Murder on the Brewster Flats

by Aaron Paul Lazar

  Jack careened around it. “Scout’s sister Libby, and her husband, Finn, have four little girls, as I think you already know. I’m sure they’ll be thrilled that their playhouse is okay. It’s one of their favorite places to have tea parties.”

  “I’ll bet.” A pang of loneliness for my own grandkids hit me. Johnny, Celeste, and Marion filled my heart with joy. The girls had a similar “princess playhouse” at my place. When this was over, I vowed to call them. And maybe I’d even cut this not-so-relaxing vacation short and just head home to Conaroga. How much vacation can one guy take, anyway?

  We reached the end of the driveway, where the mailbox and wooden post sat in the V-notch of a maple tree.

  Because of the high winds, we didn’t talk now. There were too many obstacles to navigate, and we both needed to keep our eyes open for rolling or flying debris.

  “Watch it!” For the second time Jack had to brake for oncoming trashcans wobbling toward us.

  Water brimmed at the edges of the gullies on either side of the road leading to the Waterfords’ mansion. Had it rained another inch, the ditches would have overflowed onto the road and surely would have flooded it. The drainage by the beach must be better than in the village, I guessed, what with all the sandy soil that so efficiently leeched water. The families on the shoreline had been lucky, but only in that regard. Many of the homes showed substantial wind damage, including several with roofs that had been partially ripped off.

  I glanced toward the shoreline as we crept along the obstacle-filled road. Angry gray waves pounded the beach. It was high tide. Not exactly a nice day for a walk—or even a limp—along the beach.

  We rounded a bend and the driveway for the Waterfords’ mansion came into view. “There it is,” I said.

  “Got it.” Jack maneuvered skillfully past the pole where the fancy sign used to hang. No more announcing that we’d reached “The Waterfords” and that we were welcome.

  Something told me I’d worn out that welcome on the first day they’d invited me over.

  Had it been to scope me out? See how much I knew?

  Marla had asked a lot of questions that morning. And everyone who’d been there, including her husband, had seen me talking to Jane and Albert.

  Marla could have been worried that I would learn about Robbie’s disappearance, and maybe spread the word around the village, or worse, start to look for him in the neighborhood or notify the authorities. If she’d Googled me, she might have found that although some news articles had dubbed me an amateur detective—which was absolutely ridiculous, I was just a quiet country professor who fought like hell to protect his family from the bad guys—I had been involved in a number of discoveries over the years that took some tenacious investigating, like the time we found the secret room under our church which held horrors too great to mention here. (FireSong: an unholy grave, LeGarde Mysteries, book 4)

  Maybe I’d scared her.

  Well, I hoped so. Because this time, when I found her, I intended to scare the hell out of her again, and then bundle her off to the same asylum where she’d sent her poor son for the past few years.

  I eyed the revolver sitting on the console. “You know how to use that thing?”

  Jack nodded. “You bet. I’m not a crack shot or anything, but in the Peace Corp we had to get trained on defending the camp from predators, both animal, and human. We had weapons there, just for that purpose, and I even had to use a rifle once to scare away a tiger. He seemed pretty hungry one night, but after I woke up the whole camp by shooting like hell at him, he left to find some other tender morsels to feast on, thank God.”

  I glanced at him. “Whoa. I’d like to hear that story someday.”

  “Deal.” He didn’t pull up to the house, but parked behind a gigantic fallen oak that blocked the mansion from view, but which also provided a good screen for the Jeep. We wanted to approach carefully.

  “Let’s scope it out first,” I said. “We’re gonna take her by surprise.”

  He nodded. “Of course. Maybe we should look from over there, where the branches are thinner? I can’t see anything from here.”

  When I pushed into the tree, climbing over stout branches into the wet world of dripping leaves, the view of the house came clear.

  It had sustained damage, a great deal of damage.

  Most of the windows on the ocean side had blown out. Shattered glass littered the lawn. The roofing on two gables was ripped away. And a cabin cruiser lay upended against the south side of the house, its bow impaled in the bay window of what I believed was the Waterfords’ living room.

  We crept around the side of the house, watching for movement. Other than the ragged remnants of curtains that flapped in the wind through broken windows, it was quiet.

  I had been right the other day when I guessed there had to be a garage somewhere around back. We found a detached six-car garage on the far side of the mansion, gaping at us like a child with its front tooth missing. One of the automatic doors had been ripped from its rails, but was nowhere in the vicinity.

  We ducked inside and discovered a dune buggy, a shiny black Caddy, and an old Chevy pickup truck.

  “Quite a collection,” I said.

  “Look over there.” Jack pointed to an empty bay with recent spots of oil on the cement floor.

  Had Marla left when the storm calmed down? Had she abandoned her husband and son and the three people she assumed were still locked in the cellar?

  I searched around behind the garage until I found a hefty wooden stick that would work well if I were required to clobber Marla to get my way.

  We found the missing garage door beating against the house in the same hydrangea bushes where Beckett had fallen the first day I’d visited. Its tortured rapping seemed to match my escalating heartbeat.

  It was time to go inside. “Let’s hit her from both sides. Ring the doorbell to distract her, and then run around to the side. Go in that broken window on the porch. See it?”

  He nodded. “Got it.”

  “I’ll sneak in through one of the broken windows in the back. Remember, she has a rifle.”

  “Right. And don’t worry. We’ll get everyone out.”

  Marla was clever, and the fact that she’d already coerced and handily overpowered five men without breaking a sweat had me wondering. Could she possibly gain the upper hand again and force Jack and me into the dungeon?

  Over my dead body.

  I locked eyes with Jack. “Let’s do this.”

  Chapter 28

  Carefully, I snaked one leg over the jagged pieces of glass in the window. I didn’t dare clear it, for fear of alerting Marla. So I held my breath and gingerly boosted myself inside, avoiding any punctures in sensitive places. The doorbell chimed just as my feet touched ground in the back hallway. Lights were on throughout the corridor, and I was surprised the power was still on.

  Stealthily, I moved ahead in the direction of the front entrance. I arrived at a closed door, opened it a crack, and peered through.

  No movement. No sound of footsteps trotting to the front door. No sound of Marla cussing.

  I pushed the door open. It creaked, and I held my breath.

  There was no one in the living room, except Jack, who I saw slipping in through the side window.

  He held his hands palm up and shook his head. I did the same, and then pointed to the door that led to the kitchen.

  We crept toward it, stood on either side of it like I’d seen the cops do in movies, and pushed it open.

  It was empty.

  The library revealed no one waiting to shoot us with a rifle.

  We searched room after room with no luck.

  Marla was gone.

  ***

  Ten minutes later I’d just about given up looking for the keys to the cellar door when Jack brandished a sizeable ring in his hand, clacking various sizes of skeleton keys together. “Think I got ‘em.”

  I took them and grinned. “Excellent. Where were they?”

 
“In the freezer.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Way to go, Marla.”

  After trying five of the keys I found the one that fit the door to the cellar stairs. “Got it.”

  The lights were still on, so I didn’t need the flashlight. Shouts came from below from Albert and Beckett.

  I headed first to Albert’s cell. “Hang tight, man. Just gotta figure out which key goes with your door.” I fumbled through a few more keys and finally found the one that fit. “There we go.”

  Albert stumbled into the cellar. “God bless you, young man. How the hell did you get out?” He eyed me more carefully now, squinting at my filthy clothing, face, and arms. I hadn’t looked in a mirror, but imagined I looked like I’d just climbed out of the coalmines.

  “Found an escape hatch way down the end of the tunnel.”

  He slumped against the wall and put a hand to his head. “We’ve gotta get home and check on the girls and Mason.”

  “I know.” Worry had been niggling at me the whole time we’d rushed back to face-off Marla and free the men in the basement. I had tamped it down, telling myself Camille was a strong, capable woman. She’d take care of Jane and the baby. She’d weathered plenty of winter storms and had a good head on her shoulders.

  Yet, I couldn’t help imagine pictures of the saltbox house ripped apart and her trapped under fallen rafters.

  I shook it off. “Come on. Let’s get the others out first, then we’ll check on the girls.”

  Albert looked nervously upstairs. “What did you do with the crazy witch?”

  Jack held out a hand. “Marla’s gone. And I’m Jack. I don’t think we’ve met before.”

  “Gone?” Albert absentmindedly shook his hand. “Where?”

  “No idea. But one of the cars is missing from the garage.”

  Albert’s face grew dark. “Bet she took off with my family treasure, the old harridan.”

  I raised my eyebrows. “Not sure about that. I didn’t find any gold crosses down here.”

  Albert’s face fell. “Oh.” He collapsed onto a dusty wooden bench and put both hands to his face. “Just get the others out, Gus.”

  “Jack, stay with him?”

  “Sure thing.” He crouched down beside the old man, whose shoulders had begun to shake.

  I hurried to free Winston and Beckett, realizing in hindsight that I hadn’t told Albert about finding Robbie. Well, he’d know soon enough.

  Winston and Beckett were on opposite ends of the cell. Beckett gripped the bars and Winston slumped on one of the cots.

  “You made it,” Beckett said. His face was pale, but his eyes seemed even brighter than before. Focused. Clear. “Please, hurry.”

  “I did.” I fumbled with the keys, found the right one after a few tries, and unlocked the door.

  “Come on, men. Let’s get you out of here.”

  “Is she gone?” Winston asked.

  “She is,” I said. “Come on out. It’s safe now.”

  “I don’t know what happened with her. She just…imploded or something.” Winston walked out like a zombie, avoiding my eyes.

  Beckett turned to him, eyes blazing and voice steady. “Might have something to do with your girlfriend, Dad.”

  I watched the two men face off. Winston backed down, and Beckett just huffed, starting down the passageway.

  “You’d better get the other one out, too, Gus. I heard him down that way.”

  I nodded. “Met him already. And I’m on my way.”

  “Wait.” I stopped and turned around. “Beckett?”

  He stopped and turned. “Yeah?”

  “I have something for you. Should have remembered, earlier.” I took the crumpled note out of my back pocket and handed it to him. “It’s from Jane.”

  His eyes lit up and he accepted it with trembling hands, sliding down to the floor with his back against the stone wall, already immersed in the contents of the letter.

  “I’ll be back in a sec. Got one more to release.” Further down the hall, I found the young man asleep, turned away from the door. “Robbie?”

  He turned with groggy eyes, sitting up slowly. “Any luck?” he asked.

  “Absolutely.” I jingled the keys. “You were right. There was a hatch at the end of the tunnel.”

  He hobbled to the door, anxiously awaiting its opening. “Where did it lead to, the dunes?”

  I shook my head and pulled the door open. “No. It came up under The Seacrest’s barn.”

  His eyes widened. “Whoa.”

  “I didn’t find your family’s treasure, but I found the original sea chest with Zebediah’s initials on it.”

  “We’re getting closer, then,” he said, rubbing his wrists where I unlocked the shackles.

  “But there’s plenty of loot down there, especially in that fifth passage like you said. It just doesn’t match the description of the melted down gold we read about in the old diaries.”

  I helped him walk out, and he leaned heavily on my shoulders, occasionally losing his balance. “Hey there, take it slow now. You’re weak.”

  “Need to get a blood test,” he said. “For vitamin C levels.”

  I noticed when he smiled his gums looked bruised and red.

  “Haven’t had much fruit or vegetables in the past few months.”

  I eyed his scraggly hair and haggard features. “Just like the passengers on ocean crossings in the old days?”

  “Yeah. Kind of.”

  “Scurvy?”

  “Might be. Got all the classic symptoms: lethargy, pain, confusion, bruising, bleeding, and weakness.”

  It was in that moment that I remembered Robbie was a doctor. “Well, we’ll get you to the hospital in no time. But we’ve just had a hurricane. A bad one. Might not be easy to get an ambulance, but we can drive you there in the Jeep.”

  We approached the others, slowly coming into the brighter light.

  Albert looked up, a frown on his face that quickly turned to a wondrous smile. “Robbie?” He started to rise, held out both hands, and crumpled to the floor.

  Chapter 29

  Robbie flew to Albert’s side. “Grandpa?” He examined Albert’s eyes and reached for his wrist. “Pulse is a little fast.” Laying his ear to his grandfather’s lips, he sat back on his haunches. “Breathing’s okay. Might be the shock, but he needs to be seen.” He swayed, lifting one hand to his eyes. “Whoa. Dizzy.”

  “We’ve gotta get you guys to a hospital.” I turned to Jack. “Can you take them in? I need to check on the girls and the baby.”

  “Sure thing.” Jack motioned to Winston. “Sir? Can you take his legs?”

  Winston seemed to come out of his fog. “Um. Yeah. Sure.”

  Jack reached a hand out to Robbie. “Can you make it up the stairs by yourself?”

  Robbie pulled himself to his feet. “Don’t worry about me. I’ll hang onto the railing. We’ve gotta get out of here.” He glanced upward. “Especially if Crazy is coming back.”

  Crazy?

  Well, it certainly wasn’t a politically correct nickname, but today it seemed to fit Marla to a tee.

  Jack reached under Albert’s arms and Winston took his feet. Slowly, they carried the old man up the stairs.

  Beckett swiped at his cheeks and rose, facing me with a determined expression. “I’m coming with you.” He folded the letter and slid it into his breast pocket. “Please.”

  I’d never seen the boy looking so, dare I say, “normal.” What had changed? How could he go from a raving lunatic to a clear-eyed young man in such a short time?

  In the back of my mind, I wondered if the clue lay with Marla. Had she somehow drugged the boy, just as he’d claimed in his original pleas? Had it been real? Maybe she’d found a way to administer a hallucinogenic drug that hadn’t been detectable by the doctors.

  Had Winston been in on it?

  I glanced up at him. He’d seemed subdued, almost catatonic. But he continued to help lug Albert up and through the door at the top of the stairs.
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  I’d have to dig into that part later.

  I turned to Beckett. “Come on,” I said. “We’re taking the dune buggy.”

  Beckett and I followed the others to the front door, making sure Albert was safely transferred to the Jeep.

  Now in the driver’s seat, Jack started up the vehicle. “Gus, I’ll meet you back at the Cooks’ place when we’re done. But if you need help before that, head for The Seacrest. My brother-in-law Finn will be there, and he’s a good man in a crisis.”

  “Sounds like a plan. Thanks, Jack.”

  When they’d rolled down the driveway and disappeared around the fallen oak tree, we headed for the garage.

  The dune buggy lay waiting in the garage. I crossed my fingers, hoping the power worked in the outbuildings. Inside, I flicked on the door opener and held my breath.

  It worked, and the door slowly screeched open.

  Beckett found the keys on a rack by the door. “I think these are the ones.”

  “Give ‘em here,” I said. “And get in.”

  As if the stars had finally aligned, the key fit and the buggy started up on my first try. I’d had enough of fumbling with keys for a lifetime, and said a silent thank you to God for giving me this one break.

  “Follow that path,” the boy said, pointing toward the shore. “It’ll take you right to the beach. It’s faster than the road.”

  “Got it.” I accelerated out of the garage and bounced over the muddy lawn toward the path. Once on the wet sand, the tires gripped as they were meant to do. We sped toward the high tide line where thick clumps of wet seaweed and driftwood blazed a ragged trail.

  The howling winds had died down, and now a soft ocean breeze blew past us, as if nature hadn’t just lost its cool and wreaked havoc on our shores. The scudding black clouds faded, revealing a brilliant azure sky dotted with cotton ball clouds. Bright sun winked on the white-capped waves that now kissed, rather than pounded, the beach.

  I veered onto the shore and cranked the wheel hard left, heading for the public entrance to Paines Creek Beach. I figured this approach would provide easy access to the Cooks’ house.