Chained

by Eileen Brady

  Mari continued without any feedback from me. “Jeremy is an anthropologist, isn’t he? Maybe he can help you solve Flynn’s murder.”

  I downshifted as we started descending into the valley. “I’m not going to investigate Flynn’s death. I’ve got enough on my plate.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Sure.”

  We rode for a while in silence until Mari changed the subject.

  “Did I tell you about the bear?”

  “You mentioned something.”

  “Oh. Well, I found out more details. Crazy Carl has it.”

  “Who is Crazy Carl?”

  A large puddle loomed on the edge of the shoulder.

  “Crazy Carl is one of our homegrown oddballs. Always talking about conspiracies and aliens and some new get-rich-quick scheme. He’s got a big place over by Sheckter’s Ridge that he inherited from his parents.”

  A double spray of water shot out from under the tires and sprayed both sides of the road.

  “So,” Mari continued, “word is he trapped a bear in his horse paddock and is trying to teach it to dance.”

  “What? That’s terrible.” I hated hearing stories like that. “Did someone call New York State Fish and Wildlife and report him?”

  “Yes. One of his neighbors turned him in. My friend told me the authorities are supposed to go over and check it out but they’re shorthanded at the moment. This isn’t the first time Carl’s done something dumb like this. A couple of years ago he was fined for keeping a family of bobcats.”

  “Let’s hope he learns his lesson.”

  Her answer came after more potato chip-crunching.

  “I wouldn’t bet on it.”

  ***

  More puddles of water glistened on the lower parts of the road. A traffic light glowed red in the distance. Easing up on the gas, I carefully slowed down the truck.

  “Listen, Mari. Sorry I’m so touchy. Between Luke and now Jeremy…” I left the sentence unfinished. “It’s been a while since Jeremy and I have seen each other. I don’t want to factor a murder investigation into his visit.”

  “Yeah, Cindy filled me in.”

  “I’ve got no idea what conditions were like on his dig in North Africa. This will be the first time he’s been back to the States in quite a while.” We idled waiting for the signal light to change. “His dig has been suspended, so there will be plenty of things on his mind.”

  My assistant turned back to the laptop screen trying unsuccessfully to stifle a snicker. “Oh, I don’t know. Bet he’ll have one particular thing on his mind.”

  I didn’t dignify her implication with an answer.

  ***

  By Thursday, any charm associated with the changing of the seasons had vanished. Day after day brought more sleet, icy winds, and gray skies to the Hudson Valley. Weather reports proved unreliable. Slip-on rubber boots became my norm, since things often turned drastically different from hour to hour. To make matters worse, a flu-like virus struck several staff members. Cindy and I ended up being the only two left holding down the fort.

  The sound of my steps echoed as I walked through the empty lab into the reception area. Cindy sat manning the phones. One hand held a fragrant cup of mint tea while the other grasped a wad of Kleenex. A discrete pile of used tissues filled her wastepaper basket.

  “How are you feeling? Are you sure you’re well enough to come to work?” I’d talked to her yesterday and she had sounded awful. Her hoarse voice today actually was an improvement.

  “I feel better than I look.” Since her face had a greenish tint, I was relieved to hear it.

  “Do we have any appointments this afternoon?” The weather forecast called for sleet and possibly hail later in the day.

  She glanced at the computer screen, and checked some notes. “Only one recheck. The sick people aren’t up to seeing anyone and the people who feel okay don’t want to risk being exposed to any sick people.”

  “That sounds about right.” I sat down in the empty waiting room on one of the plastic reception chairs. It smelled like disinfectant.

  She blew her nose, took another sip of tea, and looked miserable.

  An SUV pulled into the parking lot as close to the hospital entrance as possible. The figure that emerged appeared ready to climb Everest, completely encased in colorful ski clothes and a face mask. However, I immediately recognized her canine companion who looked perfectly at home in the winter chill.

  When the door opened, a big Malamute pushed his muzzle into my hand and thumped his tail against the chairs lining the reception area.

  “Hi, Samantha,” I said. “I’m glad to see Jack is feeling so good. Let’s go into the exam room.”

  They both followed, Jack shaking little pellets of water off his coat and Samantha divesting herself of layers of clothing that now must be unbearably hot.

  Once in the exam room I knelt down on the floor and let the dog love wash over me. Jack wagged and wiggled, showing no anxiety in visiting an animal hospital. Working my way front to back I checked his lymph nodes and listened to his heart, and then took a good look at the healing laceration on his back.

  “This looks fantastic.” I noted the hair regrowth and smoothness of the scar tissue.

  “Yes, he’s back to his normal self and tricks. I can’t believe it, but he took off up the mountain again the other day.”

  Remembering her beautiful home and the woods at the edge of her property, I could imagine it was quite a temptation for Jack to run free. All those delicious odors and wildlife just waiting to be found must be hard for a dog of his breed to resist.

  “Did he go back to the gravesite?” I hoped he hadn’t disturbed the crime scene by digging a hole.

  I could hear the frustration in her voice when she answered. “You bet he did. I followed him this time. He even tangled with a piece of the old yellow caution tape.”

  “Hey. What’s going on in that dog brain of yours?” I playfully tapped him on the noggin and stared into his bright brown eyes.

  “Beats me.” His owner called his name. Jack bounded over to her and promptly sat on her boots.

  “Well, the wound has healed completely, no signs of infection. We don’t need to see him again until next year for his vaccinations and heartworm preventative.”

  “Great.”

  “Anything else I can help you with?” I sat down at the desk adjacent to the exam table and began to make a few notes in the office computer.

  “Actually, I do have some questions, but not about my dog.”

  I swung my desk chair around.

  “Do you happen to know if there has been any progress finding out what happened to Flynn Keegan?”

  Her voice sounded concerned. “I haven’t heard anything. The investigation isn’t in the hands of the local police. Why do you ask?”

  She hesitated for a moment. “Last time I chased after Jack, he led me right back to the…where they found his body. People have been coming up there and leaving things—flowers, pictures, a wooden cross. That’s when I noticed it.”

  “Noticed what?”

  “I hope you don’t think this is strange, but I’m a gardener.”

  My face probably betrayed my puzzlement.

  “I saw a climbing rose on one of the trees close to the burial site. A Rosa rugosa.”

  A vine in the woods…maybe I didn’t understand the point.

  “Someone planted it up there. It’s not a native plant. When it’s in bloom it’s a beautiful variety filled with blossoms. There was one late flower left on the branches.”

  “So someone planted it there?” I repeated.

  “Yes. I’m sure of it. And the color of the petals was white.”

  I still wasn’t sure what she was driving at.

  This time her voice became impatient as though I was a
child who didn’t understand a lesson.

  “My guess is the name of that particular climbing rose is Iceberg,” she explained. “A white rose is for remembrance.”

  ***

  After Samantha left I thought about her discovery. I highly doubted that the investigators on Flynn’s murder noticed a climbing rose, especially one that wasn’t blooming. If Samantha’s hunch was correct, whoever killed Flynn might have been remorseful and planted the vine nearby, like you’d place flowers on a grave.

  If true, that detail pointed to a local—maybe a local who loved him.

  “Cindy, let me know if anyone needs me. I’ll be in my office.” I disinfected both hands from the bottle on the counter and hurried back to the office computer to finish some paperwork. Behind me, my poor receptionist answered with several sneezes.

  The local newspaper lay on top of the desk so I opened it up. Mr. Katt took advantage of that opportunity by catapulting from the top of the bookshelf and onto the page I was trying to read. Our hospital cat specialized in appearing out of nowhere like some feline ninja. Trapped at the desk I slid the front page out from under his substantial kitty rear end. There must not have been much news around because the editor rehashed yet another article about the happy family Flynn came from and how mysterious his disappearance was. It went on to comment how ironic it was that his high school graduating class reunion would take place soon at the popular Lakeside Hotel. Underneath the story a small notice gave details on funeral plans and the memorial luncheon planned for this Saturday.

  The obituary revealed something unexpected and a little spooky. His birthday was the same as mine, same day, same year. We’d both been newborn babies in delivery rooms worlds apart.

  What did they call it—your Fate? Or Karma?

  Fate had brought me to Oak Falls through a veterinary help wanted ad.

  That same Fate had kept Flynn Keegan in Oak Falls through the actions of a killer.

  Chapter Seven

  On the day of Flynn’s funeral, Cindy closed the animal hospital so the staff could attend. First a religious service would be held at St. Steven’s Catholic Church in town, and directly afterwards a celebration of his life had been scheduled for friends and family. That meant I was off an entire Saturday morning and, knowing Jeremy would soon be visiting, I took the opportunity to deep-clean my apartment. The sofa cushions yielded a treasure trove of coins, dog treats, lint balls, and stray chips. Annoyed at the noisy vacuum cleaner, Buddy retreated to his dog bed and watched me with a baleful eye.

  When I opened all the blinds, bright sunlight revealed a horror show of fingerprints, dog paws, and unidentified stains on the windows. Armed with dishwashing liquid, glass cleaner, and a grapefruit scented all-purpose cleaner, I systematically attacked everything that didn’t move.

  Pretty soon my apartment vibrated with the contrasting rhythms of dishwasher and vacuum cleaner set to the staccato drumming support of the washer and dryer. The loose change banging around with the clothes rang out like clashing cymbals.

  The good news about living in a small space is that it doesn’t take much time to clean. By noon, I was finished, only waiting for the last load of sheets to dry.

  All the elderly appliances were now sparkling clean, however the refrigerator remained suspiciously empty. I decided to reward myself for a herculean cleaning effort by eating a big bowl of wonton soup and some shrimp dumplings, courtesy of our local Chinese restaurant, the Lucky Garden. Once full, I would then tackle the grocery store. Usually I order takeout but today I felt like treating myself by sitting down and relaxing at one of Lucky Garden’s streamside tables in the glassed-in porch.

  To my surprise the restaurant parking lot was jammed with cars and trucks and even a few emergency vehicles. Lucky Garden had built an attached private meeting room for group gatherings, bridal showers, and the annual Oak Falls Ladies Bridge Tournament. Maybe one of those groups was holding a meeting? I considered going somewhere else but hunger won out.

  The inside of the restaurant proved to be fairly quiet with only a few couples and families munching on eggrolls and sipping soup. A heady fragrance of sesame and ginger stimulated my appetite. I weaved my way toward the glassed-in porch, where one other couple huddled together, taking advantage of the relative quiet and seclusion. No crowd in here.

  Having memorized the menu by now, I waited for a server, glad that the biggest task of the weekend, cleaning the apartment, had been completed. When I heard footsteps approaching, I swiveled in my seat, ready with my order.

  “Kate, I knew that was you.” Mari stood in front of me wearing a black-and-white printed dress.

  Astonished, I blurted out, “I thought you went to the funeral.”

  “I did. Now I’m at the memorial service luncheon.” She sat down opposite me.

  “Here?” The choice of a Chinese restaurant seemed a bit strange.

  “Of course. Flynn delivered takeout for Lucky Garden since forever. He worked as a server all through high school.” She seemed astonished I didn’t know any of this. “Why don’t you come and join us?”

  I shook my head. “No, that doesn’t feel right. I don’t know the family and I didn’t know him.”

  “Flynn’s grandmother asked me to invite you. Besides, you’re not going to get any food for a while if you stay out here.”

  She had a point. I hadn’t seen a waiter this entire time.

  “Besides, it’s more of a party for Flynn, a time to remember him. You’ll see.”

  “Alright. But I’m not going to stay long.”

  We made our way toward the restrooms then through a door marked “Private.” I could hear the din coming from behind the door, the Beach Boys playing at top volume, with a chorus of people singing along.

  Mari was right. The scene definitely felt more like a party than a memorial gathering. A large color photograph of Flynn rested on an easel in the front of the room and smiled out at the crowd. Several rows of tables had been pushed aside to clear a dance space.

  To my surprise our receptionist, Cindy, waved to me as she danced the twist with her brother-in-law, Chief of Police Bobby Garcia. Her very pregnant sister watched and clapped to the music.

  Several groups of people clustered at the remaining tables. My eye was drawn to the woman dressed in black sitting in a wheelchair, a wistful expression on her face, who waved at Mari. The clear blue eyes and chiseled nose marked her as Flynn’s mother, Lizette Keegan, who looked very much like her son. A teenage girl stood directly behind the chair, texting nonstop. Although dressed in shades of black, the many studs, safety pins, and skulls on her jacket and jeans made me think black might be her everyday color of choice. The nasal piercing and silver dumbbell over her eyebrow tended to confirm my guess.

  Idly, I wondered why they were playing oldies from the sixties at a young man’s service.

  “Come on,” Mari directed me to the buffet table, skillfully navigating past an enthusiastic dancing couple. It looked like the Lucky Garden supplied most of its menu for the event. I soon spied my favorites and loaded up a plate. By this time I was starving. We grabbed two empty seats next to an elderly lady chatting amicably with a frail-looking man wearing motorcycle boots, a heavy black sweater, and a checkered do-rag around his forehead. Flynn’s mom was nowhere in sight. After a quick nod hello, I dug into the food. Mari, by now stuffed with Chinese food, opted for sliced pineapple, a fortune cookie, and a mixed drink with an umbrella in it from the bar.

  Someone must be using an old playlist, I thought, because now the crowd was listening to the Grateful Dead.

  The three big guys all in leather sitting at the far end of the table got up in unison. One of them glanced at the frail man next to me, before placing a finger onto an old healed wound on the bridge of his nose. His black eyes glittered with menace. That caught my attention.

  Before I could note anything else, th
e men silently walked away. Strange behavior, I thought at a memorial service.

  “They don’t write them like that anymore,” the do-rag dude, unconcerned at the veiled threat, loudly pronounced to the entire table.

  I turned my attention back to him. From the little I could see of his face, which was covered with a gray-streaked beard, he looked to be in his late fifties, early sixties. Peeking out from under a heavy sweater were blue prison-style tattoos on the bony knuckles of his right hand that said BORN. The thin left hand, tapping along with the music, revealed another set of tats that spelled out BADD. How long ago were they inked? I also found it curious he stayed bundled up in the overheated room.

  When the music stopped, the older woman at the table took the opportunity to introduce herself to us. “Hello. I’m Sophia Keegan, Flynn’s grandmother. My son, Antonio, God rest his soul, was Flynn’s father.”

  Mari quickly spoke up. “Hi, Mrs. Keegan. I’m not sure if you remember me. I’m Mari Attwater, Teri’s daughter? I used to babysit Fiona.”

  “So good of you to come, dear. I spoke to your mother a few days ago.” After a moment Sophia looked past Mari to me.

  “Uh, Kate Turner. I’m here with Mari. I never met Flynn, but I am so sorry for your loss.” Even as I spoke the socially accepted phrase, it felt inadequate. “He must have been a wonderful person to have so many friends here.”

  His grandmother smiled. “Flynn was a golden boy. Only on loan to us for a little while from God and his heavenly kingdom.”

  “Amen, sweetheart.” Leaning in and giving Sophia a quick kiss on the cheek, the older man in motorcycle boots nodded good-bye to us and carefully made his way into the crowd. I noticed how his clothes hung off him like he’d had a recent weight loss or illness.

  More guests stood up to dance, clapping to the music.

  My eyes drifted over to the huge likeness of Flynn, blond, handsome, his grin infectious. “Golden Boy” suited him, right down to the thin gold chain around his neck.

  Mari downed the rest of her umbrella drink and took off for the dance floor. I took the opportunity to grab seconds from the buffet table.