by L A Dobbs
“Where were all of you last night around two a.m.?” Sam asked.
They looked at each other. “In our tents. We hit the hay around midnight,” Peter said.
Sam looked over at the tents. “So you were all here after midnight, and you can all vouch for each other?”
They looked around at each other again and nodded.
“Yeah. We’re always here every night,” Dennis said.
“But you didn’t actually all see each other all night because you were in your tents,” Jo said.
“Well, yeah,” Peter said. “But I think someone would have heard a tent unzip or a car start up. Gets pretty quiet out here at night.”
“Which tent is Ray’s?” Sam asked.
“Oh, Ray doesn’t stay in a tent,” Dennis said. “He doesn’t trust his expensive camera to the outdoors. Could get damaged.”
“Where was he staying, then?” Jo asked.
“At those cabins up on Route 5. The Balsams, I think it’s called,” Summer said.
“I still don’t get it,” Dennis said. “If he was out at the protected owl area, then somebody either purposely went up there to kill him or came across him in the woods and killed him.”
“Or he brought the killer with him,” Peter said.
“Well, I know exactly who would want him dead,” Summer said. “The same people who would like to get rid of all of us.”
“And who would that be?” Jo asked.
“The rich people. The greedy people. Why, there’s one right up next to that owl sanctuary where you say Ray was killed,” Summer said.
“Yeah, that’s right!” someone piped in. “That big hotel up there. What if Ray took a picture of some of those owls near that property line and threatened to have the protected area expanded? Don’t you think that could get him killed?”
Peter’s jaw tightened, and his voice tinged with anger. “I know all about that builder guy. He’s the type. Wouldn’t think twice about killing someone to put up another hotel or restaurant.”
“Possibly, but we don’t know that Ray found that, do we?” Jo said.
“He hadn’t said anything about it to me, but that builder guy feels threatened by the owls, I’m sure of it. And he hates us. Maybe he saw Ray out there and they had words. He’s no friend of the environment. We’ve got plenty of eggs slated for him,” Summer said proudly.
Sam looked at Dennis. “And you egged Mayor Dupont?”
Dennis became a little agitated. “Yeah! He wants to take all this pristine land away. He’s in cahoots with that builder.”
Sam couldn’t disagree.
“What’s the deal with the eggs anyway?” Jo asked.
“The eggs symbolize the owls. You know, the babies. Of course, we don’t use owl eggs. We use chicken eggs, but we use them against our enemies. Like that guy with the red Cadillac that’s always at the building site. We egged his car good,” Sally rejoiced, but then her smile faltered as she looked from Sam to Jo. “I hope that’s not against the law.”
“We’ll let that one slide.” Sam turned back toward the path. “Listen, if any of you remember anything or think of anything that could help us out, you let us know.”
“We will,” Dennis said.
“Will you keep us posted about what you find?” Summer asked.
“Yep.” Sam whistled for Lucy, and the three of them headed into the trees.
When they were out of earshot, Jo turned to Sam. “Do you think one of them is the killer?”
“Hard to tell. They were on the same side, but what if one of them had a personal beef … ?” Sam let his voice trail off.
“Right. We need to check into them and follow up on this mystery guy too,” Jo said. “But it’s strange these people like to egg things and the victim had egg on him. Makes it seem like one of them is the killer.”
“Or someone wants it to look that way,” Sam said.
Chapter Eight
The Balsam Cabins weren’t far from where the environmentalists were camped. Sam got the key to Ray’s cabin from the owner and drove through the property, which was dotted with small white cabins nestled among the pine trees. Each cabin had a screened-in front porch just big enough for two chairs, with windows trimmed by Kelly-green shutters with pine-tree cutouts. There was a good amount of space between each cabin, and the abundance of trees secluded them from each other. Ray’s was at the far end, and Sam and Jo parked in front. They let Lucy out of the back, and the three of them walked through the carpet of dry pine needles to the porch together.
The cabin was sparsely furnished with maple furniture that looked like it dated to the 1970s. Good old solid pieces that would stand the test of time and the wear and tear of multiple renters. The main room was an efficiency living room-kitchen combination. A hallway off the living room led to a bedroom and bathroom. The walls were knotty pine, the living room floor blue indoor-outdoor carpet. It smelled faintly musty, which didn’t surprise Sam given that the small windows in back and covered porch in front kept the light from streaming in, and the place hadn’t been updated in forty years.
“Looks like Ray was a messy housekeeper.” Jo pushed her sunglasses on top of her head and stood in the middle of the living room, her hands on her hips as she surveyed the cabin.
The cabin was in disarray. A pile of unfolded laundry sat on the couch. Dirty dishes crusted over in the sink. A duffel bag slumped in the middle of the living room floor, its contents spilling out.
“You think someone tossed the place?” Jo asked.
“It’s hard to tell.” Sam inspected the small space, cataloging everything with his memory. Something was missing, something that should have been here if what the other environmentalists had said was true.
Sam wasn’t quick on the uptake or knowledgeable about human behavior like Jo was, but if there was one thing he was good at, it was remembering the fine details of a crime scene. Not that this was a crime scene — or was it?
“We don’t know why Ray was killed. Maybe he had something someone wanted? Like that shady guy that the environmentalists said they saw Ray meeting with,” Jo said.
Sam turned and looked at the front door. He held up the tarnished brass key with the large orange motel tag. “The door was locked, but I guess they could have gotten the key from Ray. Or Ray could have just been a slob. Seems strange to kill him out there and then come looking for something here. Why not just kill him here?”
“Maybe the killer wanted to throw us off track and make it look as if it had something to do with the owls, or didn’t want us to know he was looking for something here.”
“That would make sense with the egg and all, but if he was killed because he saw something going on at the protected area, what would make them come back here?” Sam asked. “Seems to me that if he got caught up in something out there, they’d kill him right away. No reason to look through his cabin.”
“Right.” Jo pressed her lips together. “Unless …”
“Unless?”
“What if Ray did see something out there, but not last night? What if he saw it before? And what if someone — maybe the person he’s been meeting with — caught him? And what if Ray said he’d keep quiet for money?”
“You mean blackmail?” Sam opened the cabinets one by one, finding only a few chipped dishes and old jelly glasses.
“Yep.”
“So Ray stumbles on some illegal activity and either gets caught or approaches the person and offers to keep quiet for money.” Sam thought about that for a minute. “Maybe. People said he was ballsy and brash.”
“If the thug was the orange-tipped hair guy, then the meetings make sense. He was paying Ray off.”
“But why pay him off and then kill him? Why not save the money and kill him first?”
“Maybe they didn’t mind making the original payment, but then Ray got greedy. That happens a lot once blackmailers realize they can get paid off. And then the killer would have reason to come back to Ray’s cabin and make sure there
was no evidence.”
“We should look into his finances. Maybe Thorne is behind this after all.” Sam opened the ancient round-topped fridge. A gallon of milk, some lettuce and some beans. A jar of pickles sat in the door.
“Unless Jackson Pressler is doing something out there.”
“Nah. Jackson’s too old to be up to something out there. He can barely get past his own back porch.”
Lucy sniffed her way around the edge of the scuffed linoleum floor, stopping at a trash barrel. Sam looked inside. The trash was the neatest thing in the cabin. The bag was clean. At the bottom sat three soda cans marinating in a sauce of SpaghettiOs, with a few egg shells.
“It’s no secret Thorne would rather not have the activists up here. But it wouldn’t make sense to kill Ray for that reason. He’d have to get rid of all of them or he’d still have the original problem.” Jo picked the couch cushions up and looked under them. “So it has to be that Ray saw something.”
Sam moved from the cabinets to search the bathroom, yelling back down the hall to Jo. “I don’t imagine it has anything to do with the activists. Speaking of which, what did you think about the people at the camp?”
He knew Jo had been studying their body language and would have picked up on any cues or “tells” as she called them.
“They seem like passionate people.” Jo had moved to the bedroom across the hall and was looking through the bureau. “And you know, when passionate people get riled up, they can do things without thinking.”
“Like bash someone with a log?”
“Yeah, like that,” Jo said. “But that wouldn’t explain someone coming and looking through Ray’s cabin. I mean, if someone really did look through here. It’s hard to tell.”
Sam found a razor and toothbrush in the medicine cabinet in the tiny bathroom, a scrunched-up towel hanging on the bar next to the metal shower stall and not much else. He turned to see Jo leaning against the doorframe, a black calendar in her hand and a smile on her face.
“Check it out. Ray’s calendar,” she said.
“Anything good in it?”
“Not much. The usual appointments … except for this one little thing.” She opened the calendar and pointed at an entry for a week earlier. Scrawled in pen was a note: “$5k to Dennis.”
“Dennis?” Sam asked. “Maybe your blackmail theory is right and we just had the wrong people.”
“We need to get a warrant for Ray’s finances.”
“And have a heart-to-heart with Dennis.”
They moved into the main area. Sam poked through the duffel bag. “Have you seen a computer or a camera?”
“No, now that you mention it, I haven’t. There should be one.”
“If it’s not here and Ray was out photographing the owls like the other activists claim he was, why didn’t we find a camera at the crime scene?”
Chapter Nine
When they got back to the station, Lucy rushed right over to Reese and settled in beside her desk.
“I have some information.” Reese proudly held a stack of papers up in front of her.
“Great. Let’s go over it in the squad room.” Sam headed past the row of post office boxes, making a stop at the K-cup machine before proceeding to the area where the desks were set out.
Jo had already hopped up on the corner of hers, and Reese had wheeled a chair over from Tyler’s empty desk. Kevin was gone for the day, so Sam pulled his chair out from under his desk, turned it around and sat facing Reese and Jo.
“I found out that the vic hangs around mostly with someone named Dennis Carter. They go way back, since college.” Reese tapped the middle of the paper. “Looks like they got up to some shenanigans back then. That’s how he got arrested and ended up with his fingerprints on file.”
Sam smiled at the way Reese referred to Ray as “the vic.” He was pretty sure they didn’t use that terminology in the police academy classes, which meant she was picking up the informal lingo at the station. That was a good sign. She was into the job and she cared. Too bad he couldn’t hire her now to replace Tyler. But, because she hadn’t graduated, he couldn’t.
“What did they do?” Jo asked.
“Got caught pouring sugar into the gas tanks at the construction site for a mall. Seems the mall was bulldozing over wetlands, and they took offense to that,” Reese said.
“Can hardly blame them,” Sam said.
“Dennis Carter is the guy with the turtle tattoo who egged Dupont,” Jo explained to Reese.
“That’s another reason to suspect him as the killer.” Reese shuffled the papers. “That tattoo is a symbol for his company. Green Turtle.”
“He has a company?” Jo asked.
Reese nodded. “Yep. He wants to provide trash barrels in every public area across the country. Their mission statement is to make America trash-free. The tops of the barrels are molded in the shape of a turtle shell.”
“Huh, that’s interesting. Jesse said he freaked out when Brian threw something at the trash and missed. Guess he feels pretty strongly about trash,” Sam said.
“Did you run across anything on a Summer Solstice while you were looking?” Jo asked.
Reese frowned. “The summer solstice … wasn’t that back in June?”
“Yeah, except this one is a person.”
“I can look her up.” Reese scribbled on the papers. “Oh, and John faxed his report. I looked it over. There was nothing new except there was no trace DNA found on the murder weapon.”
“Good work.” Last month Sam had taught Reese to interpret the reports they received from the medical examiner. She’d been an eager learner and not at all squeamish about the gruesome photographs he sometimes sent along. Sam wasn’t sure if he should be worried about that part.
Jo jumped off the desk and took her phone from her back pocket. “I’m going to send you pictures of the cars we found where the environmentalists are camped out. Can you run the plates?”
“Sure thing,” Reese said. “Oh speaking of that, the truck up by the owl area did belong to Ray Ingalls. Did the other activists give you any clues?”
When Reese had first come to work for them, Sam didn’t share case specifics with her, but in the short time she’d been with them she’d proven that she could be trusted. She’d even used her off-the-record contacts to help them out a few times on Tyler’s case.
Reese listened attentively as they told her about their visit to the campsite and then to Ray’s cabin.
“That note doesn’t make any sense,” Reese said. “If Ray was blackmailing someone, why would he be paying money to Dennis?”
“Maybe Dennis was blackmailing Ray. Maybe things went bad — either Ray refused to pay up again or threatened to expose him so Dennis killed him,” Jo said.
“Blackmailing him about what?”
“Don’t know,” Sam said. “There’s lots of unanswered questions.”
“So you want me to write up the paperwork for a warrant for Ray’s finances and call this Dennis Carter in for an interview,” she said.
“You got it,” Sam said.
The front door to the lobby opened, and they swung around to see Harry Woolston, the former police chief, saunter in. Harry had retired decades ago but found retirement boring. Butting into Sam’s cases was much more exciting. Sam didn’t like it very much, but Harry had proven to be helpful in a few of them.
Lucy trotted to Harry, who produced a dog treat from his pocket and ran Lucy through a repertoire of tricks. “Hey gang, what’s going on? You guys talking about the murder?”
Sam grunted. It didn’t take long for news of a murder to travel through the White Rock grapevine. Harry probably knew more about it than he did. “That’s official police business. Unless you have something to tell us.”
Harry pulled a chair over and sat slowly, taking his time, savoring the moment. Sam figured he must have something pretty good.
“I heard the guy was killed up near that owl sanctuary,” Harry said.
“Yep.
Seems like maybe he might have seen something or gotten someone angry,” Reese said. She had a soft spot for Harry because he plied her with baked goods and regaled her with exaggerated tales of his exploits when he was chief.
“What do you reckon he saw up there? You think maybe Thorne had something to do with it? The protected area is right next to that big hotel he’s building,” Harry said.
“I’d love to pin this on him,” Jo said. “But why would he kill just one of them? He wants to get rid of all the environmentalists. Killing one of them won’t solve that.”
“Maybe it isn’t about the owls,” Harry said.
Sam frowned. “What do you mean?”
“Jackson Pressler owns that land. His daddy owned it before him. And right at the edge of the property is the Hogback River.” Harry turned to Sam. “You know the one? It’s loaded with brook trout.”
“That’s right.” Sam used to take his twin daughters fishing there when they were little. He’d almost forgotten about that river. How long had it been since he’d taken a day off to go fishing?
“You know that river comes right out of Canada,” Harry said.
“Yep.” Sam leaned back in his chair.
“My daddy told me that back in the day they used that river during prohibition to bring hooch down from Canada.”
“You don’t say?” Sam said.
Harry nodded, a knowing look on his face.
“You’re saying Thorne might be using the river to bring drugs in from Canada?”
Harry shrugged. “Stranger things have happened.”
The river was not more than twenty feet across and probably not more than twenty feet at the deepest. You couldn’t have a big boat in there, but all you needed was a small skiff to move drugs. Even better, because a small boat wouldn’t be that noticeable. And the river emptied out into the Merrimack River way down in Manchester.
“If your vic was out there taking photos of the owls and happened across the boat going downriver at night … well, he might have gotten something in his pictures that a certain someone wouldn’t want anyone to see,” Harry said.
