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

by T. Hunt Locke

  “Dan, no, of course not,” she replied while hurling a pen in his direction.

  Avoiding the inky missile he turned to Mama who finally raised her head to speak.

  “Please Nola, tell Dan everything. We must get down to the jail quickly.”

  “Ok, Mama. Pete and Papi have had this crazy idea lately,” She spat out. “They have been going out late at night searching for something. Papi says it will make us all rich.”

  “Ok, Nola, just slow down. You said Papi is dead. Start there?”

  “Actually, we don’t know. Papi and Pete went out on their skiff last night. Pete got arrested for trespassing and nobody can find Papi.”

  Dan thought for a moment. Obviously Nola and Mama were in a state. It was better to get one fact straight before moving on. ‘Nobody can find Papi,’ was a far cry from ‘Papi is dead.’

  First, Pete was in jail. It was a trespassing charge so bail could be easily arranged. “Come,” he said standing up. “We’ll go down to the Falmouth Jail and get Pete. You can fill me in on the details along the way.”

  Falmouth is the quintessential bustling Cape Cod seaside village. Actually it is a collection of villages which lies on the southwest tip of the Cape. Woods Hole, home of the famed Woods Hole Oceanographic Institute, is the gateway to the islands of Martha’s Vineyard and Nantucket. It was not the first time he had made this trek to fetch Pete from trouble. Only a few months before he had met him at the courthouse to sort out a dispute involving his and Papi’s habit of fishing in protected zones. He had taken the time to visit the home of Katherine Lee Bates, the author of America the Beautiful, and purchased one of her iconic children’s books for his daughter. He passed the house now signaling he was just around the bend from the Barnstable County Police Station.

  Sitting on the main thoroughfare of Route 28 it was an easy building to find. Sam thought it best for Nola and Mama to sit in the Jeep. He walked purposefully along the neatly trimmed flower ridged walkway which led into the station. He thought to his conversation with Julia, ‘Two men in a boat.’ Pete and Papi had taken to the ocean but the thought still gnawed at him.

  Dan was met by several smiling faces and greeted by a neatly uniformed young lady. Her blond hair was tightly bound into a short ponytail and her uniform failed to conceal her shapely figure. He was accustomed to the frowns and scowls of the main Quincy Police Station. And those were delivered by friends and colleagues. Falmouth Police Station offered a decidedly different vibe.

  “Yes, Sir, may I help you?” the officer said her smile still clinging tenaciously to her youthful face.

  “Good afternoon, Officer. I am here to post bail for Peter Gomes.”

  There was a slight wane in her smile. As a prosecuting attorney, Dan had become somewhat of an expert in body language. Her body tensed ever so slightly.

  “Of course, please have a seat Mr., umm, I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name.”

  “My apologies. Dan Burdett, Officer.”

  As if on cue, her bright smile returned. There was something robotic about her demeanor. She guided him to a chair and then disappeared into the station’s bowels.

  Dan waited patiently. A glance at his watch showed he would not be watching the Boston College game. He picked up the Cape Cod Times. While leafing through the pages he came across an item which caught his eye. Cape Cod Fisherman Lost At Sea: Body yet to be found! His mind drifted towards Papi. A gregarious often inebriated man of the sea, Papi had served as a father figure for Nola and Pete. Dan clung to the fact that he’d somehow made it ashore on one of the tiny islands which sat not too far offshore.

  “Mr. Burdett, Chief Nickerson, at your service.”

  Dan looked up from his thoughts to see a sturdy man approaching his retirement years. His tanned weather beaten face looked down at Dan sternly.

  “I hear you’ve come for Pete Gomes?” The Chief did not try to conceal his hostility.

  “Pleasure to meet you, Chief,” Dan said offering his hand. “That’s right. I’m here to post bail. I’ll be acting as Pete’s attorney to the extent he needs one.”

  The Chief accepted Dan’s handshake perfunctorily. “He won’t be in need, sir.” The veteran officer’s tone was as chiseled as his face. “Follow me.”

  Dan followed the Chief noting that something was amiss. The staff’s cheery disposition of only moments before had turned solemn.

  Inside the Chief’s office Dan was met by another person. A Suit. He recognized that particular cut. This suit was from the District Attorney’s office. ‘What the hell had Pete and Papi gotten into,’ Dan thought. Then he thought of the Chief’s remark when Dan introduced himself as Pete’s legal counsel should he be in need. ‘He won’t be.’

  The suit rose. Tall with an athlete’s body, toned from a summer of boating, the suit looked fresh out of law school. “Ben Cooper,” he said in introduction, “Barnstable County Attorney’s Office.”

  “Dan Burdett, representing Pete Gomes and the interests of John ‘Papi’ Gomes.”

  Cooper produced a wry smile. “Your reputation precedes you, Mr. Burdett. You created quite a legend up there in Quincy.”

  Dan ignored the comment. It wasn’t meant as a compliment. The Chief interrupted. “I don’t have time to sit and listen to two lawyers squawk. Burdett, Pete Gomes died a few hours ago.”

  Dan sat down. This was the last thing he was expecting. Perhaps Falmouth’s top cop had gotten the names mixed up. “You mean Papi Gomes has just died.”

  The Chief sat down, crossed his legs, and growled. “No, Pete Gomes is dead. Papi Gomes is presumed lost at sea.”

  A deep silence enveloped the room. Dan’s eyes drifted over the Chief’s shoulders where Falmouth Harbor beckoned. Sailboats, cabin cruisers, yachts, and fishing trawlers all bobbed up and down pleasantly enjoying the Indian summer day.

  Pete and Papi, for all their faults, were an integral part of this portrait. Or, as things now sat, they were. His eyes glanced from the Chief to the Suit.

  “We have a problem, gentleman.”

  “Don’t see it as such, Burdett. What we have is an unfortunate moment,” The Chief said in his slow measured Cape Cod accent.

  “But,” Ben Cooper said smoothly cutting in, “It can be a teachable moment. Too many of our fishermen, the lifeblood of the community mind you, Dan, take to the bottle as heartily as they take to the sea.”

  Dan raised his hand. “With all due respect, Chief and Mr. Cooper, a man died in your custody last night. And, I might add, this death must have occurred shortly after he placed a call to his sister. So let’s wait for the public service campaign. Papi Gomes could still well be alive.”

  “Of course, Dan, all due protocol is being observed. The Coast Guard has been notified. Pete’s body is at the county’s medical examiner’s office being prepared for autopsy.”

  “And,” the Chief interjected, “They’ll find that he died of injuries suffered while drunkenly piloting his craft.”

  Dan smiled coldly. “A crack medical mind as well, Chief. Aren’t you the clever one. And you have confirmation as to Papi from the Coast Guard then?”

  Burdett’s sarcasm was returned with an icy glare. “Lost at sea,” the Chief repeated succinctly.

  “No, of course not, Dan,” Cooper replied smoothly. “But we are lucky to have a Chief with a wealth of experience. Most likely that will be the determination.”

  Dan reached into his pocket and produced two business cards. He handed one to Cooper and the other to the Chief. Cooper deposited it in his wallet while the Chief tossed his in the nearby trash can.

  Chapter 3

  He walked up the incline of the small hill. To him it was as if he was on top of the earth. It was a walk Henry Sinclair made every day. He reveled in each step and soaked in the crisp salty ocean air. He literally stood on the shoulders of giants. The view was spectacular. It was a view his ancestors had held in awe a millennia ago. Vinland. This he knew.

  His was carved from sturdy Norma
n stock. A son of Scandinavia, a keeper of secrets, trained and true, Henry Sinclair clung to the earth beneath his feet. He surveyed the anxious current as it rushed towards Narragansett Bay. His mind wandered back to the heroic tales of his forefathers. Walderne of St. Clair and his son William, both heroes at the Battle of Hastings, had forged a clan which had survived a millennium. It was William, in defiance of William the Conqueror, the Bastard, who travelled north to establish the Sinclair Seat in Scotland.

  That is where the story began. He knelt down and pulled up a handful of dirt and ocean swept grass. He breathed in the salty windswept Atlantic smell. Viking land, small tightly banded islands from which to prosper. Now prying eyes, thieving souls, were trying to disturb the sanctity of a sacred plot.

  His family had long ago purchased what were now known as the Elizabeth Islands. He looked north then south. His arm swung in a slow arc. Closing his eyes he rattled off the names: “Pasque, Naushon, Penikese, Cuttyhunk, Nonamesset, and even little Bull Island.” This was home, a kingdom, and one to be fiercely guarded.

  “Mr. Sinclair,” he heard his name called from the bottom of the hill.

  “Yes, John,” he replied kindly. John Kilkenny had been at his side for more than twenty years. The caretaker of the Sinclair estate, he had proved a trustworthy and loyal soul.

  “Your brother calls. He says it is important.”

  “Very well,” he answered as he followed the well worn path down the hill, “Mustn’t keep the Senator waiting, John”

  In fact, he had little patience for his brother, William Sinclair. The esteemed Senator, a giant in Washington, had little sense of honor or respect for his bloodline. And, if left to him, he would gladly betray the family’s treasure and secrets. Still, if he was a man of great import in worldly affairs, he held little sway in this matter. Henry Sinclair was the Keeper.

  Rumrunners Pub, a local tavern specializing in New England Seafood, cold beer, and raunchy rock and roll, had become Dan’s favorite watering hole. It fit his personality. More importantly, it fit his wallet. He hovered over his pint trying to make some order out of the day. First, the unexpected visit by Julia Bechham. This brought on a smile. Even if Julia had come to ask a favor, a fond memory was brought back to life.

  ‘Two men in a boat.’ The words kept bouncing around in his attic. Pete and Papi, two men in a boat, ‘have been going out late at night searching for something. Papi says it will make us all rich.’ Pete was dead, Papi ‘Lost at sea.’

  He ordered another beer. The band ripped into The Kinks’ You Really Got Me. Another smile. He’d meet with Julia’s grandfather tomorrow. If nothing else, he would lend a sympathetic ear. Dinner earlier had been interesting. At one point it even bordered on the romantic. A Brax Landing setting, the moon danced on the ocean’s waves while the boats gently bobbed in the harbor. A bottle of wine accompanied a plate of lobster and oysters. He thought back to those many years ago when they stared up at that same glistening sky. It was perfect. The mood simmered, for a little while at least. She was in a relationship. A high society realtor, Beacon Hill, the blood didn’t run bluer. Dan had insisted on paying. His credit card still worked, if barely. Hers was shinier. And so they parted.

  Still, he had had a day. Nola’s family, the family that had embraced him, was in need. He would be there. And if Julia was out of his league, then at least a friendship had been rekindled. That was enough.

  “All Day All The Night,” he yelled toward the stage.

  “Dan the Man! You got it!!” the lead singer shouted back with a throaty laugh.

  “Johnny,” Dan called to the bartender. “Slide me a shot of Old Granddad.”

  “Make that two,” another voice chimed.

  Dan looked over his shoulder. He didn’t recognize her at first. But the deep set blue eyes held his gaze in recognition. Blond hair curved lazily over her shoulders and a smile glistened as she took a seat beside him at the bar.

  “Officer, a pleasant surprise,” Dan said caught off-guard. “A beer to go with that whiskey?”

  “Sure, Mr. Burdett. Quite a surprise! I’m meeting my girlfriends. Girls night out you might say.” There was a fresh youthful tone to her voice which matched her face and figure. The healthy tan and athletic cut of her frame told Dan she was no stranger to sailing.

  “And you?”

  “Just finished dinner with a friend and dropped in for a nightcap,” he answered. “Dan is fine by the way.”

  “A nightcap? The night is still young Dan Burdett.”

  “It is!” he exclaimed nodding towards the dance floor.

  “Why not,” she said with a wink. “You pick the tune here as well I see.”

  “Old school garage style rock and roll, doesn’t get better than that, umm, I’m sorry, I didn’t get your name earlier.”

  She flashed a wide grin. The robotic demeanor from the afternoon had vanished. “Elizabeth Chadwell. Do call me Bess. I dig old school, Dan. Can you keep up?”

  He followed Bess’ sway to the tiny dance floor. Noting her hip hugger jeans and skin tight t-shirt, Dan opted for the truth. “I’m not sure, Bess. Let’s find out!”

  Henry Sinclair watched as John Kilkenny sturdily rowed his boat off the beach. The news was troubling. A map had been found. That meddlesome Beckham had finally gotten someone to take an interest in his theories. He had been able to easily have the old man’s trinkets dismissed at the local historical societies. But this, a map, the map, could destroy everything. The fisherman, the drunken Portuguese treasure hunter, had quickly given up the information. Medieval man knew his torture. It would travel to the bottom of the sea with him. But Beckham’s brother, this was another story. The map had been entrusted to him. Curiosity had gotten the better of the old mariner and a nautical treasure hunt was now underway.

  Kilkenny faded into the darkness to deposit another wayward sailor into Quick’s Hole. John would have another task tomorrow when he paid a call to Captain Mick Beckham. He took in a breath of the thick sea air. Henry Sinclair was the Keeper. It was a role entrusted to him not because it was easy but rather because of difficult situations such as these. John Kilkenny would assist and carry out his duty. The map would be placed in its proper place.

  Sinclair picked up his lantern though he effortlessly could trace the steps blindfolded. Halfway up the mound he bent down at the waist. The iron chain lay nestled in the windswept grass. Despite his age he still could lift the sod covered wrought iron gate. Usually John Kilkenny would assist him. But, on this night, it was incumbent upon him to carry out his duty in solitude. The sturdy wooden stairs ran down into the center of the mound. He retrieved his lantern and descended into the sanctuary. A sacrifice had been made. All due observances must be attended to. Coming to the bottom of the stairs he lit another lantern. The cavern burst to light. Henry Sinclair walked to the center of the room and knelt before an ornate shrine. He placed a finger, an ear, and a tongue at the base of the altar. He then fell into prayer. A pair of eyes squinted at him from the corner of the sanctuary. The fear shone bright.

  Dan Burdett was woken by a shard of sunlight which burst strongly through an opening in the curtains. The events of the previous evening came shakily into focus. He looked to his side. The bed was ruffled, but empty. He closed his eyes and rubbed his temple.

  “Well, well, Mr. Burdett,” a voice called cheerily. “Someone has awoken bright eyed and bushy tailed.”

  Dan opened his eyes and propped himself up on the pillow, his erection obvious for all to see. Bess let her towel fall to the floor. “Forty is the new thirty they say, Bess.”

  “By your math, sir, that makes me sixteen,” she said as she slid onto the bed and onto him.

  Her throaty growls provided the perfect accompaniment as her breasts performed their erotic dance. Dan took it all in. It had been a long time between drinks and even longer since he had experienced pure lust. Finally, unable to hold out any longer, he burst with a husky roar.

  Laying in a sweaty embrace
the honk of a horn could be heard. He looked at his clock. “Shit, Julia!”

  “Busy man! Another date?” Bess playfully quizzed.

  “No, no, this is business,” he said as he quietly closed the bedroom door. He poked his head out the front door and motioned to Julia he would be but a minute.

  The ride from Dan’s abode on Swan Pond over to Follins Pond was a short distance that snaked slowly from one small lane to the next. Dan, though he had travelled through this area often throughout his life, began to take notice the ornate road signs for the first time. Each laid a marker for the local legend that surrounded the pond’s brackish waters. Norsemans Beach Road hugs the eastern shore leading onto Norse Road on the northern edge. On the way, along the Bass River, they had already passed along Vinland Drive. Julia navigated her BMW 350 down the narrow Valhalla Drive where she came to a stop.

  The drive had been conducted in mostly silence. Dan didn’t find a hint of disappointment as much as he met disapproval. After three years spend in self-exile he had been visited by a year’s worth of emotions in but one short day. He smiled to himself. Disappointment meant he was doing something right.

  Jack Beckham’s home, situated on a bluff overlooking the entrance of the Mill Pond creek, was the quintessential Cape manor. Dan noted the widow’s walk perched prominently atop the roof. From here Julia’s grandfather would have a view of the entire pond.

  “Good morning my fair princess,” a booming voice called from the front porch.

  Julia rushed into her grandfather’s embrace. “Pa Pa. Here is the man I told you about.”

  “Come on up young fella.”

  Dan walked up the sturdy weather-beaten planked staircase and accepted Jack’s handshake. He wasn’t sure what he was expecting, there wasn’t enough time to give it much thought, but perhaps a vision of a frail older man had crept into his consciousness. Jack Beckham stood well over six feet tall with broad shoulders, a square jaw, and a thick set of white hair which stood perched above a ruggedly handsome weather-tanned face.