“Now that is a hearty way to start your day,” a blustery voice called.
“Shit,” Burns murmured without looking up from his Philly Steak & Cheese Omelet.
Brick Cleary addled his large frame into the chair opposite Burns. “Most important meal of the day.”
“And a meal I prefer to enjoy in private, Cleary.”
“Going back up town, Burns. Just thought I’d say goodbye.”
“Good riddance.”
Brick waved for the waitress to refill his coffee. “I must say, you do keep interesting company. For a man of your position I mean.”
“Not sure I know what you are talking about. But, look, Cleary, my breakfast is getting cold and I’m sure you have better things to do than fuck around with me.”
“Eat up! I just finished the amazing Lobster, Asparagus & Swiss Cheese Omelette. Good lord, what a feast. I’m surprised Captain Mick didn’t offer you a plate. See ya around, Burns,” Brick said as he wrapped his Boston Herald against the table and set for the exit.
The Green Dragon Tavern, situated on 11 Marshall Street in Boston’s North End, occupied a special place in early colonial history. In fact, it was here where Boston’s leading patriots, Freemasons, Sons of Liberty, gathered to discuss revolutionary topics such as freedom and liberty. Paul Revere lived around the corner and John Hancock just next door. It had already been serving ale and oysters for about a century before the leading lights of revolt gathered in the upstairs meeting room.
Perhaps that was why Dr. Francis George, Frankie, liked to whittle away an afternoon every now and then reviewing and revising his latest research. Today was such a day. He sat in a small private alcove with a minuteman musket, pistol, and powder sack framed above on the wall. Looking out the window he could observe the people make their way along Boston’s famed Freedom Trail. Professor George was an historian. A Harvard Man. His area of expertise went much further back than colonial and revolutionary era Boston however. Frankie George was a Medievalist.
He had only recently arrived back from a summer spent in the south of France. Accepting a pint of Sam Adam’s Ale he again buried his head into the mountain of paper strewn on the table. The waiter gave a good-natured laugh.
“Welcome back, Frankie! We missed ya,” he barked in his thick Boston accent.
“Likewise, Jimmy. The calamari is for shit in France,” George replied in his equally heavy burr.
In fact his summer had been a culinary delight. Yet the real success of the trip lay in a box of charters he had stumbled over in an ancient Cistercian monastery. Ruffling through a jumble of paperwork he came to what he thought may well be the missing link, the one conclusive piece of evidence, which could prove a direct link between the Knights Templar and the Cathar movement, the Cathar heresy, of the mid-thirteenth century.
“Bernard the Third, Count of Comminges, abdicated in 1175 to become a Knight Templar,” a voice purred lowly.
Frankie looked up. Sitting across from him, also with a pint of ale, was a breath of fresh air. Always so silent, a talent picked up, like he, from being a library rat. Genevieve Carcasonne was a daughter of the south of France. Her long flowing gloriously unkempt dark brown hair perfectly framed what could only be described as a mischievously beautiful face. Distinctly Mediterranean. Her large brown eyes seemed to hold a secret. They had met two years previous when he was in France. Both were knee deep in research. She finishing up a master degree from Cambridge and he hard at work trying to prove a deep rooted connection between the Cathar movement and the Templars. One rainy windswept evening they became lovers.
“Yes, but our Bernard was back in Languedoc in 1176.”
“You are sure?”
He was a stickler for certainty. Vivi, his pet name for Genevieve, seemingly even more so. He slowly sipped his ale, his vibrant blue eyes not losing contact with her elusive secret. These moments, instances of intellectual frenzy, fired their sexual bond. Vivi allowed a hint of a smile. He slid a document across the table. Their hands brushed together for a brief moment.
She reached into her shoulder bag and produced a pair of reading glasses. Frankie eased back into his chair. “This is proof positive for me,” he began. “Dodon of Samatan, Bernard III, is listed as a witness on that charter.”
Genevieve Carcasonne looked at the ancient document dumbfounded. “But, but,” she stammered. “Bernard died, in battle, earlier that year.” Vivi looked up. “It is true then,” she murmured.
Dr. Francis George waved for Jimmy’s attention. The bill was settled. Together Frankie and Vivi walked back to their 18th century home the fire of discovery and passion mingling as one.
“His name again, please,” Sinclair asked.
“Dan Burdett. He’s a former assistant district attorney up Quincy way. Divorced father of two and recently transplanted here on the Cape.”
“Well, Miss, we shall make a wonderful team, and your initiation is all but guaranteed. Your family legacy would all but assure that but, still, my deepest gratitude,” Sinclair offered sincerely. Indeed his Masonic lodge, or their sister lodge, would indeed induct another fine young stalwart of the community.
He accepted the freshly brewed cup of coffee Kilkenny placed in front of him. “John, we have business anew.”
John Kilkenny poured himself a cup and sat quietly to await his orders.
Dan waited patiently in Jack Beckham’s study. The view of Follins Pond on this early autumn afternoon was soothing. It was a welcome respite. Retrieving Pete’s body had been traumatic and the period of laying him to rest begun. He would have gladly accepted five more minutes of his oasis of bliss but Jack burst through the door in his usual gregarious manner.
“Burdett, catch me up to speed,” he said his voice gruff but his smile genuine.
“Jack, sure thing,” Dan began. “But first I’ll need to ask you a few questions.”
“Fire away.”
“When we last met, you showed me a copy of a map. You said you had given the map to your brother, Mick.”
“I said,” Jack interrupted raising his hand, “That I had given my brother a map.”
“Ok, so not the map which I presume you still have. My investigation has uncovered that, perhaps, your brother’s motives are not as pure as yours. To be blunt, he has organized a raiding party on a specific Island in the Elizabeth Island group.”
“Nashawena,” Beckham answered calmly.
“Precisely. So you are aware,” Dan said pointedly his blood beginning to boil.
Beckham arose from his chair and turned his attention out to Follins Pond. “I am aware of a raiding party right out here on my pond. And if I’m unaware of my brother’s activities I am not surprised. A copy was provided to Mick precisely to see how he’d respond. You were hired to be my eyes. Tell me, Burdett, what do I see?”
“Your brother, as do you I assume, believe a treasure, Viking in origin I further presume, is buried on Nashawena Island.”
“He was not successful I take it.”
“No.” Burdett answered simply. “And not without cost.” Dan didn’t reveal the details regarding Pete and Papi’s misadventure.
“My brother has always been attracted to risky ventures. I am not my brother. Still, has his loss affected our venture?”
Dan was amused at the reference to ‘our venture.’ Then again, he was a gun that needed to be hired. He played along. “My secretary’s brother was one of the men hired by Captain Mick. Pete is dead. Her uncle was also employed. Papi is presumed lost at sea. That is an affair I’ll deal with.” Brick Cleary had ferreted out more murky details from Mark Burns. “Furthermore, a certain Peter Collins, cartographer from the Woods Hole Oceanographic Institute, has been murdered. This murder most likely concerns the map.”
Jack Beckham raised himself out of his chair with a sigh. He bent over behind his desk and slowly turned the safe’s knob. He returned to his chair and slid an envelope across the table.
“Jack, this isn’t about raising the s
takes,” Dan protested.
“Indeed it is not. The events of the past week have seen to that. There should be enough to cover the cost of a wake and a funeral however. Now, on to our business.”
This wasn’t the time to squabble over the check. Dan moved on. “I’ll be off to a conference the day after next. I checked the guest list. A certain Henri Sangreal will be giving a talk on the Westford Knight.”
“A fascinating fellow! At least in terms of his research He might be an interesting man to begin a conversation with.”
“Based on his research, he too believes Europeans made it here before Columbus.”
“True, Dan. But he is silent on Viking expansion. In any case, another man will also approach you. He’ll give you his number. When you return I’ll need you to deliver him a package.”
“The map.”
“Clearly I have hired the right man,” Jack said allowing himself a laugh. “Dan, as you know, there is danger. Death is all about. If you want to back out, now is the time.”
Dan stuffed the envelope in his side pocket. “Jack, a question. This Peter Collins is a noted cartographer, a respected member of the Woods Hole Institute’s staff, why not have him verify the validity of your map?”
“The validity is of no concern, Dan. It is the information contained within the chart which concerns me more. Furthermore, Collins is, was, my brother’s man.”
The implication was clear. Peter Collins wasn’t to be trusted and, apparently, Jack Beckham felt the same towards his brother.
Chief Nickerson turned his head to meet the wind’s howl. Fall was setting in, the wind now had snap, the air cooling slightly yet noticeably. The season suited him. But something sinister had reared its ugly head. It wasn’t often he ventured over the bridge onto the mainland. But, Academy Drive, just down the road from his alma mater, The Massachusetts Maritime Academy, did bring back fond memories.
He strode into the Barnstable County Medical Examiner’s office and was welcomed by the office secretary. She was new. Nickerson didn’t like new and, with the developments of the past week, new was suspicious.
“May I help you?” A beaming smile shone across the desk and it quickly disarmed the Chief’s wariness. “I’m Betty Ann. You must be Chief Nickerson.”
Betty Ann rose and extended her hand. Nickerson, at six feet three inches tall, rarely looked a woman straight in the eye. The medical examiner’s new girl Friday was an exception. She was dazzling in a 1950’s Hollywood pin-up girl kind of way. Auburn hair, set in a neat bob, dazzling blue eyes which hovered over an aquiline nose. The office uniform did little to hide her voluptuous curves.
“Miss, a pleasure. Indeed I am the Chief. Is Chuck Martin available?” He did not try to mask his admiration for her ample assets. The Chief had been widowed for over five years but his sex drive remained. Though he was discreet, his little fiefdom provided abundant opportunities to satisfy his needs. Betty Ann bent over, her cleavage in prime view, and buzzed into her boss’ office. “Sir, the Chief is here to see you.”
She remained bent but raised her fluttering eyes. Betty Ann laughed, raised herself up, and gave Nickerson a wink. He accepted it with a grin and a nod. He enjoyed seduction. Betty Ann it seemed was no stranger to the game as well.
His mood had been brightened by the time he took a seat in the medical examiner’s office. Chuck Martin knew the reason for the Chief’s visit. He eyed the Chief warily.
“Chuck, we have a situation regarding your conclusions with the Gomes case.” Nickerson got right to the heart of the matter. Honestly, he had little time for the good doctor. He was, however, happy to find Daly sober.
“Cut and dried, Chief.” Martin always felt uncomfortable in the Chief’s presence. They weren’t cut from the same cloth. Their circles rarely crossed. More than anything, he didn’t like his fiefdom broached.
“I talked to Pete, a pretty good kid by the way, the night he was brought into the station. Said he had a story to tell me.”
Martin held up his hand. “Chief Nickerson,” he stated. An edge was clearly visible in his voice and Nickerson could see the medical examiner’s hand shaking, eager to reach for the bottle residing in his desk’s lower draw. “Your impending interview is of no concern for my office. He came to me on a slab. Cause of death, head injuries caused by a boating accident. Simple.”
The Chief smiled inwardly. There was nothing simple about this. His visit was intended to ruffle feathers not a fact finding mission. “Well, simple or not, there will be an investigation. Papers have been filed. Dan Burdett, a capable sort, dogged from what I gather, will be leading the charge. Just stopped by to inform you of that.”
“Very well,” Martin replied happy to realize the conversation was coming to an end. “Anything more, Chief?”
“One thing. What happened to, what is her name, Becky, the former receptionist?”
“Rebecca Leary.”
“Yes, yes, Rebecca.” The Chief well knew the pudgy cute little red head’s name. They had shared a bed only a month before after a couple of bottles of wine at Jimmy’s Hideaway. Her perky breasts and bedroom gymnastics had kept him up all night. “Where did she run off to?”
Martin stood up and waved his hand to show his annoyance. “She just didn’t show up for work one day. That is all. I have more important things to worry about than office help. One is as good as another.”
Nickerson raised an eyebrow then stood to leave. Before opening the door to exit, he turned around. “Medical Examiner Martin, you are a Freemason are you not?”
Martin eyed the Chief warily. “Yes, what of it?” He chided himself. His voice had started to crack. He should have prepared a better answer to explain away his office manager’s absence.
Nickerson shrugged and slowly closed the door. At least he had rattled a cage. He turned his attention to the newest catch on his radar. “Betty Ann, do you know where the fattest most delicious lobsters on all of Cape Cod reside?”
Chapter 5
“Professor Burdett.” Dan turned to see a student running to catch up with him as he headed to the staff parking lot.
“Yes, Anna, can I help you?”
“May I speak to you for a moment?” she asked.
“Well, sure. Would my office be more comfortable?”
Anna had caught his eye from the very first class he had taught her. She was not a recent high school grad. Anna Chase had foregone college in order to take care of her ailing mother and to tend to the family store which had flourished on the Cape for as long as anybody could remember. Long black hair tumbled over her athletic shoulders well down her back. Tall and slender, dressed in Gap chic, a hint of cleavage usually on display, a sway to her walk, Anna Chase cut a provocative image. Her opaque black eyes always caught its prey.
“Yes.”
In the office Anna opened her well-worn knapsack. The intricately embroidered shoulder bag sported a design obviously derived from the local Wampanoag Tribe. She produced a manila envelope and handed it to him with a dazzling smile.
Dan received the envelope with a quizzical look. “Anna, I wasn’t aware I had yet assigned a project.”
She sat down, lazily crossed her legs, and laughed. “I wrote a paper. Next year, I need to be at Harvard. But, at twenty-five years old, a community college kid, I think it will be difficult, impossible perhaps, to gain admission.”
Dan also took a seat behind his desk. “It will be a difficult task,” Dan agreed rubbing his chin.
“I need a champion!”
“I’ve no pull with Harvard, I can assure you.”
“No, not you, Dan.” She used his name in a familiar sense though they had never had any social contact. Professor Burdett did not object.
“So, Anna, how can I be of help?”
“You are off to the conference at UMass Dartmouth. I want to join you. There is a professor, Dr. Francis George, who will be speaking. He can be my champion.”
Dan admired her adventurous spirit. “In fact, my
bags are packed. I was about to hit the road.”
“Perfect! My bags are packed too.”
The Otis Thatcher House, located in Dartmouth, Massachusetts, was a secret oasis for Dan. In fact, he had written much of his graduate thesis hunkered down in this old but locally famous bed and breakfast. Pauline, the better half of Bob and Pauline, was there to greet him as his Jeep rumbled up the pebbled driveway.
“Good lord, Dan Burdett, you don’t look a day over forty-two,” Pauline ribbed in her high pitched Cape accent.
“I’m not,” Dan laughed.
“But always with an attractive young lady,” a voice came from across the expansive well-manicured lawn.
“Always,” Anna whispered in a huff. Her flirtations had been rebuffed along the way of their one hour drive. “Anna, I’ve a morals clause you understand,” Dan explained attempting to convince himself as well as her.
“Bob, sir, I’m thirsty. How about a beer after we’ve settled in?”
“This way,” Pauline said as she laid down her rake and led them to the Inn’s reception area. “Dan, a single king as always?” she asked.
“Yes, that would be wonderful, Pauline,” Anna answered sweetly.
Dan tossed inside. Who was he to turn away the advancements of such a natural beauty as Anna? Why should he was a better question. He did have a nagging sense of loyalty to Bess. But there was certainly no commitment as of yet. And ‘yet’ was probably not in the picture anyway. ‘Live Life’, was a song from his favorite band, the Kinks. What the hell.
“Exactly, Pauline. Second floor if you will.”
Anna looked up at him somewhat surprised. ‘Well, well,’ she thought. Her prof was finally picking up her scent.
“I thought you would have me sent to the barn, Dan,” Anna teased up in the room.
Vinland: A Dan Burdett Mystery (The Cape Cod Mystery Series Book 1) Page 8
