SAGE: AN ADAM STONE MYSTERY (THE ADAM STONE MYSTERIES Book 1)

by D. L. EVANS

  Although Mack was involved in conversation with Felicia, I noticed him casually glance at Alison every-so-often, as if checking to satisfy himself that she wasn’t touching anything. As I watched, she smiled to herself about something and the resemblance to her sister became more apparent.

  I found myself examining the painting that Ms Farr referred to. At first appearance it resembled a blank white canvas but closer inspection showed the faint pencil outline of a woman's face. "She was working on this, Mrs. Farr?"

  "I don’t know... she was so stressed, Lieutenant, ...I mean Mister Stone. Looks like she started it but changed her mind... didn't sleep, lost weight. Even cancelled her students 'till after the television interview. God, I'll have to call them... I don't know where she kept the names and numbers, everything is upside-down." Panic crossed her face.

  "Don't worry. I'm sure they all read the papers." She nodded at me in reluctant agreement and I could see that Felicia Farr was just the type of woman that Morgan would have picked to represent her. The normally pleasant grandmother face, greying hair and a fine network of wrinkles around her eyes eliminated her from the predator-type category that agents usually fell into. "I was here just last week... the morning of the opening. Seems like it was yesterday. I... can’t believe she’s...” She blinked rapidly and turned away. Alison quickly put her arm about her shoulder, offering woman-to-woman comfort.

  Mack was still flipping through magazine tear sheets of waterfalls, scenery, sunsets and other images, presumably reference material. "Are you looking for anything specific? I mean, besides proof that your victims might have posed here?"

  “I don’t know. I don’t know,” he mumbled to himself. “The only thing I do know is that this shit isn’t going to tell me anything. Why did she come to see me? And why didn’t she come back or phone, or even leave her name? Something.... there’s got to be something.” He continued, pulling out drawers and pushing things around. “According to her neighbours, she was here, earlier that evening... Another thing. She didn’t have a coat on. It’s been cooler in the evening ever since the God damn garbage strike ended, right? According to her friends, she’s skinny and feels the cold easily, which is why she was always overdressed. But that night, she left here, barely dressed and drove five miles, to the other side of town to do herself in? The car heater, by the way, was not on. ...Doesn’t work for me.”

  “I noticed that there’s no television or radio. Did Morgan keep up with current events or was she in her own little world, Ms. Farr?” I asked.

  She blew her nose and looked around. “Um... she used to read the paper in the morning with her coffee, Mr. Stone. There should be stacks of papers here somewhere. She played tapes while she worked. The news upset her. Nothing but bad things, she used to say. She had files of clippings; just pictures, things she used for inspiration. What are you thinking? Something in the paper upset Morgan?” Her eyes bugged out as panic set in again and she began wringing her hands.

  “Someone could have broken in looking for drugs?” Alison offered.

  Felicia jumped up and started pacing. “They wouldn’t have to break in. Morgan almost never kept the doors locked. She was friendly with everyone... lived here for years. She bought this house for the roof if you can imagine. The fact that skylights could be installed facing the right direction for the light. Had the whole roof reinforced just to take the weight? Back when times were tough, she rented out the first floor to Mr. and Mrs. Jamieson, a nice elderly couple. They're almost completely deaf, you know. She had art students here working too, day and night, sometimes. She didn't care. Wouldn’t think of moving out, even now with her success. Money wasn’t important, you see. We used to be at her all the time about it. No security. Morgan trusted everyone.” She slumped down stiffly on the chair and started to sniffle “I was always trying to get her to take things seriously, but she never....”

  I found my voice. “Felicia.. Ms Farr, how long ago did you see the pile of newspapers? Could they still be here somewhere, in the house?” Mack caught my eye. He knew I was on the same wavelength. I had an instant flashback to the Steele case when we were closing in on the bastard. We nailed him with old articles he used as bookmarks.

  “Newspapers... “ Felicia looked around the various piles, quivering, on the verge of emotional implosion. Alison looked intensely at Felicia, her eyes shining like polished stones. I wondered if she was helping her in some way. “They’re gone now." Felicia's voice was more composed. She took a deep breath and stood without shaking. "It was a big pile, at least thirty full editions, neatly folded. I thought it was strange at the time but she did so many strange things. Newspapers... newspapers.... Where...” She went off somewhere in her memory unaware that she was thinking out loud. “You know, she might have put them in the grey box that gets put out for recycling each week. She was a fanatic about recycling, used to nag everybody, you know, to do their share.” The tissue came out again as she struggled to hold her composure.

  "Go on Felicia, about the newspapers, what were you thinking?" Alison prompted.

  Felicia met Alison's eyes and answered evenly, “They would be in the basement with the garbage from the other apartment unless someone remembered to put it out for pick-up and that’s unlikely. She always did it.”

  Alison took her hand saying "That's great. You did very well.” Felicia smiled her gratitude, and proceeded to lead us to the basement and the grey recycling box.

  Basements are all the same. Dank musty places full of the overflow and the out-of-season remnants of daily life. The grey box was buried under tidy bundles of junk mail, pizza boxes and cardboard, ready to carry out for the curb side pickup. On the bottom was a pile with string around it that fit the description. Mack picked it up like it was the crown jewels, untied the string and quickly flipped through the pages. Suddenly, he paused and turned, holding up the butchered page for us to see.

  “I’m taking this downtown with me Adam.” Mack said. “It’ll take a few hours to get the same copies brought around so I can find out what she cut out. Did you talk to Lauren about..." he remembered that we weren't alone, "about our dinner conversation?" I shook my head in the negative. He nodded. "I’ll call you at home later.” He disappeared up the stairs without a goodbye to the women. Typical. Job first with Mack... social niceties a distant second.

  Felicia said, “I don’t understand. What do you hope to learn from this? What’s so important?” No one spoke for a minute. She searched our faces. "I won't speak to the press if that's what you’re thinking. Please. I was the best friend Morgan had. Please tell me, I have to know."

  “Sometimes you have to work backwards," I explained. "Sometimes, it’s not what you see, but what’s missing. We think Morgan cut articles out of particular newspapers, hopefully the ones that Mackenzie is taking back to the station. Maybe we can find out what she was so interested in. He doesn’t believe the accident theory, which kind of makes it unanimous." I looked at Alison and felt her calculating stare. "Anyway, it seems Morgan may have been killed and whoever did it, put her body in her car and drove it into the harbour. Who and why, we don’t know, but she was following something... a case that Mack was working on. At least that’s the thinking unless we’re both out-to-lunch. Something or someone spooked her. Whatever it was, she kept her thoughts to herself and then, she was killed.” My gut instinct told me that Felicia was not a suspect but Alison could be. I took a chance that stating the obvious wouldn’t do any harm to Mack’s investigation. Time would tell.

  “My God, my God...” Felicia sobbed. “Morgan murdered. I can’t believe it. Why didn't she talk to me? We were best friends.” The tears were suddenly flowing non-stop so Alison helped her up the stairs and we walked her out the front of the house. Somehow, she managed to lock the door behind her.

  “Do you think someone killed her for trying to talk to the police?” Alison whispered.

  “It’s too early to say,” I replied.

  It had stopped raining. I walked th
e two women to Felicia’s car and then drove home. No one delivering anything on a bike came anywhere near me. Perhaps the word was out

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  ADAM STONE:

  As I approached my building the next morning, paper sack in hand, I recognized Mack’s disgusting vehicle parked in the ‘no stopping’ zone right in front of the door. As usual, it was badly in need of a wash. He was casually slouched in the driver’s seat, reminding me of a well-groomed ninja in basic black, mirrored shades and all. Careful not to come in contact with the dirt on the door, lest I catch some dread disease, I leaned over and peered in through the open passenger window.

  Mack flashed his big white teeth in a boyish smile, "Come along with me for an interview, might prove interesting." As he spoke, he straightened up in his seat and started the engine, thereby drowning out any possibility of further conversation.

  I got in and cranked up the window, which lowered the decibel level just enough to permit limited conversation. "I just happen to pop out for some toasted bagels, which co-incidentally happen to be your favourite and like magic, here you are. Are you having me watched, in case I eat without you?" I offered him one. "Isn't this your day off? What's going on with the newspapers you took from Morgan’s house?"

  He accepted a bagel with a grunt of thanks. "It was yet another dead end. Les made a file from the microfilm at the library and the cutouts match everything that was written on the three missing women. All we know now is that Morgan knew something about them, or one of them at least, tried to tell me, chickened out and got herself killed... probably. Not according to the coroner, who says her death was probably an accident, but we know better. Trouble is, she was connected to the entire art world, students, professionals, agents, galleries, even taught at the Ontario School of Art. Narrows it down to about half the bloody city. "

  “What do you think of Alison?” I asked.

  “The jury’s still out on that one. I’m still investigating the family but so far everyone says she’s clean. I’m exploring some possibilities. I think Morgan was somehow subdued and driven to the dead end off Cherry Street to be launched into the lake. Now that brings us to our next little interview. I want you to be there.”

  "Who's the interviewee?"

  "Old man Stanford," he said between mouthfuls and edged out into the traffic.

  "That’s interesting. Is he a suspect? Surely you don't think he zapped Morgan from his bed in a nursing home?”

  "Coulda had her zapped. But he’s not exactly a suspect old son... it's a fishing expedition... a way of filling in the background on the Stanford family. Straight from the horses mouth, you might say."

  "It's actually Annie you're interested in, right?”

  "Never could fool you,” he smirked. “There's something going on with the lady. It's just not in any file or record, or even the social columns. I figured I might get something from the man himself... if he's in a confiding mood."

  "Where exactly are we going?"

  "Summerhill Glen,” he replied. “It's sort of the nursing home mansion for WASP gazzillionaires. Stanford has been there for three years now. Checked in while the papers were being processed that officially turned over the family business to his nieces. They all owned it together once but he had controlling interest until the girls bought him out. I think it was not voluntarily on his part, a ‘hostile’ takeover. They would have inherited eventually but there’s something more, I just can’t put my finger on yet. There were rumours that the business was in some sort of financial difficulties and it seems the old fart wasn't above a bit of fraud on the side. Nothing solid, of course, just wisps in the tattle papers. And whatever it was with the business, he’s never been far from the family fortune. They’re stinking rich, the lot of them. He owns three classic cars, all of them Rolls and he doesn’t drive."

  "I assume there's more you want from this than could be asked on a phone. Incidentally, why is he in a home? What's wrong with him? You're not interested in his illegal activities, are you?"

  "Nope," he replied, eloquently.” But there’s more things in heaven and earth, as Hamlet pointed out, ‘Shakespeare’.”

  “Yeah, Well you can’t always get what you want... ‘Mick Jagger’.” He laughed. I waited for him to elaborate. Mack was still the master of the pregnant pause. It was an art knowing just how long to let them last. The minutes passed while I studied the countryside. It was a sparkling day, warm and sunny. Summer in Ontario almost makes the winters worthwhile. Wind waved the waist high grass in the passing fields. A flock of mousy brown birds exploded into flight from the side of the road like they had been shot from a gun and veered off into the distance, moving in unison like a school of fish. How did they not bash into each other? Well-groomed farmhouses flashed laser light from windows blinded by the sun’s glare. I relaxed as the Earth rotated, travelling on its elliptical path around the sun.

  Finally Mack continued his thought. “He's not mentally ill, because he's rich. Wealthy old men don’t get mentally ill..." he smiled like a gargoyle, “they get eccentric. Eccentric as in completely nuts. It’s also possible that his door swings both ways or maybe he’s just 'good friends' with his lifelong assistant, the ever-faithful Winston Lucas. He's surrounded by a battery of lawyers and doctors too, Adam, just like fucking royalty.”

  I finally turned away from the window and faced him. “You're not telling me everything though are you? Come on Mack, what’s this is really all about? Like, how do you get past all those lawyers and doctors? They wouldn't allow him to be interviewed by the police under any circumstances... even if they caught him with a smoking gun in his hand. The only thing I know about Richard Stanford for sure is that he avoids publicity like the plague. It's probably one of the reasons that the gallery didn't do so well under his control”. He didn’t respond, but stared at the road ahead intently, paying as much attention to me as the speed limit.

  Then it came to me as the right side of my brain kicked in. “I suppose it would be ridiculous to assume that you used MY name to get this interview? He's read my book, right?”

  Mack cleared his throat in a half-hearted apology. "Look Sunshine, don't get the wind up yer arse. It seems that the old darling is a fan. Reads crime novels and such and I heard from a little bird that he would love to meet the author of The Stalking Murders. Couldn't deny the old guy that opportunity now, could we?"

  "You've got a fucking nerve, Mackenzie."

  "Yes but my ass is hangin' in the breeze and my nose tells me that there's a story to this family and we're just scratchin' the surface. Don't go lookin' for something sinister in my motives. This has to do with reciprocity. You scratch my back and I'll scratch yours. Help me solve this crime and...”

  "What crime? You just told me..."

  "Let me finish, I just know things are somehow tied together. I'm just gathering information. You can help me solve this ... mystery and write another famous book at the same time. By the way, you could be a little less subtle about making me the star this time, in case there's a movie. I could pass for a younger Piers Brosnan in low light. Anyway, I'm doin' you a favour, you'll see."

  "Jesus. You have balls of brass y'know. Have you told me everything?"

  "Well, I could..."

  "...But then you’d have to kill me," we both said in unison and laughed.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  ADAM STONE:

  We turned off the highway onto a private road. The first indication of wealth was an endless canopy of chestnut trees, stretched like complacent giants, each with a bracelet of perfect scarlet coloured flowers at its base. The sun poked through at intervals, throwing shimmering patches of light on the pavement like massive puzzle pieces. An army of landscapers probably crept out before dawn to tend the lawns and gardens and vacuumed the road. The predictable ivy covered wall appeared complete with Iron Gate. The guard checked our names on a clipboard and gave us the royal nod. The massive bars parted with barely a whisper. Summerhill Glen loomed like
something from a Victorian nightmare. Dormers and chimneys sprouted like weeds at regular intervals and imposing leaded glass windows glistened through vines that covered the dark pepper coloured brickwork. We parked in the adjacent lot, climbed a staircase made narrow by twin rows of cascading potted plants and entered unannounced through massive carved doors. We found ourselves in another century. The foyer made an impressive statement, highly polished marble floors, carved oak panelled walls and gilt edged mirrors all lit by an enormous chandelier in the centre. It oozed wealth. Sprays of flowers shared antique tables with Tiffany lamps that added a soft patina to the glowing wood. This was a retirement home? There was no evidence of it being a hospital. A receptionist in a soft pink uniform beckoned discretely from a Louis Quatorze desk in the far corner of the room. Mack introduced us to the gorgeous creature posing as a nurse, carefully avoiding any mention of his profession. I guessed that her incredible smile would have dropped like a curtain and security guards would have appeared out of the panelling if she had even the slightest suspicion that he was a cop. We were expected and were directed to Mr. Stanford's suite without delay. The place could easily have been an exclusive private hotel; complete with the soft-spoken unobtrusive staff that one finds where there are very rich clientele. No charts on the walls, no metallic intercoms paging doctors, no telephones ringing, just soft music, and the fragrance of sweet flowers blended with the unmistakable scent of unlimited wealth in the dust-free, humidified, temperature controlled air.