Small Time Crime (Mercy Watts Mysteries Book 10)

by A W Hartoin

  I went through and wrote down dates. The albums were mostly chronological, but some years were mixed up, 1961 had some 1963 snaps in there. Carrie wasn’t the best at snowshoeing and I had time to confirm my theory. It was the murder that broke up a friendship that started in childhood and made it through war, alcoholism, and divorce. The last picture of Woody and Des together and happy was at Thanksgiving in 1965. Woody sat at their family table between a young Dwayne and a woman noted as Aunt Bette. The next picture was at the reunion seven years later. I knew that Woody hadn’t done a bang-up job on the investigation and with the odd death certificate there was possibly a cover-up. Des severing a lifelong friendship suggested that he knew it and Mary sending her daughter to live with the grandparents said she knew it, too, and thought she had to protect her daughter. Like everything else, that said local.

  “Where did your grandparents live?” I asked.

  It took a second but Dwayne changed his focus from the best carboys to people long dead. “Oh, um…Union. Why do you ask?”

  “Did Carrie change high schools after the murders?”

  “No. Grandpa just drove her in and picked her up every day,” he said.

  Ding. Ding. Ding.

  “That’s a lot of effort for an elderly person,” I said. “How far was it?”

  “Oh, I guess it was about twenty miles to their house. Not that far.”

  “Are you kidding?” Amy asked. “Twice day. That’s eighty miles. Why would they do that?”

  Fats smiled at me. “That’s the question, isn’t it?”

  “It is for me,” I said. “How long did Carrie stay with your grandparents?”

  Dwayne shrugged. “I don’t know. Sometime in the summer, I guess.”

  The doorbell rang and Amy ran down to let Carrie in. She did not disappoint. Carrie Shipley Norton was one of a kind. She wore a ski hat that looked like something a jester would wear and a knitted face mask that was a long curly red beard. When she peeled off her oversized Carhartts, she had on a pair of camo pants, black lace top with a hot pink bra underneath, and her hair had lost its dreads but was now purple and super curly.

  “Hey there,” she called up at me. “So glad you called. Have I got a story for you.”

  Carrie dashed up the stairs, hugged us all twice, and settled down with both a cup of coffee and a chai latte that Amy whipped up for her.

  “So should I start or do you? I’ve never been interviewed by a famous detective before.”

  Usually, people weren’t all that happy to see me and I was taken aback for a second.

  “I guess you should go ahead,” I said.

  “My granddaughter is so excited that you’re here. She and her girlfriends are over today, making mug cakes and watching those hot guys that hunt demons. What’s that show?”

  “Supernatural?”

  “That’s it. But they are so excited that I have evidence in a murder. It really is unbelievable.” Carrie opened the Hello Kitty backpack that was exactly like the one Fats had and pulled out a yearbook. “Amy said you wanted to know about Bertram Stott?”

  Oh, my God!

  “Is he…in there?” I could barely breathe. The thought had never occurred to me. Stott graduated in Tennessee.

  “Damn straight he is.” She flipped open the book and there on the page in black and white was one Bertram Stott. He was an average-looking dude and I wouldn’t have picked him out as a future inmate. Real estate agent, yes. Murderer, no. Stott pretty much looked like everyone else on the page. Dark hair parted on the side and controlled with what I assumed was Brill Cream. He had a rather large nose and a small mouth that had a forced smile, not inconsistent with being made to take a school picture. His eyes were narrowed and sort of mocking, but, if you didn’t know what he was, you wouldn’t have guessed it.

  “But he didn’t graduate here,” I said.

  “That’s right. He left after the first semester,” said Carrie. “I guess the yearbook staff just forgot to take him out.”

  “I’ll be damned,” said Lefty. “You got him. He did it.”

  “Did the murder?” Carrie asked. “I wouldn’t be surprised.”

  Nobody else was surprised either after what she told us. Bertram Stott showed up during the summer. Carrie didn’t know exactly when and he was an ass. Her first contact with him was walking home from the town pool. He drove by and made obscene gestures at her and her friends. That happened every time she saw him, even in school. He was rude and occasionally drunk in class. Stott got suspended at one point for carrying a bottle of whiskey in his backpack and another time for patting the rear of a student teacher. He had a gang of friends, all as badly behaved as he was. Stott was the leader and the group became known as the Wolfpack. They were aggressive to everyone, especially girls, and being groped in the hall became just another part of Carrie’s day. Stott was definitely the worst of the bunch and she thought that half the other guys in the group were only trying to be cool and wouldn’t ever have done the things they did if Stott hadn’t been there egging them on. The girls and the faculty breathed a sigh of relief when he left and even members of the Wolfpack seemed to feel the same way. The group ceased to be a problem by the end of the year and lots of parents complained when Stott turned up in the yearbook. How that happened was never really explained.

  “What car was he driving?” I asked.

  She shrugged. “I don’t know cars. Some rusted out old beater.”

  “It wasn’t a truck?”

  “No.”

  “Are you sure?”

  Carrie frowned at me. “I’m sure. It was kind of a joke. He thought he was badass, but he drove that thing. It had fins. Fins were not cool in 1965.”

  “Did any of his friends have a truck?” I asked.

  “Maybe. There were a lot of farm kids.”

  “Any trucks stand out to you?”

  “Sorry, no,” she said. “Is that important?”

  “Yes, but I’m not surprised that you don’t remember one,” I said. “Did your friend Kathleen Coulter know Stott?”

  “We all knew him whether we wanted to or not.”

  “Did Kathleen have a particular problem with him?”

  Carrie was somewhat bewildered. “I don’t think so. Why?”

  “Someone tried to burn her house down,” I said.

  She paled and started tugging on her long purple locks. “I forgot about that.”

  “Who did they think did it?” Dwayne asked.

  “I think everyone thought the Wolfpack did it, but nobody got in trouble that I know of. It never happened again.”

  “You don’t remember Stott having a crush on Kathleen?” I asked.

  “Not really. Kathleen was very popular. Half the school was in love with her, but she had a boyfriend.” Carrie took back the yearbook and showed me a picture of the all-American Thomas MacIntyre. He was tall, blond with a square jaw and there was nothing shifty in those undoubtedly blue eyes.

  “Did Thomas have a problem with Stott?”

  Carrie laughed. “I don’t think you understand. Everyone had a problem with Stott. Everyone.”

  Everyone. That was a lot of people with a problem. I had no doubt that if I could get ahold of the police report from the bar fire that Stott and his crew were the high school kids kicking up a fuss about not getting served. It was probably the same deal with the liquor store. So if Stott was causing problems from A to Z why would anyone protect him when it came to the murder?

  I looked up at Carrie and asked, “Dwayne said your parents moved you to your grandparents after the murder? Why’d they do that?”

  “You think they told me? No way,” she said. “Mom and Dad were completely freaked out. Mom shaking and crying. Dad would barely speak and the next thing I knew I was hauled off to Union.”

  Dwayne set down his cup with a thunk on the wagon wheel coffee table. “I can’t believe they didn’t give you a reason. What did Grandma and Grandpa say?”

  “Nothing. Just that it was
for the best or something,” I said. “Oh, I was pissed, but nobody cared what I thought about it.”

  We were all quiet for a moment. I don’t know about anyone else, but I was thinking about all the things parents do for your own good. Sometimes it makes sense later on. Sometimes it doesn’t. This time it totally did.

  “When did you come back?” I asked.

  “August. Right before school started. I missed most of the summer. Mom wouldn’t allow me in town. I had to go to the pool in Union. Sometimes my friends came over, but mostly I hung out with my grandparents. It was the worst summer of my life.” Carrie tilted her head to the side and said thoughtfully, “I really hated them for that. Mom and I hardly talked for years.”

  “They must’ve been terrified,” said Amy. “Des and Mary didn’t go off half-cocked.”

  Carrie nodded. “I can see that now. God, I haven’t thought about this stuff for years.”

  The murder was in December. Stott left, but Carrie stayed in Union.

  “Your parents weren’t afraid of Stott,” I said.

  “Sounds like everyone else was,” said Fats.

  They all nodded and I looked down at the photo albums. “Stott left. He was gone and you never saw him again?”

  “Not until he came back to town, what was it, about ten years ago,” said Carrie.

  “Did he say anything to you? Did he come in the restaurant?” Dwayne had puffed up. Brother was thinking of getting a shotgun.

  “I saw him in the Piggly Wiggly a couple of times, but he didn’t say anything to me. Hell, I didn’t recognize him. Cheryl at checkout told me who he was. That guy did not age well. He looks like he’s in his late eighties.”

  “Decades in prison will do that,” said Fats. “Have you heard of any problems with him?”

  “People weren’t happy to have him back, but nothing happened,” she said.

  Lefty threw up his hands and said, “I’m confused. Did Stott kill the nun or not?”

  I thought about it and in the end I went with my gut. “Not.”

  Fats made a fist. “He fits the profile. He’s a murderer. He was here. What’s not to like?”

  “He didn’t drive a truck,” said Amy. “Is that it?”

  I shook my head. “It doesn’t help, but no. It’s that your parents, who had intimate knowledge of the crime, didn’t think he did it.”

  “Dad wouldn’t know,” said Dwayne. “He was a mailman.”

  “He was a medic during the war and he said the body had been abused. Your father wasn’t some no-nothing schlub. He saw what I saw in the crime scene pictures. There was a truck. The body had been revisited.”

  “Ew,” said Amy. “Revisited for what?”

  Carrie patted her sister-in-law’s knee. “I don’t think we want to know.”

  “You don’t,” said Fats grimly.

  “So you’re saying that Desmond knew what? That it was a local and it wasn’t this Stott character? How?” Lefty asked.

  “I don’t know, but Des and Mary believed strongly enough to make their daughter very mad at them.”

  Carrie agreed. “And it wasn’t like them at all. We always talked about things before that. Why the rules were the rules. Things like that. It annoyed me, but I was a teenager. Everything annoyed me.”

  “You told me after Mom died that they fought about it,” said Dwayne.

  “They definitely did,” said Carrie.

  “Our parents were yelling?”

  She rolled her eyes. “Not yelling yelling, but I could tell they were fighting. It was tense in the house after the murder. Don’t you remember? Dad bought guns and made us go target shooting. Mom would check the locks five times before she’d go to bed and half the time Dad slept on the sofa. With a gun.”

  Dwayne’s eyes went wide. “I don’t remember Dad on the sofa.”

  “You were such a dufus,” she said, affectionately. “But I love you.”

  “Carrie, did your mother want to move after the murder?” I asked.

  Carrie sneered at her little brother. “I know Dwayne doesn’t believe me, but I heard them fighting about it. Dad thought we could hold out and Mom wasn’t convinced.”

  “Hold out?” Fats asked. “Like it was a siege.”

  I picked up the album that had most of 1965 in it. “They did hold out until August.”

  “What’s in August?” Lefty asked. “Just the fair.”

  “I didn’t come back for the fair,” said Carrie. “I got to come back between that and the start of school.”

  I flipped through the pages of photos. Something happened in August 1966. I came to the part of the album that had the first photo of the year. A birthday party for a grandparent. There were lots of photos of mushrooms and scenery. Let me just say you’ve seen one mushroom in black and white, you’ve pretty much seen them all.

  The rest of the group kept trying to figure out what happened to make Des and Mary relax and I took the opportunity to call Spidermonkey.

  “I’ve got good news and bad news,” I said.

  “Same here,” he said with a chuckle. “Pretty fascinating stuff though.”

  “I like fascinating. You first.”

  “Bertram Stott has a trust fund,” said Spidermonkey.

  My jaw dropped. Literally. Amy told me I was going to catch flies.

  “I thought he didn’t have any money.”

  Stott didn’t have any money and neither did his parents or grandparents. Solidly lower middle class was the best way to put it. But now Stott’s fees at Shady Glen were being paid by a trust in his name. It had also paid for his house and a car. An allowance was dropped into his account like clockwork every month.

  “Who set it up?” I asked.

  “I can’t tell, but Wells Fargo is the trustee. I’m working on breaking through their firewall, but it’s a good one. It will take some time. Morty’s better at banks than I am.”

  “When did the trust fund happen?”

  Everyone looked at me and stopped talking.

  “Ten years ago.” Spidermonkey was smirking. Sometimes you can just tell.

  “About the time Stott moved to St. Seb?” I asked.

  “The very month.”

  “He’s blackmailing someone.”

  “Looks like it. Must be his accomplice on the murder,” said Spidermonkey.

  “Is that all your news?” I asked.

  It wasn’t. Spidermonkey had found the layout of the asylum and confirmed that the most likely route to the bus stop was through a large parking lot. He took a look at the location of Bishop Fowler’s office, too. The bus would’ve dropped Maggie just down the street. It was a straight shot to the office, so it was unlikely that Maggie was taken there. Also, Dr. Desarno had an office nearby where he saw most of his patients, making it unlikely that he was out at St. Vincent’s the morning of the murder. Spidermonkey felt that cleared the elderly doctor. I’d already taken him off my suspect list, but it was good to know I was right.

  “And my bad news is that Bishop Fowler wasn’t a wealthy man when he died,” said Spidermonkey.

  “Figures. Why can’t it be easy?”

  “It’s you.”

  “Swell and guess what? I have worse news. Stott didn’t do it,” I said.

  I had to do some real convincing to get Spidermonkey off Stott once I’d conclusively placed him in St. Sebastian at the time of the murder. He was perfect. A real dirtbag, but I was fairly sure he didn’t kill Maggie.

  “Alright. Alright,” he conceded. “I believe you, but he has to know who did do it.”

  “Sure and I wish I knew how Des and Mary ruled him out.”

  “Desmond Shipley had skills,” said Spidermonkey.

  “You sound like you knew him.”

  “I did a check like you asked. Airborne medic. That man came back from the war with a chest full of ribbons and medals. His photos from the campaigns he was in were published. He won a few awards for combat photography.”

  “He switched to tamer subjects a
fter the war,” I said.

  “Mushrooms. He won a contest for that, too.”

  I looked down at the photos in front of me. Mushrooms. Hiking trails. All beautifully composed and a feeling started. A kind of déjà vu.

  “Dwayne?” I asked. “Your father took photos during the war?”

  “Yeah, he did. Who is that you’re talking to?”

  “A friend who’s gifted at finding things out,” I said. Then I told Spidermonkey I’d call him back.

  Carrie rubbed her hands together. “Ooh, a hacker. The plot thickens.”

  “Do you have any of those photos from the war?” I asked.

  Dwayne plucked another album off the shelf. It was beautiful. Dark blue leather covers with gold embossed military images, a ship, bomber, tanks, and aircraft. “Dad documented the whole war. He sold quite a few pictures, too. Some are in museums.”

  I opened the album and leafed through. It was hard not to go through each page and study it. Desmond’s war, every bit of it, was there and it got pretty ugly. Bodies on the beach. Dead children in a Dutch house. There were also men together, smiling during the misery of Bastogne. It was simply an extraordinary album.

  “Why would Dad’s service matter?” Carrie asked.

  I reluctantly handed the album back to Dwayne and turned the other album to the picture of Des and Mary mushroom hunting. “Because your father has a camera.”

  Everyone was blank, except Fats, who nodded. “Of course. My Uncle Moe is our family’s shutterbug. He always has his camera. You never know when the perfect shot will appear.”