by MP Murphy
Crooked River
MP Murphy
Gaslight Books
Printed in Charleston, South Carolina
2014
Copyright © 2011 by M. P. Murphy
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
ISBN-13: 978-0692279069
ISBN-10: 0692279067
First Gaslight Books mass market edition August 2014
Manufactured by Gaslight Books in the United States of America
Printed in Charleston, South Carolina
For information regarding special discounts on bulk purchases, please contact Gaslight Books
For Linley
Crooked River
Prologue
She awoke on a strange sofa and slowly tried to sit up among the haze of her mind. The world around her began to spin, and her stomach screamed from the movement. It was a vain attempt and pushing any further would most certainly make her sick. She put her head back down as she tried to recall any memory that might help her discover where she was. From the safety of the black leather sofa, Chelsea looked out through the floor to ceiling window onto the blue expanse of Lake Erie. The coffee table in front of her was shaped like a piano, and fit right in with a room filled with music paraphernalia. It was coming together for her now, and the haze began to lift from her head. How she wound up in Bratenahl at Ian Zeitlin’s lake side home, was something Chelsea still had trouble remembering, but at least she knew where she was.
Ian Zeitlin, once the curator of the Rock ‘n’ Roll Hall of Fame, had passed away nearly a year ago. The former curator had left everything to his only son, Levi, who now ran the Cleveland social circuits spending his inheritance. At the private Brookfield Academy, Chelsea had been friends with Levi, and they still traveled together in the same crowd of over-privileged kids. Some after party, Chelsea, thought, as she stretched and made a futile attempt to sit up again. She needed to stop her head from spinning. After a few minutes of slow, deep breathing, she found the courage for another try. Overcoming the warnings of her stomach, Chelsea finally forced herself upright and attempted to stay there. After a moment, she noticed her shoes on the floor, and her wristlet across the room on the table beside the window. Invoking what little strength she had, she managed to get both of her feet into her pumps without causing any more disturbances to her stomach. Now it was time to stand up.
A few minutes of sitting perfectly still gave Chelsea the control she needed to stand. Making her way onto her feet, she wobbled for a few seconds in her designer shoes and gingerly hobbled around the piano table towards her wristlet. Her world was a mess, and she was absolutely still drunk, or high, or both. A momentary loss of balance left Chelsea leaning with her head along the large, lake view window. The August heat radiated through the glass from outside, and for a brief moment Chelsea thought that today was going to be spent recovering by the pool. She slowly reached for her wristlet and with her other hand, balanced herself in attempt to turn towards the door.
From where she was standing, she noticed another person passed out, face down behind the couch. She smiled and was glad there was someone else too wasted to make it home last night. The man appeared to be lying in spilled red wine, and the thought made her giggle out loud. He was surely worse off than she was. Chelsea began the slow walk towards the door when she decided the man on the floor should probably be woken up. Getting close enough to give the man a nudge with her foot, Chelsea paused and then released a bloodcurdling scream that reverberated throughout the empty home. As she screamed, her eyes glared at the gaping bullet wound in the back of the man’s head, and she knew that it was blood the man was lying in, not wine.
Sobriety slammed into Chelsea like a semi truck as her scream broke off, and she realized she was alone with a dead body. Her legs started working before she even told them to. They moved her quickly out of the front door and down to the empty driveway. Where was her car? Did she drive last night, or did she leave her convertible downtown? As she fumbled for her phone hurrying to call a cab, she stopped, suddenly reminded of her situation. She had woken up alone in someone else’s house with a dead body. There was no way she would let a cab pick her up here. Her adrenaline perked up again as she panicked, grasping for options. Chelsea was confused and scared as she stared at the shaking hand that held her phone. There was only one thing she could think of to do. She ran.
Chapter 1
The winding road along the river was a joy as I downshifted my Austin Healy convertible around an oak and maple shaded bend. I was coming down Chagrin River Road and into the exclusive hamlet of Gates Mills on the east side of Cleveland. I was a mere twenty minutes outside of the city, but it felt like I had been transported to colonial New England. Small stone walls lined the road, barely large enough for two cars, and the Chagrin River followed along as I pulled into the center of the small village. The center of Gates Mills was a picturesque cluster of early 19th century buildings, all painted flat white and complimented with black shutters. A series of water powered mills graced the banks of the meandering river, and a covered bridge highlighted the Norman Rockwell setting. I pulled the car up to the stop sign in the center of town, turned left onto Old Mills Road and accelerated under the covered bridge.
The river followed me on my right side, but I was no longer paying attention to its shallow, rippling waters. My focus was on the thickly, wooded left side of the road where, on occasion, a mailbox would guard a gravel drive. Neighborhoods in Gates Mills were nonexistent. Instead, the village was a series of well-hidden estates guarded by deep woods and anonymity. I finally came upon the mailbox I was looking for about three miles past the bridge. I slowly steered my car onto the pebbled drive and took in the reality of how untouched the woods around me seemed to be.
The drive took me about a mile into the forest before I finally came to the gate. A pair of large, black iron doors, attached to a stone wall, swung open as I approached. It seemed as if they were expecting me. Passing through the gates, I noticed the length of the stone wall as it disappeared into the woods. A series of security cameras placed about every hundred yards on the wall’s face, stood sentry over the grounds. The gravel had now been transformed into blacktop, and the woods suddenly became freshly manicured lawns. Dark wood fences lined the drive and separated the lawn by sections. The fenced in areas contained scattered clusters of bay horses playing in the grass, except for one area that housed a lone gray colt. The drive was canopied by rows of fully matured oaks, purposely planted to create a tunnel effect over the driveway leading up to the house. It was amazing someone had the time and money to construct such an illusion.
First, I saw a fountain containing a sculpture of a horse and a ship, an odd combination had I not known the owner. Then as the canopy of oaks opened up, I finally caught a glimpse of the Tudor style mansion. Medieval wooden doors guarded the entrance to the expansive estate. Three stories, with turrets stretching higher, filled my vision, and suddenly I was in another world far away from the Cleveland I knew.
No one came out through the doors to greet me, so I parked my car where I felt appropriate, right out front, and made my way to the stairs. I looked for the doorbell and could not seem to find the button anywhere. Faced with my only other option, I lifted my hand to knock. Looking forward to banging on the large wooden doors, and the sound that would echo throughout the house, I was disappointed when they opened slowly, revealing a middle-aged man in a polished suit.
The man gave me a questioning glance, and I felt like I might have been
in the wrong place, as if that were possible. “Jack Francis,” I said, “I’m here to see Captain Gilmore.”
“Yes, I am fully aware of who you are Mr. Francis. I am Douglas, the Captain’s assistant.” More like his butler, I thought. “He has been expecting you. He is on the back porch if you wish to follow,” Douglas continued, with a wave of his hand towards the inner sanctum of the home.
I took one step inside and was immediately in awe of the opulence that presented itself. A magnificent hall, complete with chandelier and grand staircase, spread out in front of me. On the walls, I noticed a collection of American landscape paintings that could have belonged in the Cleveland Museum of Art and I paused for a moment to stare.
“Mr. Francis, Captain Gilmore, is waiting and not very patiently I might add.”
“Right, sorry.” I moved on, but slowly.
Chapter 2
The porch overlooked a private lake, which sparkled like diamonds, and was outlined by pine trees. A small dock had a center console fishing boat and a two-person sailboat tied to it. I could have gone for a little afternoon fishing, cold beer, a nap, and, if the fishing gods so wished, a few largemouth bass. There was no chance of that. I had work to do, and I was sure Douglas would have a conniption if I broke away from him and headed towards the dock.
“Mr. Francis,” my thoughts were interrupted by Douglas’s voice. “May I introduce you to Captain James Gilmore?”
Captain Gilmore was an old man and looked so in his Amish rocking chair. His legs were covered with a blanket, and he was smoking an obnoxious cigar. He was frail and into his eighties, but there were still signs of what was once an athletic body. The man had been hard and powerful in his younger years. The hardness had left him, but the power stayed and maybe even grew.
“Please to meet you sir,” I extended my hand and he ignored it.
“Sit, we have much to discuss and I am tired. Douglas, please grab us something to drink while we talk. I believe Mr. Francis here would like some bourbon, Pappy Van Winkle 20 year old, if we still have any left, and I would like a brandy.”
“But sir…..,”
The Captain cut him off, “No buts, I would like a brandy.”
“Very well,” and Douglas disappeared.
The Captain did not say a word to me while Douglas was gone. He just sat taking small puffs on his cigar as he stared out onto the lake. “Captain,” I began to ask but was stopped with a finger from the old man. Finally, Douglas returned, and we were graced with our drinks. The Pappy Van Winkle was a treat, a bourbon that I could only afford to partake in on special occasions. The Captain did his homework on me, but I had also done mine on him.
“Thank you for the bourbon, Captain. I see you have done a little research on me.”
“Yes quite, I would not have asked you here otherwise. You see if I am to employ someone I need to be able to trust or distrust them completely. Does that make sense to you Mr. Francis?”
Actually it did. The man was looking for predictability in his employees. Predictable people were easy to control.
“I did some homework on you too.”
I was not coming into this blind either. A request to visit the man’s home could only mean important business.
“I would like to hear what you have.”
“Ok, where should I start?”
“Start from the beginning that seems to be a reasonable place,” he smiled almost enthusiastically at what I had to say about him.
“You were born to a business mogul who made his money investing into Standard Oil with Rockefeller. He sold his stock in the oil company and then used the profits to start a shipping company. There was not a whole lot of risk in the maneuver, as your father had already lined up a contract with his old partner to ship Rockefeller’s oil from the refineries here in Cleveland to the rest of the world. In fact, I believe it was your father who moved the family out of their Euclid Avenue mansion and built the home we are currently sitting in.”
“So far so good,” the Captain said. It appeared like he was enjoying the trip down memory lane.
“From what I could gather the old man never spoiled you. In fact, you seemed to work hard in school and went for higher education at Kenyon College. Afterwards, you left home for a stint in the Navy before returning to Cleveland. Back in your hometown you joined the crew of one of your father’s freighters and traveled as a simple crew member unbeknownst to the others on the ship.”
“Not entirely true. There was a lad who joined up with me whom I trusted with the knowledge of who I was.”
“Very well,” I was on a roll with my story and the interruption was a distraction. “You worked your way up through the ranks and ended up becoming captain of your own vessel after a while. Unfortunately, the promotion would not be for long as your father would soon pass away. Finally, you were recalled to take over the company and managed to guide it to even more prosperity, an impressive task considering the decline of the oil and steel industries in Cleveland.”
The Captain looked impressed with himself as he took a long draw on his cigar. “We needed to branch out,” he said. “The company was expanding even before the collapse of the local economy and we survived globally.” Yes, he was proud. “Mr. Francis, thank you for the trip through my past, but what can you tell me about my more recent life?”
“Let’s see, the company is still thriving. I believe it to be one of the largest privately held companies in the country. Your personal life has not been so smooth, if you don’t mind my saying.”
“Not at all.”
“You have two daughters, who have been a handful in part because of the age gap. Your wife, who passed away giving birth to your second daughter, was quite younger than you and wanted kids, so now you have a pair of girls in their twenties. Madeline, the oldest is twenty-seven and Chelsea is twenty-three.”
“Correct. I have been weak in raising them without a mother, and they have become a handful to an old man. I love them very much, and that gives me the energy to carry on, and yet their actions continue to drain it from me. Mr. Francis, the reason you are here is because I am running out of energy and time to deal with my daughters. It appears the younger one, Chelsea, has found her way into some trouble — trouble I wish to keep hidden from her and anyone else, if I am making myself clear.”
“I understand sir. No unnecessary publicity for the family.”
“Exactly.”
“What is it that I am here to help you with Captain?”
“Blackmail, Mr. Francis. Blackmail.”
Chapter 3
In navy blue pinstriped suit and gleaming well-polished shoes, Daniel Shaw, exited from his routine lunch at Morton’s and walked up Ontario Street towards his newest prized possession. A quick turn down Huron Road and Shaw was standing in front of the beautiful new Rock ‘n’ Roll Casino and Hotel. Unlike most casinos, Shaw’s structure was comprised of large windows that allowed views of the city skyline, the Cuyahoga River, and from the top floors of the building, one could glimpse the blue waters of Lake Erie. In reality, the floors with the lake view were Shaw’s own private space, keeping the public from ever catching sight of the sweet water sea.
The sliding glass doors opened as he entered the lobby, and immediately he was flanked by a pair of security guards. He hated security, but on the casino floor they insisted on escorting him. What he could not grasp was why in his own casino he needed their company, and yet he just walked across town by himself. If it were up to him, he would just get rid of them all. He grew up fighting for everything he had and knew how to take care of himself. To Shaw the only benefit of the security detail was the show of power it offered while he was on the casino floor.
When he got to the private elevator and inserted his key card, the two security thugs turned and went back to their post, leaving Shaw as he entered. The elevator had only four stops: the casino floor, the basement garage where he had a private spot for his car, the security offices, and the top floor office and suit
e that he had designed to escape his wife and home in the suburbs. When the elevator doors opened they brought Shaw to a room surrounded by glass windows that gave him a view of almost every part of the city. Had he left through the doors on the opposite side of the elevator, he would have been led to his private apartment, but not today, there was work to do.
In the open office space, he had a large bar, Persian rugs covering hardwood floors, numerous flat screens to watch the action on the casino floor or the ball game, and his favorite possession, an antique desk he had discovered on a trip to Charleston, South Carolina. He plopped himself down on the leather chair behind the desk and picked up the phone.
“Jillian.”
“Yes, Mr. Shaw.”
“Get me Lee Kershaw on the phone.”
“Yes Sir, just one moment.”
She was not the brightest woman in the world, but Jillian made a great secretary. She had the looks to impress people who visited his office, most of which he had paid for, and she knew how to give a good blow job when needed. Her best asset, however, was that she did what she was told and never asked any questions. The last part was mandatory in the casino business.
“Lee Kershaw on the line,” Jillian came back on the phone.
“Thank you Jillian. Lee, what do you have for me on that little project I gave you?”
“Well Mr. Shaw it’s not quite done yet. We had a small slip up.”
“We?”
“I sent Jimmy DeLuca out on this assignment and well, he kind of got a little sloppy.”
“That little Italian putz. The two of you better fix it……whatever the hell it is you did.”
