“Ring a bell?” Bess asked.
Dan remained silent as he turned his attention to the photograph. He saw a woman, statuesque and strikingly attractive, dragging another woman, also attractive yet apparently dead, over these very dunes. The time stamp also caught his attention. “Vasco Gomes,” he whispered.
“Aha, so you are familiar with the story?”
Dan looked at her puzzled. “What story?”
“The Lady of the Dunes. You did say ‘Vasco Gomes’ did you not?”
“Yes. But only because I am familiar with his photographic work.”
Now it was Bess’ turn to shoot a curious stare.
“It is a long story,” he said realizing the confusion caused by his cryptic response. “Why don’t you enlighten me as to your mystery first and then I’ll follow in kind.”
“Ok,” Bess agreed. “The Lady of the Dunes, as she was posthumously named, was found buried right here thirty years ago. Ironically, Sandra Lee, who went on to become a crime fiction author, first found the body. In any event, this was my Uncle’s first case. It is still unsolved and haunts him to this day. But you mentioned Vasco Gomes. Why?”
“I too have come across some photos recently. Nola, my paralegal, her father is Vasco Gomes. He provided her with some photos that may be of help in our case. I recognize the time stamp.”
“Your case against our, my Uncle’s, office,” Bess replied appearing stunned by Dan’s revelation.
“Yes. You appear perplexed.”
Bess swept her hands at the sand and stood up. “This case is now a cold case but far from shut. It nags at my Uncle.”
“Why?”
“Vasco Gomes,” Bess answered simply. “He is convinced Gomes is the killer.”
“Now this. It must have given him quite a jolt.”
“More than you know, Dan. The lady being dragged here is, was it now seems, my Uncle’s lover.”
“But that is not Vasco. Any ideas?”
“None,” Bess admitted. “But our friend Vasco left a clear shot. She shouldn’t be too hard to track down. Then again, you never know. On to the dirty business. I see you have a shovel in the back of the Jeep so why don’t you say we get to the bottom of this.”
Dan’s face turned ashen. “Don’t you have a forensics team for this?” The image in the old newspaper photo was enough. Dan Burdett had no intent on turning the abstract into stark reality.
Bess smiled as she walked back to the Jeep. “We do. But for now, I want to keep a lid on things.”
He understood. There was no way to know who to trust. “Ok. You first!”
Julia Beckham exited the office’s study relaxed. Jonathon Stork left her with a curt nod and satisfied smile as he departed. No phony pleasantries were necessary. They both were predators and their sexual relationship would be pursued accordingly.
She strode into the office with her mind fixed on two things. First, she would need to reconnect with Dan Burdett. Hopefully, tomorrow’s lunch would put them back on track. Secondly, other property deals were nearing completion. She was in the kill zone and they would be closed. Suddenly, something hit her. The Boston Globe, the one she had scrawled angrily into, had gone missing. Julia Beckham had a deadly eye for accuracy. Her office had been tampered with. She shot a glance to the key board. The BMW had been taken.
“Damn you, Anna,” she shrieked. Another thought occurred to her. The GPS. Anna was just a foolish schoolgirl after all. Her seduction of Dan had probably turned into infatuation. Perfect. Then again, Anna had obviously seen her anger scrawled in bright red over today’s edition. A fit of laughter overtook her. ‘It was high time we adjust that sign in any case. Beckham Realty has such a sexier ring.’
She placed a call. “Your man, he is on Burdett I trust. Well, here is an address you can start with. Look for a black BMW with the plate number: CHS1. Keep me posted.”
In order to run an immaculate operation it was necessary to have several operatives working in harmony. Henry Sinclair knew this only too well from his years of historical research. Harmony entailed having each operative performing their tasks independent of each other and, in fact, unknowing of the others involvement. It was now apparent that Julia Beckham saw herself at the top of his food chain. She had visions of grandeur. He could increasingly here it in her voice. A Grande Dame had been born. She was in reality a pawn. Only in the loop of a small aspect of the plan. It was incumbent, from his perspective, to also have a strategy in place for each member’s elimination. Time was now to set that design in motion.
“Hello, Dear,” Sinclair said in a steely yet comforting voice. Time to make atonement for that little hiccup in Westport. I have an address. 29 Bank Street, Harwichport. Chase & Beckham Realty. Please listen carefully!”
John Kilkenny knew the address well. A cold sweat broke out. Race Point Dunes. It brought him back to a place and time he had spent the last thirty years in atonement for. Crimes and brutality. They had colored his youth. Each had been visited upon him and he, John Kilkenny, had met out his share of nightmares also. After the evening of July 26th, 1974, suicide had seemed the only solution. If allowing himself to be led into a murderous trap could be called suicide. Whitey Bulger was a friend. Bulger never visited terror on anybody outside the business. And he could only apply so much force during the strangulation of a comrade. Rather, he let Kilkenny tumble overboard into the dark night of the Atlantic Ocean. Better to let the sea do the dirty work.
It was providence that John Kilkenny had washed up unconscious onto the shore of Naushon Island. Here under the care of Henry Sinclair he regained his health. Religion of an ancient sort provided him with a sure path. Through this way he entered into a life of purity. Cleansed, he carried out his duties faithfully. Solemnly, though with certainty, John Kilkenny turned on the ignition and set a course for the Race Point Dunes.
The view out the bay window was now crystal clear with the bright burst of blue sky meeting the dark azure of the deep Atlantic. There, somewhere within his gaze, lay hidden a Viking treasure. His fortune thought Captain Mick Beckham. Regrettably, he would need to gain his brother’s confidence. The map was the key. But there was an element missing. Despite his brother Jack’s disdain for profit, he would need technical assistance in doing a proper search of the water’s surrounding the Elizabeth Islands. Captain Mick Beckham was that man. He picked up the phone armed with a plan.
“Jack, it is Mick. I have thought of something that may serve both of our interests.”
Jack Beckham frowned. It always seemed a labor to get through a conversation with his brother. They were both set in very different ways. But, he had enlisted Mick’s help with the map. Like it or not, Mick was in.
“About my map, what has your man come up with?”
“My man is dead,” Mick answered. He was still in shock over the murder of Peter Collins and now keen to the danger his involvement with the map entailed.
Jack preferred not to entertain any emotional thoughts on the matter. It was an issue he addressed with tenacity. “The map, Mick, let us stay focused on the map.”
“Of course.” His brother was correct Mick understood. People died on expedition. They were expendable even. Especially if the goal was worthy enough. “A pity a good man had to die currying a duplicate however. Still, the coordinates, while not exact, are extraordinarily precise in charting the waters and islands surrounding the Cape.”
“Good, I thought as such. The original is too valuable, and may contain other information, which your man should not have been made privy too. I have someone for that task.”
“It is of little concern now,” he replied bitterly. “Let me detail a plan that can meet both of our objectives. You want the historical recognition and I the historical booty. Why not work together for a change?”
Jack Beckham, for once, was intrigued by the chance to join forces with his brother. “I am all ears, Mick.”
The shovel dug deep into the sandy earth. At first their efforts unco
vered nothing more than decades old Coke bottles. Dan tossed a couple to the side. Perhaps his daughter, artistically inclined, could find a nostalgic use for them. With each fruitless a breath of relief was sighed. He never relished a Hardy Boy moment and was better equipped to deal with sanitized facts. As he dusted off another bottle, Pepsi this time, he heard a gasp from Bess.
“What is it?” he asked inching towards her.
“I’m not sure. I hit something solid,” she answered in a measured tone.
“A rock? Another bottle?” Dan whispered hopefully.
Bess continued to dig. A long dirty beige object came clearer into focus. It wasn’t a rock.
“Oh shit!” Bess exclaimed.
Dan felt a sickening feeling overtake him. Bess carefully began to dig around the area of an exposed arm and hand allowing more of the unclad decaying body to emerge. Their dread, curiosity, and excitement obscured them to the fact that a car had pulled up behind Dan’s Jeep. Nor did they hear the footsteps which came up the sandy hill.
A loud high pitched scream caused Dan and Bess to jump. They turned to see Anna, a face filled with horror and shock, looking first at the body and then at them. Her jaw dropped in fear. For a suspended moment Anna, Bess, and Dan, traded uncomprehending looks. Then, suddenly and in fear, Anna pivoted and darted down the dune.
Dan, realizing Anna believed she had caught Bess and him disposing of a body, began pursuit. Anna fell tumbling down on the side of the road. He knelt down beside her and she looked up. Horror was scrawled across her face. Dan stroked her hair. “Anna, come on, get up,” he said while offering her a hand. “I wear the white hat, remember?”
“But, what, what is that,” she said her hand quivering while pointing towards the dead body.
“That is what Bess Chadwell and I are trying to figure out.”
Bess went about recovering the body. She then descended the short incline and stopped in front of Anna. “It is Officer Chadwell,” she stated firmly. “And, Anna Chase, why, I may ask, are you here?” Her voice betrayed an accusatory tone.
Dan looked at Anna. “Good question. Anna, why did you follow me?”
She looked at both of them and gave a huff. “Let’s say I am a bit jealous and leave it at that, Dan Burdett. But,” she said with a wag of her finger, “This rises above my jealousy.”
Bess put her hands on her hips and flipped Dan a disgusted look. “With a student, Dan. And, it seems, I should be the jealous one.”
“Oh, Bess, don’t be so morally superior. You are only two years older than me in any case.”
“Anna,” Bess hissed, “I don’t have to go too far to beat you on the morality scale!”
Dan stepped between the two as Bess’ phone began to ring. Bess stepped to the side and answered her call while Anna buried a sharp right into Dan’s ribs.
“Ok, the forensics team will be on the scene shortly,” Bess said. “Dan, you asked if I was carrying my badge. Why?”
Dan, happy to be off the subject of infidelity, answered: “There is a recalcitrant historian, he lives in Wellfleet, and I would like to question him. It very well could shed light on the Sinclair angle. He won’t talk to me, however.”
“But my badge may open the door,” she added. “Look, Anna, this is adult time. As you can see there is nothing to be jealous about.” Bess cast Dan a withering look. “Trust me on that score. Still, Dan and I need to proceed on this case. Scurry along.”
Anna stood her ground and steamed. She opened the passenger side door of her car and reached for the Boston Globe. “I am, Dan and I that is, are involved in a case as well, Nancy Drew.” Anna thrust the paper into Bess’ hands. Dan leaned in.
Westport Couple Found Murdered the headline announced. But that was not caught their attention. It was already old news. Dan’s name scrawled in red caused both Bess and Dan’s eyes to bulge. Burdett was at a loss for words.
“Where did you get this?” Bess questioned.
“I went to the office of Chase & Beckham. The BMW’s keys are kept in Julia Beckham’s office. There it was, face up, on her desk. I grabbed the keys, the paper, and I was out of there.”
Dan leaned up against the Jeep. Puzzled, he questioned aloud, “How would she know I was at the Otis Thatcher Inn? Why would she implicate me in that heinous crime?”
Bess, her hands still pinned to her hips, took a hard look at Anna Chase. “Because Aunt Julia perhaps suggested that her provocative schoolgirl niece snuggle up to the professor. Correct me if I’m wrong, Anna.”
“Look, in no way was I party to any murder,” she said avoiding Bess’ implication. “Anyway, I was Dan’s alibi. So don’t go fishing in that pond, Bess.”
“Alibi? Dan, gee whiz, what the hell were you two up to in Westport?”
“Look, both of you, we need to join forces, not rip each other apart.” The sound of the Barnstable County Forensic Unit could be heard rumbling up the road. “It is getting late. We need to get a move on. Bess, I’ll fill you in along the way.”
Julia Beckham heard a knock at the front door. She had put the ‘closed’ sign up so Stork and she would not be disturbed as they closed their deal. But, business was business. She opened the door to find a finely dressed and beautiful woman.
“Hi, I’m sorry, I see you are closed. Perhaps I can come back another time,” the lady said.
“No,” Julia answered in a pleasant voice. “I just returned from showing a property and forgot to turn the sign. Please, come in.”
“Great. Well then,” the lady continued as she followed Julia into the reception area, “I am new to the Cape and am looking for a small residence.”
Julia sized up her potential client. Meticulously groomed, she wore an expensive gold watch and a dazzling, if not gaudy, gem stone ring. Julia never liked to hear ‘small’ when it came to a residence. Then again, a trendy Brewster Village townhouse could bring a tidy commission. “Lovely. Here at Beckham & Chase we are always happy to roll out the welcome mat. Let’s begin with your name, shall we?”
A smile that was captivating and rivalled the bright glow of her ring came effortlessly in response. “Betty Ann Smith. And you?”
“Please, call me Julia. And are you employed on the Cape, Betty Ann, or is this a summer residence?”
“Yes, I have a job. I’m new to the Cape actually. In fact I have been recently hired at the Barnstable County Medical Examiner’s Office. However, my husband and I have split not too long ago so I’d like to put my divorce settlement into a property purchase.”
Julia gave a sad knowing smile while her heart began to dance. A cash purchase. Magnificent. Pure commission with so little paperwork. “The Cape is just the right place to start your life anew.” She reached for a buyer form and handed it to Betty Ann. “Here, just fill this out and we can begin to get you that perfect little home.”
Betty Ann received the clipboard and again flashed her dazzling smile. She put it to her side purposefully, arose, and silently walked to the door. Julia looked on in surprise. Betty Ann returned the sign to its ‘closed’ position. She then locked and bolted the door. Julia’s surprise turned to fear as her client strode back towards her. The captivating smile had now been replaced with something far more menacing.
The drive from Race Point, Provincetown that traced the coast into Wellfleet was spellbinding. The frothy waves of the Atlantic Ocean playing hide and seek jumping in and out of view with the undulating white sandy dunes made for a romantic weekend getaway postcard. This concerned Dan Burdett and Bess Chadwell little.
Dan had filled her in on the murderous circumstances surrounding the conference at UMass Dartmouth. Bess let her feelings regarding Anna Chase be known through a glaze of frost thrown on each and every word. She was also a professional. Her instincts summed up the situation quickly.
“You were set up. For murder. And Julia Beckham was, if not the main conspirator, an accomplice to the endeavor.”
“Circumstantially. Perhaps. But without more information I c
ould make that stick in a court of law,” Dan added.
“This not, however, a court of law. This is the real world. And, let us not forget, she approached you with the idea of having you help her grandfather. Dan, it all starts with her.”
“The question remains: Why would she want me framed? I’ll try to find that out tomorrow.”
“What is going on tomorrow?”
“She texted me. Julia wants to meet tomorrow for lunch.”
“Surely you rejected that offer,” Bess scolded.
Dan looked over at Bess and winked. “Certainly not! I answered yes. Hell, a Lobster at Brax Landing on her account is not an invitation turned down easily.”
Bess allowed herself a chuckle. “As long as it is not poisoned I suppose. Not that you don’t have it coming to you!”
“Look,” Dan said brushing her cheek, “I didn’t know we were an item. A fling, I mean look at you and look at me, that’s what I thought this was. If I had…”
Bess squeezed his hand as he downshifted off the main road. “I’m a big girl and now you know,” she said the frost melting away.
Dan looked in his rearview mirror. Anna’s midnight blue BMW was in tow. He pointed at the small Cape cottage with the meticulously maintained lawn. “Here we are. Let us hope your badge pries that door open this time.”
Professor Lane Morgan was born in Keene, New Hampshire in 1937. His parents were English and had settled in New England as college history professors. He easily took to the family business and won a scholarship to Amherst. He left there to read for a B.A. degree in history at Harvard University which he completed at the tender age of twenty. He returned to England where he earned an M.A. degree in Medieval archival studies and the degrees of Ph.D. and D.Litt. at Oxford University.
Along the way he gained the reputation as a lady’s man. He preferred his ladies young, legal, but young. Despite his escapades with his randy students he managed to publish prodigiously. He pushed accepted history to its limits. This, combined with his rigid methodology wrapped in a breezy writing style placed him regularly on the best-selling lists.
Vinland: A Dan Burdett Mystery (The Cape Cod Mystery Series Book 1) Page 14
