An Equal Measure of Murder

by B. T. Lord

  “Where are you going?” Emmy asked.

  “I know it’s a long shot, but I’m going to canvas the neighborhood and see if there’s anyone who was alive back in the 40’s and 50’s who can remember anything about that house. Wish me luck!”

  Emmy grinned as she watched him leave. The old Rick was back – determined, committed and on the scent like an experienced bloodhound. Whether he succeeded or not wasn’t important at the moment. What was important was, now that he was fully engaged, his insecurities and worry about doing the job were forgotten.

  Sheriff Farnsworth would be proud.

  Sheriff Farnsworth was feeling far from proud at that moment. How could she have been so deceived? She should have known something wasn’t right when she’d noticed how easily the ’body’ had been tossed overboard.

  She was embarrassed. And angry at herself. “Do you know of any disgruntled clothing store owners who would want to murder their mannequin?” Cammie asked in a withering voice as she and Ellis stared down at the bedraggled figure at their feet.

  “Don’t beat yourself up, Cammie. There was a storm raging. You were seeing something from a distance. Someone deliberately dressed the mannequin up in jeans and a sweater to make it look human. It was an honest mistake.”

  He glanced over to her and saw she was not convinced.

  “Let’s look at this logically,” he said in an attempt to pull her out of her funk. “It could have been a prank. A kid on a dare to go out on a boat during a storm and throw a dummy overboard. Or it could have been someone caught in the storm who saw the mannequin in the water, thought the same thing you did and brought it on board only to realize their mistake. They then threw it back at the moment you happened to be standing on the bluff.”

  “Why would they go through all the trouble of doing that?”

  Ellis gave her a lopsided smile. “You have to admit, it does look unnerving.”

  Cammie glanced back down at the mannequin and had to agree. To anyone not accustomed to seeing bodies, plastic or otherwise, the sight of the dummy dressed in jeans and a sweater, with its arms and legs splayed out did look pretty creepy. It would be like sitting in a room with a clown doll staring you down.

  Impossible.

  “Okay, I’ll give you that.”

  “There is another possibility.” He turned his head and their eyes met. “This could have been a dry run of some sort. Perhaps to test how far the tides would carry a real body.”

  “Or how far out to go to dump it so it never reaches shore,” she added. “Whoever did this thought enough to dress the mannequin in jeans and sweater to see if that hampered its trajectory in some way. All you need to do is find someone who wears jeans and sweatshirts and warn them they’re in danger.”

  Her joke fell flat as Ellis slowly walked around the dummy, studying it quietly. “You can’t remember anything else about the boat or the person dumping the mannequin overboard?” he suddenly asked.

  “I’ve tried, but it was getting dark, and the waves were high. Everything looked grey and washed out. All I know is that it was an open boat with a motor and the person who did the dumping wore a yellow slicker with the hood pulled down.”

  “Unfortunately, that doesn’t tell me whether they were a man or a woman.”

  “From what you were telling me earlier, you’ve come to know these islands pretty well. It can’t be that difficult to figure out who would even own a mannequin in the first place.”

  “There are a few clothing stores on Eagla and Sarke. Four to be exact. One caters to children, one deals with outdoorsy clothes and equipment. The other two are summer boutiques.”

  “Then all you need to do is find out who has recently had a mannequin kidnapped.”

  The two decided to keep their discovery quiet until the deputy had a chance to track down the store owners and see if they were missing any mannequins. He also thought it prudent to speak to the ferry captain. Not only did he transport passengers back and forth from the mainland once a week, he also brought the mail. If anyone ordered a mannequin, the size of the packaging would give it away.

  The two officers remained silent on the way back to Eagla. Cammie because she was lost in her thoughts regarding the mannequin, and Ellis because he was trying to figure his companion out. He’d seen her suddenly start to shake. He wasn’t surprised when she dashed out onto the deck in an effort to regain control. Having dealt with colleagues who’d gone through harrowing experiences in the line of duty, he recognized the symptoms of PTSD. He didn’t believe Cammie’s were severe, but he knew she’d been through something that had shaken her to her core. That was part of the reason he’d invited her along. Despite her credentials, he needed to assess her reliability. He wasn’t about to waste his time tracking down bodies that only existed in her traumatized mind. Thankfully, the mannequin proved she’d been correct in what she’d seen.

  Then there was the other part of why he’d asked her along that he wasn’t quite ready to look at. He was accustomed to working alone. He preferred it that way. Yet, he found himself enjoying her company. He liked the fact that her mind worked as quickly and efficiently as his in assessing the evidence before them. Conferring with her had been a very pleasurable change of pace for a man who savored his own solitude.

  The two remained locked in their own train of thought. When Ellis finally pulled up next to the pier in Paradise Cove, Cammie hopped out.

  “I know I have no right to ask this, but if you could let me know your findings on the mannequin, I’d appreciate it.” She started to pull out one of her business cards from her jeans pocket when he held his hand up.

  “It’ll be easier if I just put your number into my cell.”

  She waited until he withdrew his phone before she rattled off her number which he typed into his contact list.

  “Don’t worry, Sheriff. I’ll be more than happy to keep you informed.”

  “Thank you, Deputy.”

  “Please, call me Ellis.”

  She smiled at him before walking away.

  He watched her go. Then he reversed the motor and headed home.

  At approximately the same time Ellis was chugging back towards Sarke Island, Violet was parking the Land Rover at the larger pier where the ferry was docked. She’d been trying not to cry on the trip over, but it was a losing battle. She got out of the vehicle and quickly wiped her eyes with her gloves before walking to the back to help Teddy with his suitcase.

  Lunch had been a silent affair. Andrew was nowhere to be found, so at least she’d been spared any last-minute theatrics between the two men. She and Teddy hadn’t said anything on the drive to the harbor. She understood his decision while at the same time regretting it. There was so much to say, but the words wouldn’t come. She felt the heat of his anger pouring off him. Why did Teddy have to be so difficult? Why couldn’t he understand she had to stand firm? It was important to sell the house. Once that was done…

  Stony faced and silent, Teddy grabbed his suitcase. “Thank you for driving me,” he replied in a tight voice.

  “Teddy, are you sure you won’t reconsider?” she tried one last time.

  “It’s not me who needs to reconsider.” He leaned over and kissed her cheek. “I sincerely hope now that I’m gone, Andrew will behave himself. Let me know when you get back.”

  Her vision blurred as she watched Teddy walk down the pier and up the gangplank, disappearing inside the ferry. She stood for a few more moments, but the sharp cold ocean winds drove her inside the Land Rover. Violet took a shuddering breath, then backed out of the space. Driving back to Munson Cottage, she was broken hearted that he hadn’t turned to wave good-bye.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Emmy sat back from her computer and rubbed her eyes. She’d spent yesterday and part of the morning researching the ownership, not only of John Graham’s house, but of the surrounding houses. Neither she nor Rick were surprised that his canvassing of the neighborhood where John lived yielded nothing. The majority of th
e homes were owned by young couples with children. The only old timer Rick found was an octogenarian living with his daughter. Unfortunately, he was suffering from Alzheimer’s and couldn’t remember his name. He did, however, remember Glenn Miller and spent the time Rick was there humming ‘In the Mood’. The deputy hoped it was just a song and not an announcement that he was horny.

  During her exhaustive research, there was only one item that popped out at Emmy that merited further investigation. Despite her efforts, she still hadn’t tracked down what she was looking for. She thought it strange, but then again, this was over 50 years ago, way before one’s entire life was on the internet.

  After printing out her findings, she decided the rest of the search was going to take some old- fashioned detective work, something she was sure Rick could handle. And enjoy. He was a natural charmer and schmoozer. If there was anything to be uncovered by interviewing people, Rick would find it.

  She heard a step behind her. Turning her head, she saw Rick coming down the corridor. He held a brown paper bag that he handed to her before taking off his coat.

  “I stopped off at Zee’s to get us some lunch. He had your favorite on the menu.”

  “Cobb Salad with Salmon?” she asked as she eagerly opened the bag.

  “You got it. I bought one for myself as well.”

  While Rick hung up his coat, Emmy grabbed two bottles of water from the small fridge that sat beneath the coffee machine. The pair settled down at Rick’s desk to eat their salads. As they ate, Emmy shared what she’d found so far.

  “The Grahams’ house has been through ten owners since 1950. The person who owned it from 1946 to 1958 was a man by the name of Jonathan Tuttle. I found an article from the Twin Ponds Gazette that says he died in the house in February, 1958. He was seventy-two years old and had been dead for two days before anyone noticed. After that, the house was vacant for about a year before a newlywed couple bought it.”

  “Probably at dirt cheap prices considering the old geezer kicked the bucket in the living room.”

  “It was in the kitchen, actually. The newlyweds were there for about seven years before they sold it to a young family with three kids.”

  Rick took a bite of salmon and chewed thoughtfully. “Did you get any more info on Tuttle? If he was our hatchet killer, it’s sort of karmic justice that he died alone in the kitchen and wasn’t found for two days.”

  “Sorry to burst your theory, but the Gazette article explained that Mr. Tuttle was partially deaf and in fragile health. His wife had died in 1952, so the neighbors took turns looking in on him.”

  “Whose ever turn it was, dropped the ball on that one. I bet they felt guilty as all hell. The only time they neglect to go over, the old man keels over.” She gave him a stern look. “Just sayin’.” He harpooned a lettuce leaf and popped it into his mouth. “Well, that pretty much rules out Tuttle as our murderer. It takes strength to cleave someone in the head with a hatchet, not to mention several people.”

  “I looked into the ownership of the surrounding homes. The neighborhood was built in 1946. They were all basically starter homes for the GIs coming back from the war. As their families grew, they moved on to larger houses. Or took advantage of better wages in Bangor, Augusta and other cities.”

  “So it sounds like your search was a bust as well.”

  “Not necessarily. The house across the street from Mr. Graham caught my attention.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Because I can’t find any information in the database on its ownership. Every house in that neighborhood was sold through 1946 and ‘47. I know the place existed because I managed to dig up the original plot plan that shows a house standing at 123 Fern Street in 1946. But the first ownership records I found date to 1955. It was bought by a man who worked at the high school as a history teacher. His name was Arthur Jenkins and his family lived in the house until his death in 1975.”

  “Maybe there was something wrong with the house.”

  “1946 was the beginning of the baby boomer generation. Contractors were building cookie cutter homes as fast as they could to keep up with the demands of all these babies being born. Don’t you think it’s strange that the one house in the neighborhood that stood close to Mr. Graham’s is missing its ownership records?” Rick gave her a strange look. “What?” she asked defensively.

  “Do you read history books before you go to bed at night? You’re like a walking, talking Google homepage.”

  Emmy didn’t know whether to feel complimented or offended. After that remark, she wasn’t about to tell him that she actually did read history books before she went to bed.

  “I tried to track down any descendants of Mr. Jensen to see if they know who he bought the house from, but his only son died in Canada a few years ago. The construction company that built it has long been out of business. I even tried checking the bank records, but there’s nothing.”

  Rick took a sip of his water. “Before we get all JFK conspiracy theoried-out, it could be something as simple as the information getting screwed up when it was uploaded to the internet.”

  “I thought of that. That’s why I called Edwina and told her you’d be stopping by after lunch to look at the original records.”

  Rick threw her a horrified look. “You called Edwina?”

  “Of course I did. She’s the custodian of all the town records going back to 1865 when the town was founded.” She noticed the look of nervousness on his face. “Why do you look like you just saw a spider race across your hand?”

  Rick looked to his left and right. He then leaned forward and whispered, “Don’t you know she’s a vampire?”

  It was Emmy’s turn to look horrified. “You are kidding, right?”

  “Think about it. Have you ever seen that woman in the light of day?” Emmy had to concede that she hadn’t. “She arrives at her job before the sun comes up and leaves at night after the sun goes down. She works in a dark, dust-filled basement that has no windows. She’s got the palest skin of any human being I’ve ever seen. If she isn’t a vampire, she should be.”

  “Rick, the woman has no life. Her entire existence is devoted to keeping those records in order.”

  “Okay, I’m kidding. Kinda.” Emmy rolled her eyes. “Okay, okay, she isn’t a vampire. But, she’s unfriendly, nasty and weird. And those are her positive qualities.”

  “That’s why you’re the best one to do this. If there’s anyone who could charm Edwina, that would be you.”

  “Yippee,” he mumbled under his breath.

  Town Hall was a one-story brick building where the different municipal offices that made up the running of Clarke County were located. Rather than drive, Rick, who both Cammie and Emmy were convinced was part Malamute, decided to brave the freezing temperatures and walk up Main Street towards the town offices. His shoulder-length, raven black hair, bound in a pony tail to indicate he was on duty, bounced up and down against his parka as he strode along, waving to passersby and calling out greetings. It was at times like this where he felt most at ease with himself; a man who knew where he belonged and was comfortable with that knowledge. He felt a sense of confidence grow with each step – a belief that maybe he really could be okay in his role as Acting Sheriff, notwithstanding Emmy shaming him into meeting with Edwina O’Neill.

  He thought back to what Emmy said about his tenure under the previous sheriff.

  Jessie Bannon had been a kind man with absolutely no imagination. Nor any investigative skills to speak of. It was Rick who always stepped up to solve the petty robberies, break up the fights, bring peace and order to a town that, like all towns, had its quirky citizens who couldn’t quite follow the straight and narrow. In his initial fear and panic over Cammie’s self-imposed sabbatical, he’d forgotten that he’d been good at taking up the slack left by Bannon’s lackadaisical approach. The man was happiest when he was fishing and seemed put out whenever he actually had to do his job. Yet, Rick learned a great deal serving as his deputy, kno
wledge he’d put to good use under Cammie’s leadership.

  Maybe Em was right. Maybe he was being an idiot. He knew this town like no other. He knew its rhythms, its eccentricities. It didn’t matter if the hatchet murders took place last year or fifty years ago. He’d apply the same set of criteria he’d learned from Cammie.

  A thought occurred to him that made him slow his step. Was it possible that he’d leaned too heavily on Cammie? Once she was voted in as sheriff, she actually became Sheriff. She showed Clarke County what a real law enforcement officer was all about. She had the experience and common sense to get the job done. Just as he’d learned what he was capable of under Bannon, he’d grown exponentially under Cammie. She had enough confidence in his intelligence and dedication to make him an integral part of her team. Now was the moment to step up to the plate and show the town, Cammie and, more importantly, himself that he could do this.

  With this in mind, he arrived at Town Hall. Much of the town archives had been converted to electronic files, but the older files that went back to the beginnings of the town were still stored in rows of metal shelving. He turned to his right and walked down the stone steps where Edwina O’Neill reigned supreme.

  It was a joke between he and Cammie that Mayor Bill Barnes had been mayor in Twin Ponds since dinosaurs ruled the earth. Edwina O’Neill ran a close second. No one could remember a time when she wasn’t in charge of the town records. Despite having reached retirement age, Rick knew the town fathers would have to physically pry her away from her desk. Since nobody wanted to be exiled to a dark, windowless basement where no one ever ventured to, it was easy to see why she was still there.

  Edwina’s desk sat at the bottom of the steps. In order to get to the shelves that held the town’s files, you had to get past her. Not an easy task when she guarded the records like a snarling Rottweiler.