Murder on the Brewster Flats

by Aaron Paul Lazar

  The shore was alive with action at this early hour. All varieties of birds enjoyed the feast the ebbing ocean had left them, but the seagulls were the loudest and most prevalent. Walking with cocky attitudes and screechy voices, they bullied each other to win the most succulent prizes.

  I headed in the direction of The Seacrest, walking through warm tide pools filled with scurrying crustaceans. Hermit crabs scuttled within their receding puddles of water. I never understood what they were rushing so madly to accomplish. Maybe they feared the water would indeed, disappear completely and not return?

  The air was still cool, but I soon warmed up from the exercise. My knee felt much better, and I strode forward almost with my old fast pace, feeling fit and rested. When I let myself mull over the past days, I felt as if I’d been in some Hollywood production. It was unreal. Impossible. How could I have fallen into such a mire of madness?

  But if you know me, you also probably know I have an affinity for such things. I can’t seem to get through an entire year without preposterous adventures finding me.

  At least this one had turned out relatively well.

  That is, if you ignore the two gruesome deaths that occurred in the same day.

  At least Beckett and Jane were reunited. Robbie had been rescued and returned to his family, and the lady who caused all the troubles had been “removed” from the scene. Not a nice way to go, but in the end, perhaps it was a blessing for that poor woman to be released from her own tormented life.

  I felt bad for Winston, though. As weak as he was, he didn’t deserve to be murdered on the Brewster Flats like poor Rachel Cook.

  Was it fate’s way of restoring balance between the two families?

  No. Winston had only been a McNabb by marriage.

  Perhaps Marla’s mad flight off the top of the burning house had evened the score?

  I shook my head. It was ridiculous to think of family feuds or settling scores. None of it had anything to do with reality. In fact, the death of Rachel Cook was caused by a purely evil man who wreaked havoc on many innocent families back in 1767. And Marla’s death—though tragic—was almost bound to happen. She had been spiraling into a deep, dark, and decidedly senseless place. I was quite certain there had been no happy ending in store for her.

  I glanced up at The Seacrest’s barn and mansion as I passed them. I was looking forward to seeing Fritzi again and talking about my German connection with her. Jack had told me she was an amazing cook, and I wondered if I could get her recipe for clam chowder. He claimed it was the best chowder on Cape Cod.

  Some of the wrecked boats had been recovered, and a few were actually back on their moorings, sitting on wet sand, tethered to their anchors now, tilted in all directions, waiting for the ocean to return and lift them onto its buoyant shoulders.

  The one person who hadn’t yet lost his haunted look was Albert. The poor man would probably die unhappy, still searching for his family’s treasure. Would I find him on the beach again, once more endlessly searching for treasure with his metal detector?

  I thought back to the tunnels, the dozens of chests through which we’d searched, the empty shelves, the hidden chamber…shouldn’t those crosses have been somewhere inside? I made a mental note to check the bottoms of the trunks. Could they possibly have secret panels meant to hide the most precious jewels from thieves?

  Maybe we’d find them today when we moved the bulk of the treasure away from the Egyptian find. I hoped I’d overlooked something.

  But a few things bothered me. Why had McNabb’s descendants placed the Cook chest on the altar that hid the secret door? It was like a teaser of sorts. Why use the body of the blacksmith to scare away potential thieves?

  To me it had all been built up to make one anticipate the Cook treasure at the end of the journey. Like he’d laid out clues.

  Or maybe I’d just read too many Hardy Boys mysteries as a boy.

  But instead, there had been one totally unexpected and monumental surprise: the room full of Egyptian riches.

  Perhaps the whole scene was originally set up by McNabb. The altar, the skeleton, the secret door? Maybe the gold crosses were initially displayed at the end of the secret chamber, but one of the descendants had melted them down or sold them. Or perhaps the three crosses had taken a back seat to the stolen Egyptian treasure. The thoughts continued to wash through my mind with no answers.

  I continued along the beach to the Waterfords’ property. I decided not to pass by the burned up hulk of a house. It was just too sad.

  Instead of obsessing over the past, I forced myself to think of the here and now. It dawned on me that Jack’s concert was coming up soon. I needed to practice, and practice hard. It would feel good. Playing had always been therapy for me, since the day my dear Elsbeth had been found dead lying at the bottom of the Letchworth Gorge cliffs. I’d especially loved the Chopin etudes for their ability to purge all negative thoughts from my being and lift me up beyond my circumstances.

  I craved that now.

  I also craved home. I missed my grandkids’ hugs and squeals, the sulky-sweet behavior of my adopted teenage daughter, Shelby, and the love and support of my daughter, Freddie. Of course, I missed Siegfried, Mrs. Pierce, and even my mother-in-law, Maddy. I’d also grown fond of Sig’s new wife, Lily.

  The one thing I didn’t look forward to was returning home to no Max. His absence would forever hurt. I didn’t know if I’d ever get over losing such a dear friend, but in spite of it, I still ached for the hills and dales of the Genesee Valley.

  I had to face it. It had only been a week, but I was terribly homesick.

  I wanted to make a nice big pot of soup for the family, sit around the table with them buttering bread and exchanging jokes with each other. I guess I just wasn’t made for vacations, after all.

  I turned around and headed back.

  When Camille woke, I planned to cook a big breakfast for us and then head over to the Cook’s to get started on the move of the treasure chests. When that was done, I’d call Jack and see if I could get some time in on his piano.

  It was going to be a busy day.

  Chapter 45

  Camille and I devoured our scrambled eggs, toast, and bacon in record time. We drained the coffee carafe and I dressed in a tee shirt and jeans, ready to work hard. Once again, I was very grateful that the house we rented offered a full-sized washer and dryer tucked into a closet on the first floor. I’d needed to wash my clothes repeatedly after my underground adventures.

  Camille and Jane once again stayed back with Mason, not too eager to face dark dungeons anyway, but they already had a full agenda on their own plates. Camille planned to call the funeral home and start to investigate burial plots that Beckett might want to purchase for the cremated ashes of his parents. She also offered to call the family’s lawyer to set up a meeting for Beckett to inquire about life insurance, the will, and everything else he might need to understand for his future livelihood.

  Jane asked Camille if she could also accompany her on a trial run to the village to buy groceries. She wasn’t comfortable bringing Mason out without another set of hands to help in case they ended up on a flooded street or ran into other obstacles. But the larder was getting pretty bare, and they needed to give it a try.

  With that settled, Albert, Robbie, Beckett and I headed for The Seacrest.

  Jack met us in the barn. “Hey, guys.”

  He reached out to shake our hands and we exchanged greetings.

  “I just finished the morning chores, so we can open up the hatch again.” Jack leaned down and began to lift the heavy boards out of the way.

  “How are you folks doing?” I asked. “Everything settled down after the storm?”

  “We’re doing pretty well, considering. We still have some windows to replace and major cleanup in the yard.” He gestured around the property. “But we’re better off than many other folks who had major damage.”

  Beckett nodded. “We saw a lot of roofs torn off. Constru
ction crews are everywhere.”

  Robbie said, “If you’re looking for a silver lining in this whole mess, at least those businesses will be booming. It’s not so great for the insurance companies, though.”

  “For sure.” Jack pointed to a four-wheeled cart in the corner. “I was wondering if you guys could use this?”

  The cart had a sturdy metal frame, rubber tires, and a thick rubber mat on its bed. It would be perfect for moving antique chests across dirt floors.

  Albert walked over to it and nodded vigorously. “Oh, yeah. This’ll work great.”

  Jack looked sheepish for a moment. “I wanted to help you guys today. But we have an appointment for Iris this morning. She’s had a fever, and…”

  “Don’t worry about it,” I said gently. “We’d love to have you, but you’ve gotta take care of family first.”

  He gave me a grateful smile. “Thanks, Gus.”

  Robbie climbed down into the tunnel. Beckett and Albert maneuvered the cart close to the opening in the floor. Using a heavy coil of rope that Jack provided, we attached it to the cart and slowly lowered it into the hole.

  “Steady now,” Robbie said. “Easy goes it.”

  The cart wobbled its way down to him and when it softly thudded onto the floor, he held up one hand. “Good. That’s it.”

  With thanks to Jack, Albert, Beckett, and I clambered down the aluminum ladder to join Robbie. We set off with the cart toward the treasure trove.

  ***

  Four hours later, dusty and tired, we had finished moving all of the items except the Egyptian collection all the way down to the rooms beneath the burned-out mansion, where we’d originally been imprisoned. We filled both of the cells in which Albert and I had been locked up.

  With Beckett’s help, I’d investigated each trunk anew, searching for hidden compartments or sliding panels. We found one by accident, actually, and discovered a trove of love letters from a lady named Nancy in the year 1812, written to someone named Margaret. I took a break to read a few of them, then realized the contents were too private to continue. It saddened me that both women had been forced into unhappy marriages and felt compelled to hide their feelings for their entire lives. It also saddened me to think that Margaret—and perhaps her husband and children—had been aboard a vessel that McNabb or his descendants had pillaged. It was likely that they’d been murdered by pirates. With reverence, we locked the letters back in their secret compartment.

  I wondered how many ships had been robbed, how many dozens of passengers and crew were killed, and how many boats burned and sunk in the waters not far from Paines Creek Beach. From the spoils we moved, it seemed like it must have been numerous ships. Which meant countless murders. Senseless, horrible murders.

  I felt more and more uneasy about handling the riches, thinking about the original owners and their fate. We hadn’t spoken much during the whole exercise, and I wondered if my companions were also musing about similar dark topics.

  When we finally surfaced at two-thirty in the afternoon, we brought the cart back up to the barn and set the heavy boards back in place.

  Beckett said, “I wonder if we can get permission from the fire officials to go back into the mansion now. Maybe we could get down to the dungeon through the old cellar stairway. It might not have burned.”

  Robbie nodded. “It would be a lot easier than going through this hole in the floor again. I’ll call them when we get back. Maybe they can send out an inspector.”

  Albert sank onto a bale of hay, looking distracted.

  One of Jack’s horses whinnied softly from his stall door, and I smiled and approached him. I missed my own two Morgans at home and longed for a peaceful ride through the woods and fields of the Genesee Valley. I scratched the bay gelding’s ears and stroked his nose until he grew bored and wandered back out to his pasture.

  Tired, I dropped beside Albert on the hay bale, resting against the rough wooden boards of the barn wall. We didn’t talk for a while, but listened to Robbie and Beckett discussing plans for the museum personnel to come the next day.

  Finally, Albert spoke up. “Disappointing.”

  He didn’t have to say more. I knew exactly what he meant. “I know. I was hoping we’d find the crosses, too.”

  I’d so wanted to put to bed the mystery, mostly for Albert’s family’s sake, but also—I had to admit—a certain part of me wanted the satisfaction of knowing we’d solved the mystery of their disappearance. I thought we’d been “this” close, so many times, and each time my hopes had risen, then plummeted. If I felt like this—and I’d only known about the crosses for days instead of years—I couldn’t imagine a lifetime of searching for them. Albert’s disappointment had to be crushing.

  I laid a hand on his shoulder. “We sure tried, though, didn’t we?”

  He looked up with a sad smile. “That we did, young fella. That we did.”

  Robbie approached with Beckett at his side. “Tomorrow the museum crew is coming by. You all want to be part of that?”

  I quickly agreed. “Absolutely. I’d love to see their reaction to the find and help them sort and pack the treasures, if they want help.”

  “They’re bringing a guy from the historical society, too.”

  I looked up at Beckett. “Someday, you might want to involve them in all of the stuff we moved today and the information you’ve uncovered. Especially the story of the blacksmith and the tales of the McNabb and Cook history. But right now, I figure it’s probably a bit too raw to expose the whole thing to the world.”

  “Maybe someday I’ll write a book about it.” He sighed. “I’m glad we moved it out of the way. I don’t think I could manage people asking me about my parents right now. Or even about the treasure and its origins.”

  “It would be pretty sensational. You might even get strangers coming up to you claiming that their ancestors were robbed at sea. They might pour out of the woodwork, trying to take advantage of you.”

  Robbie nodded. “It’s definitely best to keep it private,” he said. “It’ll be hard enough to keep treasure hunters from coming around the property knowing about the Egyptian find. That’s why I’m trying so hard to limit tomorrow’s visit to just a few officials from the museum.”

  Albert said, “But word will get out, mind you. It always does.”

  I blinked. “Right. Maybe we should assign someone to guard the property until the Egyptian vault is cleared? It might be worth hiring a service. I mean, you hear about people taking advantage after a storm, looting and such. If they hear about the fire, they might try to pick through the ruins. They might even find the cellar door and snoop around down there.”

  Beckett’s eyes widened. “I didn’t think of that.”

  Albert stood and stretched. “I’ll call Buddy. He hires out guys to watch the docks and yachts over in Hyannis. Maybe one of them would like to pick up some extra cash.”

  Beckett went white. “Wait a minute. I don’t have any cash, guys. I just have what was in my wallet, which was about ten bucks.”

  “Don’t worry, we’ll figure something out.” I held up a hand. “I’ve been through this before. There’s a process, but the lawyer will guide you through it. We’ll have to get the death certificates and bring them to the bank and the lawyer. I’m sure the will leaves everything to you, Beckett. Once that process is down, the accounts will go into an estate fund. That takes time, because they have to pay all the outstanding bills and handle the taxes next spring, but you’ll get access through the executor, whoever that may be, eventually. You can write checks to protect or handle the estate’s business, like the funeral home expenses. And I’d think protecting the property with a security guard might be a legit expense. You could probably get an advance on your inheritance money.”

  Robbie said, “For the immediate future, we could sell some of the gold or silver from the sea chests to get you enough cash to survive until it’s all completed. I know a guy from the village who’s very reliable and discreet. If you want,
I’ll contact him.”

  Beckett stood silently before us. He heaved a shuddering sigh, and tears began to stream down his cheeks. “Thank you, guys. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

  Chapter 46

  The curator of the Boston Museum of Fine Arts Egyptian exhibit stood with eyes shining, gawking at the Egyptian treasures in the underground vault. I wondered if Mr. Pompey would collapse on the floor from sheer delight, but he grabbed my arm to steady himself and managed to stay upright. He stuttered and tried to speak, but nothing coherent came out. The light from the gas lamps on the walls reflected in his owlish glasses and after a few minutes, he raised one hand to his mouth, finally able to mutter a few words. “Oh my Lord. I didn’t expect…” A frail man with wispy white hair worn in a comb-over, he stood and gaped, the fingers on one hand twitching.

  Ms. Lana Washington, The Brewster Historical Society President, let out a raspy breath. She ran fingers through her spiky white hair and grinned. “Hot damn.” I’d pictured a scholarly—most likely elderly and tottering—person with spectacles when we’d been told a historian was joining us today. But this lady was probably in her mid-sixties, so not “elderly” by any means, and her cutoff jeans and psychedelic tee-shirt—probably from one of the first Jimi Hendrix concerts in Boston in the sixties—in addition to her hiking boots and mannish haircut, had surprised me. And there were no spectacles, either. She wore unnaturally bright blue contacts. I loved being surprised like this and took to her immediately. She insisted we call her Lana.

  Beckett had stayed behind with Camille, who arranged a visit with his parents’ lawyer and later a visit with the funeral home. He’d have no free time today, and although he seemed a little nervous about what was in store for him, Camille promised to stay by his side. Jane wanted to come with him, too, but bringing a baby to a lawyer’s office and cemeteries didn’t seem sensible, so she begrudgingly stayed home.

  Albert and Robbie stood nearby, smiles plastered on their faces.