?”

  Julia raised her glass. “My grandfather. He has an old house over on Follins Pond. My mom grew up there. In any case he’s always been fascinated with the Viking legends.”

  “Sure. Some say the mythical Vinland is somewhere on or near the Cape.”

  “He is the resident explorer of the pond. Papa has even gained a bit of notoriety but the historical community laughs at him. Still, he’s come up with more than a few things that he says are from the Vikings.”

  “I’m not sure how I can help though. The Vikings, naturally, are a big part of the medieval world, but they weren’t my concentration of study.”

  “Actually, I was hoping you could provide help from your law office. I know you’ve set up shop. Perhaps you could help in that capacity.”

  Dan raised his eyebrows. Business had not been exactly brisk at the storefront where he had raised his shingle. “The divorce business has not been as healthy as I had hoped,” he deadpanned. “How could I be of service to your grandfather?”

  “Recently there has been a break-in at his house. As I said he has collected a substantial amount of, well, what I would call stuff.”

  “Valuable?”

  “He had it looked at by experts and they told him most of it came from Colonial times.”

  “And that collection has been stolen.”

  “No,” she said. “Papa has seen two men, not from around the pond, going out in a row boat late at night. He thinks they are looking for something.”

  He relaxed into his chair with a smile. “Viking treasure?”

  “Dan,” she said tossing her head back in laughter, “Don’t make fun! But there was a break-in at the house.”

  He opened another beer. “I’m not,” he replied appreciating the humor. “But that is what he believes. About the break-in, was anything stolen?”

  “No. They ransacked his study but nothing was taken. That’s what is odd.”

  “I’m not sure how I can help though. That is a police matter.”

  Julia shook her head and finished the last of her wine. “Agreed. But what would they do? You were the only person I could think of.”

  It had been some time since anybody had offered him a compliment. The fact that it came from Julia Beckham made it all the sweeter. He was about to reply when his phone rang.

  Answering the call he was met with sobs.

  “Nola, are you okay?” Dan answered. His secretary, Nola Gomes, appeared very much to be in a state of panic.

  “Boss, Dan, can you meet at the office? My family has a big problem! Papi is dead.”

  Chapter 2

  Dan turned his Jeep onto Lower County Road. He was grateful for summer’s demise as now a traffic jam was not encountered at each turn. His heart skipped a beat thinking of Julia’s unexpected visit. Dinner later brought on that strange awkward teenage nervousness. Better to embrace it. He had lived in a cocoon for too long now.

  Still, his sedate life had been thrown a curve ball, first Julia
and now Nola. Probably nothing, on either account, but at least he felt needed. He thought back to his children, twelve year old Sarah and nine year old Danny. His wife had done her best to poison the well. And her new husband was hell bent on buying their affection. “Dad, can we come next weekend? Uncle Jacob, you see, has front row tickets to the Lion King.”

  Gripping the wheel tighter he let out a sigh. He had fought for the small weather beaten bucket of bones on Channing Terrace. It was now a ‘trendy magazine worthy Cape cottage.’ Dan Burdett would fight for his kids.

  He turned onto the gravel driveway which led into his small office. The small neatly kept salt box was once a doctor’s office. The family practitioner, Dr. Parish, had been happy to rent out the space. A quiet yet jovial gentleman, he mostly kept to his self in the house which lay set back further down the driveway.

  Nola was waiting pensively by the door. Her mother sat in the corner of the reception area. She was bent over, sobbing, clutching a well worn set of Rosary Beads.

  In many respects, Nola represented to him an essential fact. God was still out there somewhere. Of Portuguese stock, she had been born and raised on the Cape. Her family had emigrated from the Azore Islands generations ago to participate in the “Cod Rush” and whaling opportunities of the 18th and 19th centuries.

  Dan had first met her at Cape Cod Community College. He was in his first year of teaching and she finishing up her paralegal course. She needed a job and he needed help. They fell into each other’s laps. If Nola was an angel sent from heaven, her friends represented the other side of the spiritual street. Thusly his business grew.

  “Nola, Papi is dead? What in God’s name happened?”

  Her sobs continued. “My brother has been arrested,”

  Dan looked at the mother and then back at Nola. He was confused. Pete Gomes was no angel. He was a knucklehead, a bust up the bar kind of kid, but no murderer.

  “Yes, my Uncle is dead.”

  Dan’s eyes bulged. “Pete killed Papi!”