Murder on the Brewster Flats

by Aaron Paul Lazar

  “Oh, Gus! How did that happen?”

  I waited to answer until I pulled out of the parking lot and headed back down Route 6A. “I swam into a rock; it was hiding under the water.”

  “Uh huh.”

  I started to tell her the story, but she was already looking up hospitals on her iPhone.

  “No, honey. I can’t do it. If it doesn’t improve overnight, I’ll go in the morning. I promise.”

  She frowned at me. With a sigh, she put the phone away. “Okay. If you promise.”

  Relieved, I tried to change the subject. “I met a very interesting guy today. He helped me, actually.”

  She listened while I described Jack, the cottage he lived in, and his violin studio and workshop. I told her about the upcoming concert, and she gave me a half-smile.

  “That’s nice.”

  That’s nice?

  I continued, in spite of her strange reply. “The cottage is actually on the grounds of a huge mansion named The Seacrest. It overlooks the ocean.”

  “Uh huh.”

  Her mind definitely wasn’t on me and my story, because she kept glancing at her phone.

  “Want to tell me something?” I said. “Your lover won’t stop texting you?”

  She snorted a laugh. “Sorry. I just can’t stop thinking of Zebediah Cook and what I learned about him today.”

  “Really?” I turned left down Stony Brook Road.

  “It’s so cool, honey. I took a bunch of photos from the old books I read. It’s really romantic, too.”

  “Yeah?”

  She launched into it. “When he was twenty-three, Zebediah and his wife, Rachel, boarded a ship named The Silver Penny in London. They were headed for America to start a new life, along with many other passengers.”

  “What happened?”

  “Well, after weeks and weeks of rough seas, they made it to the Cape and entered the Brewster Bay, so the story goes.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes,” she said with prolonged sigh. “It’s so tragic, isn’t it? They were almost to their final destination. Just a few miles away. The captain had set anchor in deep water, waiting for the tide to come in so they could get closer in a few hours. But that never happened, because in the early morning, they were set upon by pirates.”

  “Whoa. Are these the pirates Albert told us about?”

  “Of course,” she said with a grin. “Oh, but it’s so sad.”

  “Tell me more.”

  “Well, the passengers and crew were exhausted, weak, malnourished and such. You can imagine, after that long journey.”

  “Sure.”

  “It seems like they put up a heck of a fight, but the pirates, led by a Scotsman-gone-bad named Tooly McNabb, were brutal. They killed half the men, and started assaulting the women. Zebediah reportedly lowered himself and his wife over the sides of the ship when it looked like the situation was hopeless, and they somehow swam to the flats.”

  “Wow.”

  “I know, right? Well, apparently McNabb had his eye on Rachel and followed them in his dinghy. He chased them through the tide pools, and fought hard with Zebediah, who of course tried to defend his wife’s honor. He was knocked unconscious by McNabb.”

  She teared up and her voice hitched. “The account implied that she’d been raped—they don’t spell it out, of course—and then murdered. Right on the Brewster Flats, Gus. Two miles from here.”

  “That’s horrible.” I pulled left onto Run Hill Road and slowed down for the tight curve and narrow road I knew was coming up.

  “Why McNabb didn’t murder Zebediah, we’ll never know.”

  “Maybe he wanted Zeb to suffer the loss of his wife. That was the worst thing he could have done to the man. Much harder than simply dying.”

  “Oh, absolutely.” She didn’t say it, but she knew how much pain I’d endured at the loss of my first wife, Elsbeth. I saw it in her eyes.

  “The worst part was, Rachel was with child. They’d only been married a year. They wanted to start their lives in the new world, so their baby would have a great future.”

  “Horrible.”

  “Isn’t it? Oh, and her grave is still marked, so the book said. I’m going to search for it. Lay some flowers there.”

  “Good idea.” A speeding utility van careened around the corner and practically forced me off the road. I pulled over to the sandy side, waited for him to pass, and then kept going. “So what was McNabb after?”

  “Treasure, of course.”

  “Wow. Just like Albert said?”

  “Yes. Everything he told you matches up with this account. Oh, and Zebediah was a minister, by the way. He was the Reverend Zebediah Cook. He brought a chest full of religious artifacts with him to start a church with a dozen or more parishioners. There was some hint of tragedy that encouraged them to move away from England. Something about a fire in his old church? But I think it was more. I think maybe they were driven out of town for some reason.”

  “Maybe it was religious intolerance. That’s why lots of our ancestors came over, right? Boy, poor old Zeb went through hell, didn’t he?”

  “For sure. Oh, I think the actual site of the first church is documented, too. I saw a picture in one book. Even though they’ve rebuilt it several times since the year 1767.”

  “Cool. But what about the treasure? Did the pirates just sail away with it? Why is Albert searching for it on the beach every day?”

  “Oh, I forgot to tell you that part. A hurricane came up that morning, in the aftermath of the slaughter, and it supposedly destroyed the ship. McNabb somehow survived, but the treasure was reportedly lost.”

  “I wonder how they know for sure the treasure went down with the ship. I mean, if McNabb had left with his dinghy to follow Zeb and his wife, how do we know he didn’t have the treasure chest with him?”

  Her eyes glittered. “Exactly. There were a few accounts in articles that followed theorizing just that. They think maybe he escaped. Or maybe his dinghy was capsized, right on the flats.”

  “So what happened to the reverend?”

  “Well, when he finally woke up during the hurricane beside Rachel, he lost his mind.”

  “Can’t blame him.”

  “They locked him up for quite a few years, until some kind-hearted soul felt bad for him and got him released into her care. She was ten years his senior, but she fell in love with him and helped him rebuild his church.”

  “Wow. What was her name?”

  “Sarah Finnegan.”

  “You memorized it all, didn’t you?”

  “Uh huh. And there’s more.”

  Camille started telling me about Zebediah’s family as we arrived at the house. I put the car in park, but didn’t shut off the engine so the air conditioning would continue to keep us cool. I turned to listen.

  “Sarah had five sons with Zebediah.”

  “One of which would be Albert’s ancestor.”

  “Right. And Zebediah built that beautiful saltbox house where Albert and Jane live now. He raised all his children there and handed it down to the eldest son, a tradition that continued for centuries.” She gave a happy sigh and opened her door. “I’m going back to do more research tomorrow, if that’s okay with you?”

  “Of course.” I turned off the engine and opened my door, hobbling out. “We were invited to Albert’s at ten tomorrow. Let me know if you’d like to come, or if you’d rather do your library thing, okay?”

  She raced to my side. “Okay, I’ll think about it. Now, let me help you, honey.”

  I limped into the house with my sweet wife’s help, and then spent the rest of the night recovering, and not taking advantage of the rain check she’d offered that morning.

  Chapter 12

  When I woke at five the next morning, my wife mumbled a few incomprehensible sentences and smiled in her sleep. She was having a good dream, and I’d be damned if I would interrupt it.

  I sat up and swung my legs over the side of the bed, wincing. The pai
n on my left knee was bad, and I swear I felt my heartbeat throbbing in the wound itself.

  I hobbled out of bed, leaving my sleeping princess to enjoy time with whomever she had smiled at in her dream. I drew a hot bath, soaked in it for a good twenty minutes, and redressed the wound. The house’s owners had been fully prepared for any of their guests’ misadventures, because they had stocked up on bandages, wraps, antibiotic creams, and the like. For that, I was eternally grateful.

  After soaking the wound, it felt much better, although I figured it might be a day or two before I walked the beaches again.

  With a start, I realized I’d never called home yesterday. I missed everyone, but knew that at this moment my daughter, Freddie, would be running around with the three kids, trying to get them all fed and get herself ready for her veterinary clinic. I’d have to call her later.

  But Siegfried, my deceased wife’s brother, who’d lived with our family for decades, would be up. His family had emigrated from East Germany when we were just kids, and we’d been pals ever since.

  After starting a pot of coffee and settling on the deck with a mug, I dialed his cell.

  “Guten Morgen, Professor.” He sounded as if he’d been up for hours and I heard the smile in his voice.

  “Hey, buddy. How’re you doing? How’s the family?”

  “We are good. Freddie and the little ones are fine. Mrs. Pierce made us spaghetti last night and we all ate together.” He sighed. “We missed you and Camille.”

  “Aw, thanks, Sig. We miss you all, too. Tell Freddie I’ll call her tonight, okay?”

  “Ja, okay. Lily and I just finished feeding the horses and chickens, and now we are making eggs.”

  “Sweet. Who’s cooking?”

  He chortled and continued in his strong German accent. “She won’t let me cook, Professor. She says it is a woman’s job.” He paused and continued in a softer voice. “But I know that is not true, because of how you make us such good meals.” He lowered his voice to a whisper. “I just go along with it, you know?”

  I laughed out loud. I’d been the designated weekend chef for our huge tribe since I could remember. Sundays were always our big feast days, and I loved preparing the meal for the gang, especially with vegetables from my garden. “Yeah. Well, you’re just married. You’ve gotta learn how to keep the peace.”

  Lily, Siegfried’s wife, had lived her entire life under the thumb of her abusive Korean brother Thom, having been taught very sternly about a “woman’s place” in the world. Until Sig rescued her from that horrible situation, she’d been virtually a slave to her brother. When their home and tailor shop burned to the ground, he’d died after weeks of unsuccessful burn treatments. Months after the funeral, Sig had proposed to her. Now they lived in a log cabin in the field near the woods, not far from us. (Lady Blues: forget-me-not, book 10 in the LeGarde Mystery series)

  “Ja, and Professor, she cooks better than me, anyway.”

  I snorted another laugh. “Well, then. That makes it easier, doesn’t it?”

  “Professor? Is everything okay? I had a feeling yesterday…”

  Sig’s intuition had proved true since his boating accident at age twelve when he’d lost all faculties and had to relearn everything from scratch, including walking, talking, eating, and the rest. The ESP thing had just come out of nowhere after the accident, and it had actually saved my life a number of times.

  “Um, well, yeah. I kind of smashed up my knee yesterday.”

  “Oh, no. Will it be okay?”

  “Yeah, buddy, no worries. It’s just a gash. It’ll heal. I think maybe I’ll have to take it easy for a few days.”

  He let out a little chuckle. “Well, that’s not too hard, since you are already taking it easy on vacation, Ja?”

  “Good one, buddy.”

  I missed him already. With a pang of affection, I told him about all that had happened since we’d arrived.

  “Professor, I thought this was a holiday. You said you needed some rest.”

  “I know.”

  “Be careful of that boy. He sounds, um, a little bit crazy.”

  “Well, we try not to say ‘crazy’ these days. I think the official politically correct term might be…oh, crap. I don’t know what it is now. But anyway, I will. I’ll be careful.”

  “So today you are going to see the old man and his granddaughter with the baby?”

  “Yeah. I can still drive, so I’m good to go.”

  “And I think you and Camille will find the treasure chest, Ja?”

  Again, I laughed, almost too loudly for the quiet morning. Feeling guilty, I glanced at the houses on either side that were barely visible through the trees. A pink blush of sunlight tinged the horizon. It was definitely too early to be guffawing on the phone. “Oh, sure. We’ll uncover a two-hundred-and-fifty-year-old lost treasure.” I glanced up at the bedroom window, hoping I hadn’t woken Camille. “Well, Camille thinks we will, anyway. She’s on it, I tell ya.”

  “Would that save the old man’s house?”

  “It just might. I’ll find out more today when I visit them.”

  He whispered to Lily on the side, “Okay.” Returning to me, he said, “Professor, the eggs are ready. And I am very hungry.”

  My behemoth friend was always hungry. “Go for it, big guy. Enjoy your breakfast. I’ll call again in a few days.”

  “Ja, okay. And try not to get into too much trouble.”

  I snorted a laugh. “Okay.” We hung up and I headed for the refrigerator. Now I was craving eggs, too.

  Chapter 13

  I stood in front of the weathered wooden door, marveling at its ancient wrought iron hardware. Thick planks coupled side by side made a barrier that might even have kept even pirates back.

  It reminded me of a medieval castle door, for some reason, and I admired it for a few seconds before I tugged on the string of the old-fashioned bell hanging to the right of the frame.

  Albert opened the door and greeted me. “Come on in, sonny.”

  “Thanks.” We passed through a dark hall and emerged into a huge living room centered by a wide fireplace big enough for a man to stand in. Dutch ovens framed either side of the fireplace and an old Reliance woodstove sat in the center, jutting into the room on a black metal plate.

  The floors had polished pine boards of various sizes, but most were twelve to fourteen inches wide. Each of the six doorways leading to other rooms was surrounded with beautiful woodwork painted a muted sage green. The wallpaper’s line drawings depicted antique horses and carriages, a village, and a church.

  Jane sat in a Boston rocker with Mason on her lap. He held a book in his chubby hands. They both looked up with interest when I entered. She said hello and started to get up to greet me.

  “Don’t get up,” I said, going to her side to pat the baby’s head. Surprisingly, he let me and giggled. “Looks like he’s enjoying the book.”

  She smiled. “He loves the baby animals.” She pointed to the page they were on. “Especially the monkeys.”

  “Always popular with the little ones,” I thought of my grandson Johnny and how much he’d loved them when he was a toddler. The girls—Marion and Celeste—were more into kitties and puppies than monkeys.

  Albert pointed to a pale pink wing chair. “Have a seat. I can make coffee. Want a cup?”

  Jane said, “It’s the Dunkin Donuts brew. I get it from work.”

  “How can I resist?” I settled into the chair, which reminded me of my first wife’s favorite blue silk chair in our bedroom back home. A pang of sadness poured through me. It had been over six years, but I still missed her deeply. I never knew when these waves of sorrow would hit. It astounded me that no matter how long it had been since she died, I still felt the raw pain of the loss. It had lessened a bit, of course, and the appearance of Camille in my life had surprised and humbled me. How such a vibrant, lovely, kind-hearted woman could have fallen for me was hard to fathom, and it also mystified me how one man could be so blissfully
happy with a new, unexpected love that had appeared in his life, and yet still so mournful, too.

  I shook off my musings and took in my surroundings, noting the antiques I figured had been passed down in Albert’s family. A spinning wheel stood in one alcove, a butter churn in another, and a stoneware jug collection marched along the bricks on the floor beside the fireplace. A wooden chest sat in front of the couch for use as a coffee table. On the mantle, a pair of china Staffordshire dogs flanked brass candlesticks and a beautiful clock with painted glass depicting a ship on the sea. On the far wall, a pine desk held a converted gas lamp with violets painted on its white glass shade. The top of the desk was covered in framed photos.

  In truth, I felt right at home, because my own home was full of antiques passed down through my family, too. I couldn’t imagine living with shiny modern furniture any more than I could imagine not having a giant garden or being surrounded by fields and woods. It would go against my whole being.

  Albert excused himself to get the coffee, and Jane motioned to me. “Can I talk to you privately for a second?” Her eyes darted to the kitchen.

  “Sure.” I went to her side and leaned toward her. “What is it?”

  Her eyes filled with anguish. “I don’t know what you’ve heard about Beckett, but it’s probably all lies. His parents are ogres. They pretend that he’s sick, they load him up with drugs, and they keep him in the house. We have to help him.”

  “Really?” I doubted what she was saying, but let her continue.

  “Don’t believe a word they tell you. They’re evil, you must believe me.” Her eyes burned, flitting again to the kitchen. “My grandfather hates him, because of what happened.” She glanced down at Mason. “He’s furious that I didn’t tell Beckett about our son. He thinks he took advantage of me, or something like that. But he didn’t. We were in love, I swear.”

  “Why didn’t you tell Beckett?”

  “He ended up in the asylum right after we, um, were dating. I haven’t seen him since. They kept him in an institution, and now, I guess, he’s home.”

  “He is. They’re trying to care for him themselves. But Jane, didn’t you try to contact him?”