by Eileen Brady
“First of all, it’s not our case, not our jurisdiction. I can tell you Chief Garcia is releasing a statement to the press tomorrow that the preliminary findings show death by blunt force trauma to the skull. My hands are tied on this one.” Luke put on his damp coat and stood in front of the door. “It’s been almost ten years since he disappeared. I highly doubt anyone will ever solve this.”
“That dovetails with what the family was told.” Since he’d been nice enough to bring me dinner, I confessed that I’d been to Flynn’s memorial party earlier today. “His mother and grandmother asked me to find out what I could—informally.”
Our eyes met. “I don’t envy you.”
“Tell me about it.”
Luke hesitated for a moment. “Don’t get me wrong. I hate that it was Flynn. We went all through high school together. I still remember how good he was in the senior play, Romeo and Juliet. He was Romeo, of course.”
“Of course.” I gestured toward the newspaper on the coffee table. “They’ve got more pictures of him in today’s paper. What a really great-looking guy.”
“Yeah, more so in person, although I didn’t hang out with his crowd much. My thing was sports, until I tore my rotator cuff a few months before graduation.”
“That must have been rough on you.”
He shrugged and dug into his coat pocket for his gloves. “I think it hurt my dad as much as it hurt me. All those visions of me as a pitcher for the Yankees evaporated overnight. Anyway, getting back to Flynn. He always had a bunch of guys with him, what we’d call a posse today. Maybe you can start by talking to them.”
“Good idea.”
He moved to open the door, saying, “I’m sorry for his family, but now they have some kind of closure.” Luke bent down to say goodnight to Buddy who responded by rolling over on his back. Just as quickly as he had arrived, Luke was gone.
***
After Luke left I cleaned up the kitchen before sinking back down on the sofa. Time to veg out for a while. Near the television remote, Flynn Keegan, Oak Fall’s “Golden Boy” stared at me from the local paper, the dream of a bright future stretching endlessly in front of him on that day so long ago.
Closure. Sometimes there is no closure. If I were his mother I would have preferred the fantasy of her son living it up in Los Angeles to the cruel reality.
If I were the killer, I think I’d be on my guard.
Chapter Eight
Monday morning found me on a very different kind of house call, featuring a lot of bull.
Literally.
My patient today was a tranquilized sixteen-hundred-pound breeding Scottish Highland bull and, from underneath the view wasn’t that great, if you get what I mean. Smelling that musky, funky unneutered male bovine odor had lost its appeal after the first thirty seconds. A sneaky little breeze rustled some dead leaves and blew dust into my eye as I lay on my side in the dirt visualizing the damage. I was cleaning a puncture wound just above his hairy left rear fetlock since their usual large-animal vet wasn’t available.
“Need anything else, Kate?” Mari’s face materialized next to me, a wad of gauze in her hand.
“I’m good, I think. Just a little more trimming and I’m done.” His owner had noticed her prized male limping, but the cause had been hidden in the double coat of long wavy hair cascading down his legs. Haggis, my Highland bull patient, was a particularly handsome example of this ancient breed, with long curved horns and shaggy blond bangs to die for.
Those long horns, which grow on both the males and females, were most likely responsible for this injury, probably some long-forgotten bovine dispute.
Satisfied with my work, I folded up the sterile surgical kit and slid out into the weak sunlight. Our patient had been confined in a metal stay-pen for his and my protection, and I could tell the mild tranquilizer I’d given him had begun wearing off. This king of the pasture wanted out. Now.
“Can we release him?” asked owner, Alessa Foxley. She and her property manager, Gene Russell, were standing ready to take over. Her fifty-acre place called Phoenix Nest was what used to be called a “gentleman’s farm.” The animals decorated the scenery, lived long lives, and all had names. Haggis was a perfect and lucky example.
Gene opened the metal pen gate staying well back from the bull’s three-foot-long horns. By his side their border collie waited for a command. With a quick hand signal, the dog moved into the corral and gently encouraged the bull toward the opposite gate. Hesitant at first until he saw his lady cows waiting in an adjacent pasture, Haggis slowly lumbered toward them. Once safely in the next enclosure, Alessa opened the final gate and let the reunion party commence. Maneuver completed, the two humans did a high-five. Although in his late sixties, the wiry Gene acted as spry as someone several decades younger.
“That’s pretty slick.” Mari began gathering up our gear. “Good teamwork.”
“Thanks for coming out, guys.” Gene called out his good-byes and began walking toward the barn, the border collie following close behind. I began the semi-futile attempt of brushing mud and dirt off my coveralls.
Alessa strode over to us, picture-perfect in her Ralph Lauren country wear, accompanied by four well-behaved German shepherds. An ex-model-turned-New York City-corporate-lawyer, she had jumped into her weekend country life here in the Hudson Valley with both designer leather boots. Perfect classic features made-up to their best advantage, with salon-streaked blond hair pulled back in a high ponytail, she radiated rich, cool, and confident woman.
“So, what do we do for Haggis now, Doc?” A deep bellow and snuffling noise made us turn around. We all stood and watched the small fold move away from the gate. The bull wasn’t wasting any time. Post-op for only a few minutes, he was already bossing around his little harem.
Unlike some of my clients from the city, I knew Alessa didn’t mind getting her hands dirty, so her printed instructions were pretty detailed.
“I’ll leave you with an ointment to use only if you see any redness or oozing. If you can lavage the wound twice a day, using a steady stream of saline, that would be fantastic. There was no evidence of tendon damage that I could see, so I would expect the lameness to resolve in a few days. Our X-ray shows no hoof wall involvement either.” The patient, now oblivious to us, started searching for the last few sprigs of green in the pasture, none the worse for wear. Both wide pastures surrounded by dry-stacked bluestone walls and dotted with stately trees were tranquil in the weak afternoon sun.
We walked over to the truck where Mari waited, busily entering everything into the computer. “Thanks for your help, by the way,” I told Haggis’ owner.
Alessa laughed. “I grew up on a dairy farm near Watertown. All of us kids helped out. I’m a lot tougher than I look.”
“That’s a big leap, from dairy farm to living in New York City. How did that happen, if you don’t mind me asking?”
“My parents encouraged all five of us to go to school. I started at the community college, modeled for a while in the city, then transferred to NYU. Later, I went to law school.” She pulled off her work gloves. I noticed her nails were cut short. “My oldest brother still runs the family farm. Weekdays, I work in the city and come up here on the weekends. Gene and his wife, June, live here full-time and help me run the place.”
“Maybe it reminds you a little bit of home?”
“Oh, you have no idea.” The tone of her voice made me look up. It didn’t sound happy at all.
Haggis interrupted the moment with another loud bellow.
“He sounds back to his old self.” Alessa grinned at me. The shepherds sniffed and explored around the corral, never venturing too far from their mistress.
“A model patient.” I began to put my equipment away. “I’ll e-mail my records to your large-animal vet so everyone will be up-to-speed on your guy.”
“And I’m almost finishe
d with the paperwork. Sorry, but the connection was slow,” Mari explained, her eyes on the computer screen.
I leaned against the hood of the F-150, peeled off my coveralls, and put them in the back of the truck.
“I’m curious,” I asked Alessa. “I’ve seen the Highlands, the dogs, and a few horses. Are those the only animals you have here?”
Her eyes narrowed for a moment. “Not by a long shot. The rest are in the back behind the barn. We’ve got sheep, some milk goats, and, of course, the hens for eggs. A few beehives, two peacocks, a bunch of ducks out by the stream, and Gene stocked the lake with various fish…”
“No dairy cows?”
“No, the Highlands are my bovine fix. They’re pets, really, and actually very friendly. I’ve even got a waiting list for my calves.”
“I’m done.” Mari ran Alessa’s credit card and handed our client a printed receipt.
“That’s fantastic you can do everything from the laptop.”
I checked the detailed instructions before handing them to her. “Modern technology. Plus, you don’t have to try and decipher my handwriting.” We both laughed. Sadly, my handwriting over the years had become illegible to everyone, including me.
Alessa tucked her paperwork into her designer jeans pocket and asked, “Hey, weren’t you guys in the news a while ago? Do you mind me asking about the grave you found?” The question came out of nowhere, but everyone around Oak Falls liked to gossip. A recent resident to town, I didn’t think she’d be interested in a local murder. My assistant also seemed a bit surprised.
Something jogged my memory as I attempted to recall my conversation with Daffy. She’d mentioned something about Phoenix’s Nest and Alessa, the former model who’d hired Flynn to do odd jobs.
Since I didn’t reply right away, Mari answered her question. “That was a difficult day. Our house-call client’s dog was the one who actually started it. He brought a bone home to his owner and when Dr. Kate saw it, she recognized it as human. After that, the police took over.”
“Are the police still hanging around over there?” Alessa’s steady gaze revealed nothing but a casual interest.
I thought that was another odd question, but this time I responded. “I’m not sure.”
“They are sure about the remains?” Her voice was emphatic.
“Definitely. I know you can’t believe everything you read in the newspaper but this time you can. The victim was Flynn Keegan, a local boy. I think you knew him?”
“I did know him.” There was a strained quality in her voice. “Flynn helped us out a few times on the farm. He seemed like a good kid.”
“A very puzzling case.”
“Yes.” She kicked a stone with her boot. “Did they find a wallet with money in it, or any papers buried with him?”
“None that I’m aware of. But can I ask you why—?”
Before I could finish, she interrupted. “Great talking to you. Thanks for everything, Doc. You, too, Mari.” Halfway to the house Alessa turned back toward us and waved, her well-trained German shepherds fanning out behind her in a protective wake.
That was strange.
Why did Alessa ask about Flynn’s wallet?
Our client disappeared into her home. Off in the distance I could see the Scottish Highland fold grazing. As I took one last look at the house, I noticed a woman’s face appear in a window on the second floor for a moment, watching us leave. When I caught her eye, she disappeared.
The farm appeared peaceful and quiet with no one in sight. I’d have to find another time to question my client about her relationship with Flynn.
We loaded up all our equipment and backed up. Our trip down the driveway stopped abruptly. The big iron gates at the end of the property loomed ahead, tightly closed.
“I’ll text them to let us out,” Mari said.
While she looked up our client’s number, my eyes idly followed the high block wall where the gates attached. When we arrived for the appointment, Gene had been waiting for us in his pickup. I didn’t notice the thick roll of barbed wire running on top of the wall as far as I could see. Wires, skillfully camouflaged by paint, and run in a conduit line, probably electrified everything.
“Nice place,” Mari commented as the heavy gates started to swing open. She programmed our next stop into the GPS while I waited to go through. Across from us a white panel van pulled onto the side of the road, probably overshooting its destination. As we watched, the driver suddenly turned his wheels hard and made a U-turn, leaving deep tracks in the soft dirt of the shoulder.
With the coast clear, I eased out onto the main road.
“Nice place,” I repeated without thinking. My mind was too busy noting that this nice little place called Phoenix’s Nest, was protected by guard dogs, barbed wire, and electrified fencing.
Were they trying to keep people out or keep someone in?
Chapter Nine
Some autumns in upstate New York are glorious, the trees covered for weeks in leaves of scarlet, gold, and rust. This wasn’t one of them. Day after day we suffered through rain, sleet, icy winds, and gray skies. I almost looked forward to the snow. Multiple layers were the norm since the weather could turn drastically miserable in an hour or less.
On Wednesday the hospital waiting room was warm but empty. With no clients to see I’d been staring out at the parking lot, watching tree limbs swaying and bending with the wind.
Cindy glanced up from her computer. “So, did Mari say anything to you about Flynn? She’s been bugging me to talk to you about him.”
“You mean using my magic powers to solve a ten-year-old cold case? I told her not to get her hopes up, especially now that winter is almost here.”
“Have you spoken to anyone yet?
Her question made me think for a moment. I leaned against the reception counter.
“I talked for a while with the immediate family after the memorial service. Then a few days ago his mother called and she helped set up a meeting tonight at the high school with his old drama teacher.”
“What made you choose her?”
“You’ve got to start somewhere.” My elbow slid and almost knocked into the business card holder.
The ringing of the phone interrupted us, but before Cindy could answer it, they’d hung up.
“Must have been a wrong number. That’s been happening a lot.” My receptionist tapped her pen on a note pad.
Mr. Katt strolled past and jumped onto the reception counter.
Cindy petted him then continued our conversation. “I’m sure whatever you can do to help will be appreciated. Flynn was…” she paused for a moment, searching for the words. “He was like a shooting star. Everyone in town knew he was going to go on to better things and we were proud of him. But I have a feeling some of his friends thought they could ride along on his coattails—feed off his leftovers. After you speak to the drama teacher, maybe you should talk to the three guys he always hung out with.”
“In my spare time.” I pointed to the empty waiting room. “Just kidding.”
Cindy started to answer but the phone rang again. She checked the caller ID then added, “I guess that’s all you’ve got plenty of with a cold-case murder investigation. Time. Plenty of time.”
***
Five o’clock and Oak Falls High School appeared deserted. A furious blast of wind turned my new umbrella inside out. While trying to fix it, I stepped in a deep puddle. Cold water cascaded over the tops of my boots and down my socks. My toes now were soaking wet and squishy. Tonight’s interview wasn’t off to a good start. Wishing I lived in the desert, I flung open the school’s front door, already regretting our meeting. The appointment was with Flynn’s former English teacher, who also headed up the drama department. According to Lizette Keegan, her son had had a close relationship with Mrs. Vandersmitt, especially after starring in the sen
ior play.
My footsteps made clicking sounds that ricocheted down the high school corridor. Raindrops slid off my slicker, leaving a slippery trail. Those same fluorescent lights found in every school cast flat, yellowish light in the center of the hallway but left deep shadows in the corners. Rows and rows of metal lockers stood guard, probably the same ones Flynn used. Very similar to the ones I’d used. If I closed my eyes, I could visualize this school and these hallways populated with the busy shadows of long-ago classmates.
Lizette’s instructions were to meet Mrs. Vandersmitt in the auditorium, where she and her students would be rehearsing for the school’s annual holiday show.
A large double door suddenly swung open right in front of me and two vivacious teenaged girls burst out, singing a portion of “The Little Drummer Boy” in harmony. They whooshed right past and disappeared into the ladies’ room.
I pushed open the auditorium doors to find a scene of controlled chaos.
On the left side, in front of curved rows of seats, stood a tightly organized choral group singing a cappella under the energetic leadership of a small balding man in a wrinkled gray suit. On stage, paying no attention to the music, was a boy wearing an oversized sombrero hat dramatically reading a Robert Frost poem. More students hung out in clumps or sat scattered in the audience. The majority looked like they were either playing games on their phones or texting, or both, oblivious to everything happening around them.
A blond woman of Amazonian proportions wore multiple layers of clothing wrapped around her like an onion. She strode across the stage, raised a hand to shield her eyes from the stage lights and called to someone in the audience. One of the clumps moved. Eventually, a girl with pink-tipped hair rose and casually made her way to the stage. The boy handed her the sombrero, which was gigantically too big for her small frame. With an audible exclamation of displeasure, she slid the hat to the back of her head where it hung almost to her waist, supported by the strap around her neck.
The two girls who had gone to the restroom now squeezed past me, still singing, and bounded down toward the stage.
