Fifty cars and two big tour buses already filled the Raging Rapids parking lot when they arrived. As they walked toward the entrance in the long, low frame building they could hear the sound of Stony Brook rushing along.
“I don’t think I’ve been here since the fourth grade,” Earl said.
“I brought my grandkids here last summer, just to see what it was,” Frank answered. “I bet a lot of people who live in Trout Run have never been here at all.”
“Yeah, why pay five dollars just to see a waterfall when you can hike up Giant and see a really cool one for free?”
“You have to be in good shape to hike Giant,” Frank reminded him. “This is for old geezers and little kids. And…” Frank nodded toward a couple passing them on their way out, young, but seriously overweight.
As they approached the entrance, they could see a hint of what lay beyond the gate—Stony Brook rushing fiercely over huge, jagged boulders, then twisting and descending out of sight. A system of metal catwalks and open-riser stairways allowed visitors to follow the path of the brook without any rugged hiking. Eventually they would reach the dramatic falls, which dropped about seventy-five feet over a sheer rock wall into a deep pool surrounded by dense forest.
Frank and Earl entered the building just as a mob of elderly tourists was leaving through the separate exit.
“Bye, now,” April Fenstock, Abe’s daughter-in-law, called from behind the ticket desk. “Be sure to tell your friends about us!”
“Oh we will,” a blue-haired lady in tennis shoes said. “We really enjoyed it.”
“Hi Frank, Earl! Come to do a little sight-seeing?” April spoke with her customary good cheer, but Frank noticed a wariness about her eyes. She seemed to know that this visit could only be bad news.
“Earl wanted to get a stuffed moose in the gift shop.” Frank kept his tone light too. “Is Abe around?”
“He’s in his office—go down that way and turn left before the snack bar.”
The smell of fresh coffee guided them, tempting Frank, but he turned as April had directed and knocked on a door marked, “Office—Private.”
“One more door down for the bathrooms,” a voice bellowed from within.
Frank turned the knob and opened the door part way. “Sorry to disturb you, Abe. It’s Frank Bennett.”
Abe looked up from some papers he had been reading. Immediately, frown lines furrowed his brow. “Hi. Come in.” He rose and shut the door behind them. “What’s wrong?”
“Oh, nothing serious. I just wanted to warn you about a little”—Frank paused to select the right word—“disturbance headed your way.”
“Disturbance? Whaddya mean, disturbance?” Abe remained standing. He was a good deal shorter than Frank, but with a neck that was twice as thick, and powerful, hairy arms.
“Katie Petrucci is planning on staging a demonstration against what she calls unsafe conditions and environmental problems here at Raging Rapids,” Frank told him.
“Unsafe? We’ve never had a serious injury here.” Abe threw back his shoulders and his dark brows met in a line above questioning eyes. “And what kind of environmental problems?”
Frank held his hand up. “I didn’t say there was any merit to her claims. I’m just telling you she’s planning on staging a demonstration out on the shoulder of the road. She asked for a permit and I didn’t have any grounds for turning her down.”
“Didn’t have any grounds? How about that she’s destroying my business at the height of the tourist season?” Abe paced furiously around the small, cluttered office. “Who did you say is behind this?”
“Katie Conover,” Earl said.
“Bill’s daughter?” Not waiting for confirmation, he snatched up the phone and began dialing. He paused in mid-number. “Wait a minute. Katie…” He turned to Earl for guidance. “Is that the nutty one?”
Earl nodded.
“Oh, Christ!” He slammed the phone back down. “That girl’s always been a headache. Why’s she got this bug up her ass about my place?”
Briefly, Frank explained the connection to Green Tomorrow and Nathan Golding.
“You mean to tell me,” Abe’s voice rose in a steady crescendo, “some lunatic who’s not even from around here is agitating for my business to be closed?” The question ended in a shout just as the office door was flung open.
“Dad, what’s going on? Who wants to close the business?” Roy Fenstock looked remarkably like his father, except that the older man projected an air of kind-hearted grumpiness, while the younger just came across as mean. He glared at Frank. “What’s this all about?”
Frank began the explanation all over again, playing down the significance of the demonstration as much as possible. “It won’t amount to anything, Roy. Just a few girls with signs. I’ll keep them on the shoulder—won’t let them block the drive. It just seemed better to let them go ahead until they run out of steam.”
“Better for you, maybe,” Roy answered. “You’re just trying to take the easy way out. When Herv was police chief, we never had crap like this going on.”
Now Frank had his back up too, and he struggled to keep his voice from climbing to Roy’s level. “If we try to prevent it it’ll make them more determined. Just ignore them. If you make them feel like they’re totally unimportant, they’ll give up.”
“Ignore them!” Roy pounded the wall with a ham-hock fist. “Like hell I’ll let these lesbian, hippie freaks push me around!”
“That’s enough!” Abe yelled. “Frank, you and Earl will be here during this whole thing on Wednesday, won’t you?” he asked as he herded them toward the door.
“Absolutely, Abe. We won’t let them disrupt your business.”
“Fine.” As the door shut behind them, father and son resumed their shouting.
“That didn’t go too good,” Earl commented on the way back to the car.
Frank only scowled. So much for teaching Earl how to deal with irate citizens.
“What is the most dangerous part of a domestic disturbance call?” Frank asked.
“When approaching the scene,” Earl answered.
“Very good!” Frank and Earl sat in the dining room of the Trail’s End waiting for a waitress to take notice of them. Earl had wanted to combine lunch with another police academy study session, but he objected to being quizzed in front of all the prying eyes at Malone’s, so the Trail’s End had been their compromise, although neither was fond of the food.
“Have you ever tried quinoa and pinto bean stew?” Earl asked.
“Don’t even look at that side of the menu. Get a hamburger.”
“They don’t have French fries here. You have to take it with salad.”
“A little lettuce would do you good.” Frank craned his neck. “Where is everybody?” Then he grinned as he saw a flustered waitress scurrying toward them, tying on her apron as she went. ‘Well look at this! Melanie Powers, when did you start working here?”
“Hi, Chief Bennett. Hi, Earl,” Melanie skidded breathlessly to a stop in front of their table, her ample bosom heaving. “Sorry I kept you waiting. This is my first time working alone.”
A pair of skin-tight black pants and a stretchy top with a deeply plunging u-neck displayed all Melanie’s assets. She teetered on heels that would cripple her if she stayed in this line of work. The waitress apron was a coquettish accessory. She leaned over the table to put down their napkins. “Are you ready to order?”
Earl’s eyes widened. Try as he might, Frank was not able to keep his eyes focused attentively on Melanie’s face, and to give his willpower a rest, he buried his nose in the menu. “I’ll have the grilled trout.”
Melanie smiled at Earl, and stood beside him to read the title of his book. “What’s that for?”
Her question inspired a palsied flinch of his hand that sent the saltshaker skidding across the table. “I, uh, I’m studying for the police academy entrance exam.”
“Cool!”
“But I, I don’t want ev
erybody to know about it,” Earl stammered.
“Don’t worry. I can keep a secret.”
Frank smiled. Melanie was an irrepressible chatterbox. Of course, she had managed to keep an important secret that had slowed him down during his investigation of Janelle Harvey’s disappearance a few months ago. But he had a feeling Earl’s plans would be public knowledge before long.
Melanie bounced on her high heels. “So, what did you want to order?”
“Oh, I’ll have a hamburger,” Earl choked out.
“All right, the show’s over,” Frank said as Melanie’s round bottom disappeared into the kitchen. “When should a person be advised of their Constitutional Rights?”
“After they’re taken into custody but before they’re questioned.”
Frank continued the quiz until their food arrived. “You know this stuff backward and forward Earl. You oughta ace the exam this time.”
Earl smiled and ran his fingers through his hair. Frank’s praise made him almost as nervous as his reprimands.
A few minutes into the meal, Melanie reappeared at their table. “How is everything?”
“Very good. Our compliments to the chef.”
Melanie continued to stand there, watching them eat. Frank smiled at her attentiveness. “Could I have some more water?”
Melanie left and came back with the water pitcher. She refilled their glasses and again stood and watched them eat.
This was getting unnerving. Frank stared back at her.
“Have you figured out what happened to Mary Pat Sheehan’s baby yet?”
“No.” Frank reapplied himself to his dinner. He hated being pumped about open cases. But Melanie didn’t consider herself dismissed.
“Listen,” she blurted. “This might be nothing, but after what happened with Janelle, I feel like I better tell you, just in case.”
Frank stopped eating. “Tell me what?”
“Last spring, this, uh, friend of mine had a problem, and she wanted my advice. She showed me an ad in Mountain Herald that she was thinking about answering. It said something like, ‘loving couple wants to adopt healthy white infant,’ and then it gave an email address to respond to, and said everything would be kept confidential.”
Melanie had Frank’s full attention, and not for the usual reason. “And did she respond?”
“Well, no. It turned out that, uhm, she had a miscarriage, so then she didn’t need to contact them anymore. But since I heard what happened to Mary Pat, I kept thinking, what if Mary Pat answered the ad, and then everything turned out so bad.” Melanie’s full lips began to tremble and her blue eyes teared up, threatening disaster for her extravagant eye make-up.
“And when did you say this ad ran in the paper?”
“It was sometime in May, I think. But listen, you can’t, like, talk to my friend about this, because she’d kill me if she knew I told you.”
“Miss, miss.” Two elderly ladies waved their menus at Melanie.
“Okay. I gotta go.”
Frank stared at his plate without seeing the trout, rice and string beans arranged there. If an ad had appeared in the Mountain Herald, then Mary Pat might not be the only local girl that Sheltering Arms had victimized. Were other babies from the area up for sale right now?
“You want me to stop by the Herald first thing tomorrow and get that ad?” Earl offered.
Frank speared a forkful of fish. “I’ll do it.”
“Are you going to try to find out who Melanie’s friend is?”
Frank opened his mouth to say, “There is no friend, Earl.” But he changed his mind, and merely shook his head. If Melanie’s story had convinced Earl, there really was no reason to blow her cover.
Chapter 12
The Mountain Herald only survived because Greg Faraday was reporter, editor, ad salesman, designer and secretary rolled into one. A monument to efficiency, he located the ad in question within minutes. Frank studied the small ad in the classified section.
Are you pregnant?
Loving couple seeks to adopt healthy white infant. We will provide your child with every advantage. Financial assistance available for expenses during your pregnancy. All inquiries strictly confidential. Email: [email protected]
“So who placed that?" Frank asked.
"I don't know. They just send in the ad copy and a money order to pay for it to run twice, and it's always for a little more than the cost."
"Always? You mean you've had more than this one ad?"
"Yeah, one a few months before this. But don't go telling me it's illegal, because I checked that out before I ran the first one."
"That's not why I’m here,” Frank reassured him. “But what do you mean, you checked it out?"
"With my chapter of the American Association of Newspaper Publishers. If you have a question about the ethics of accepting a certain ad, you can call them for advice. And they said couples who want to arrange an independent adoption run these kinds of ads all the time in papers like the Herald."
"Small weeklies? Why?"
"It's not so much that we're small, it's that we serve a rural population. A rural, white population. See, they don't want babies from minority mothers. And they think babies from the country are going to be healthier than babies from the Bronx. ‘Cause everyone knows teenagers in trouble up here eat their veggies and drink their milk."
"Okay, I get it. Do you think these ads are sent by the same person?"
"I don’t know. The first one had a different email address to respond to. But they both came in the same way. Envelope with no return address, no cover letter, money order to pay, no names anywhere.”
“And have you had any more of these since this one ran in May?”
Greg shook his head. “I’m sorry, Frank. I should have called you when I heard what happened with Mary Pat Sheehan. But the ad was so long ago, I never made the connection.”
“That’s all right—it could be nothing. But Greg, do me a favor—don’t mention this to anyone until I track this down, okay?”
“This is great!” Earl said when Frank returned to the office with the ad. “All you have to do is call up the Internet provider and find out who owns that account.”
“Not that easy, I’m afraid. We’d need a subpoena, and we don’t have enough evidence to prove that Sheltering Arms placed this ad. It could’ve really been placed by a couple, just like it says.”
Earl wrinkled his brow. “Well, could we send an email to that address—you know, write it like it’s from a pregnant girl?”
“Yeah, we’ll try. But we’ll have to send it from an email address they wouldn’t recognize. Edwin and Lucy have a personal account separate from the one they use for Iron Eagle business, so I thought you could go over there and send it.” Frank began to write. “ ‘I am three months pregnant, but nobody knows. I can’t keep this baby, but I don’t want to get an abortion. Please tell me about yourself and how you can help. Molly.’ What do you think?”
“It’s good except for the name. No one’s named Molly anymore.”
“My age is showing–you pick it.”
“Uh, how about Brandy?”
“Brandy it is.”
“Lt. Meyerson’s here to see you, Frank,” Doris’s voice screeched over the intercom minutes after Earl left.
“What can I do for you, Lew?” he asked, glancing through some papers on his desk.
“Probably nothing,” Meyerson said, taking a seat but maintaining his usual ramrod posture. “The Feds have taken over the Golding murder investigation. They’ve put me in charge of following up dead ends.”
Now Meyerson had Frank’s full attention. “The FBI has taken over? Why?”
“Seems like some of Golding’s followers got a little carried away last year in Colorado. Blew up some earth-moving equipment being used to build a deluxe hunting lodge. Now Green Tomorrow’s on the FBI’s radar screen as domestic terrorists. They seem to think Golding’s murder could signal the beginning of something big.”
> “Left wing extremists versus right wing extremists?”
“Exactly. War of the crackpots.”
“So they think someone from this hunting lodge place killed him?” Earl asked.
Meyerson flipped his hand dismissively. “No. Green Tomorrow’s gone on to bigger pastures. Now they’re involved in trying to stop old growth logging out in Oregon. They’ve deployed a bunch of hippie chicks to sit up in trees.
“The logging company claims it’ll go bankrupt if they can’t cut these trees, the loggers are all up in arms over their jobs, and the locals are about equally divided and going after each other every day. The FBI figures Green Tomorrow’s opponents in Oregon sent someone to kill Golding here to deflect suspicion from them.”
“Doesn’t seem to have worked,” Frank observed. “The FBI must have some evidence to back that theory up.”
“They probably do, but they’re not sharing it with me,” Meyerson complained. “Just to make sure they’ve got their asses covered, they’ve got me checking out Mrs. Golding and the sidekick, Barry Sutter.”
“And do they have alibis?” Frank asked.
“Ironclad. Sutter was still on the Thruway at the time of the murder, on his way up here to meet Golding. Several employees at the Malden rest area remember him—apparently he got into a rather loud debate about the environmental implications of fast-food packaging. And Mrs. Golding was with her sister in Saratoga Springs.”
“The sister could be lying to cover for her,” Earl pointed out.
Meyerson twisted in his seat and stared at Earl for a full five seconds before replying. “Three neighbors saw Mrs. Golding out walking the sister’s dog at 6:30 A.M. It takes two hours to get from Saratoga to here. Golding was killed before 8:30.”
Frank spoke up before Earl could dig himself in any deeper. “So what did you need my help with?”
“Apparently Golding was seen talking to a woman from Trout Run the day before he was killed. A,” Meyerson paused to consult his notes, “Beth Abercrombie. She’s not at that craft shop she runs. Any idea where I could find her?”
The Lure: a small town murder mystery (Frank Bennett Adirondack Mountain Mystery Series Book 2) Page 9
