A smile touched Laura’s lips as she relented. “Okay, just know I’m making the coffee under protest.”
After doing so, she went to her room and carried two morgue books out to the sun porch. She stood for a moment taking in the serenity. As soon as the news broke about finding the skeleton, Cole Harbor would become a hive of gossip and speculation—and in a perverse way would draw vulturous curiosity seekers.
“Good morning, Friday.”
Deep in thought, his voice startled her. Her skin jumped, and she chided herself. “Coffee’s fresh.”
He nodded.
Phyllis intervened. “You two go ahead with business.” She turned to the kitchen.
“The scratches on your face look better this morning. At least you no longer look like you tangled with a wild cat.”
He was making small talk, and Laura knew it. What was he waiting for—coffee?
“You don’t look so good yourself. Long night?”
“Yep. I phoned state police to let them know Dr. Musuyo and I were bringing in a skeleton rather than a fresh cadaver. We wanted to make sure our girl didn’t get lost in the shuffle just because it’s a cold case. By the time we arrived at the ME’s office in Augusta, filed some reports, and talked to the ME, it was around midnight when we got home.”
Her heart swelled. She wondered if yesterday’s chastisement had changed his mind about the case. “What is the estimated time, or time period, of death?”
Mitch accepted a mug of coffee from Phyllis. He waved away the cream and sugar.
“We won’t know for certain until the official report comes in.” He drank deep from the cup and offered his compliments on the coffee. “It’s a good thing you found her when you did. All that was left were the bones. No trace tissues remained, and due to the peaty soil’s acidity, the bones were beginning to dissolve. Ken put the time of death at approximately ten years, if not longer. He recorded the official cause of death as a broken hyoid bone, which is a horseshoe-shaped bone situated in the neck.”
Laura shuddered as she unconsciously reached up and touched her throat. “Any speculation about why the finger joints were removed?”
Mitch set his cup aside and leaned forward. He clasped his hands between his knees. “The victim may have put up a fight, scratched or clawed the murderer. He probably feared if her body was discovered that his skin would be under her fingernails. Somehow, he may have known DNA is conclusive and would get him life in prison.”
Phyllis had been sitting quietly, listening. Now her voice was indignant. “It’s too bad Maine doesn’t recognize the death penalty.”
“I agree, Aunty Philly. Cutting off the joints is uber extreme. How would he have known to do such a horrible thing? And—here’s a thought—what did he do with them? Keep them for souvenirs?”
Philly tsked. “He had enough foresight to row the body out to the island. My guess is that along the way he tossed them overboard, and the finger joints became fish food.”
“There are a lot of sickos in this world, and I’ve seen my share of them.”
“Friday…” Mitch brought the conversation between the two women back to the present. “Yesterday, before leaving the island, you whispered something about knowing the victim’s identity.”
She leaned forward to lift one of the morgue books from the table. “Before I show you, and for you to understand, I need to preface this with the night of the séance.”
He ran a hand over his face and peered at her through splayed fingers. “Séance.”
She pierced him with a warning look. “Yes, and if you even hint at poking fun, you’re out of here.”
He raised his eyebrows. “I’m a lawman in pursuit of evidence. Whatever you have, I’ll heed it carefully.”
She watched his face as she gave him the rundown of what had happened that night at Maudie Perry’s house, and then when the spirit had later appeared in her bathroom in the mirror.
He hadn’t laughed. Good.
Her throat was suddenly dry. She took a swallow of coffee. “This will sound like a script from a horror movie. Even so, bear with me and keep an open mind. I decided to go through Dan Fremont’s old morgue books to see if I could find a connection. Honestly, I didn’t expect to find this.” She opened the book and used her fingernail to tap the article. “Ten years ago, Lynnette Braswell, a young nurse, disappeared. Our girl was wearing a nurse’s uniform. What was left of it. As Aunt Philly explained, Lynnette’s disappearance was at the same time old Sheriff Gilman was ill, and then subsequently died. With the death of her father, Roberta Gilman found herself filling his position and trying to get a handle on everything at once, and apparently the case fell through the cracks. Dan did a great job of investigative reporting. He even took a picture of a picture from Lynnette’s apartment.”
Mitch turned the book for a better view of the yellowed photograph. “Do you mind making a copy of this? I’d like to fax the picture to the ME to see how close a forensic artist’s sketch matches this picture.” He stood. “Good work, Friday. I’ll pull case files to see which ones remain open or unsolved. Whatever I find, I’ll keep you posted.”
Laura placed her phone over the girl’s picture. In a few clicks she said, “Done. It should arrive on your phone in a minute.”
“The miracles of technology. I can remember when we didn’t have computers. Now, in the blink of an eye, we can share information from all over the world.” A guitar strum notified him the email had arrived.
Phyllis stood and gathered the cups. “Mitch, I remember when that girl disappeared. Since no foul play was suspected, none of us really gave it a second thought. Amos Gilman’s theory was that since she had no known family, she simply met a guy and ran off with him. It was many months later that her car was discovered by hikers. A body was never found. There was no registration, but folks at the hospital who knew Lynnette identified it as her vehicle. Amos died, and his daughter concluded the body was thrown from the vehicle, swept out to sea, and the fish took care of the rest. Case closed, and forgotten, until now.”
Laura made a half wry smile. “Do you think the killer stayed in Cole Harbor?”
Mitch gave the ladies a guarded look. “It is possible he assimilated himself into the town. What better place to hide than right out in the open?”
“Then, before you leave,” Laura picked up the second book and opened it to a marked page. “This is conjecture, nothing more. While I was searching, I found this article. Actually, I found it before I ran across the one about Lynnette. Twenty years ago, Brenda Alligood was murdered by Bennie Wiener. He was sixteen at the time, and declared mentally incompetent.”
“Okay, what’s your point?”
My point, Mitch, is that he broke her neck. I realize this picture was taken twenty years ago, but who does he remind you of?”
When Mitch drew a blank, Laura voiced her impatience. “Benjamin Noone.”
He leaned closer. “Sorry, don’t see a resemblance. But email me the article and picture. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got work to do.”
He tipped his hat and waited for Phyllis to lead him to the staircase. Half way down, he stopped and looked up. “Hey, Friday, when do you plan to put out the next edition?”
“If I have to stay up all night, a special edition will come out tomorrow. As soon as people get wind of our finding a body or a skeleton, they’ll start beating my door down for details. Might as well give them a few tidbits to nibble on.”
“Good. Also, print the picture of Lynnette and compare the missing girl as a possible connection to yesterday’s discovery. If our perp is in Cole Harbor, we might as well make him start sweating.”
Laura grabbed her laptop and the two large books and followed behind her aunt and Mitch. She needed to get to the newspaper office. There was work to do.
Chapter Thirteen
In the storage closet appropriately identified as the records and evidence room, Mitch walked up and down the twelve-by-twelve-foot square room, looking at
the shelved white storage boxes until he found one labeled Lynnette Braswell. Today was Louise’s day off, and he was glad. The woman had a way of grating on his nerves. Always smacking gum, filing her nails when she should be filing paperwork, nosy to a fault, and, in his opinion, had no business working in a sheriff’s office, where confidentiality was highly essential. Plus the fact that the woman set her own hours. It annoyed him that Sheriff Gilman never issued a reprimand to Louise about showing up late for work, or not showing up at all.
He pulled the box from the shelf and carried it to his desk. Sundays were relatively quiet. He expected to work without interruption. After a quick trip to the bathroom to relieve himself of all the morning coffee, he settled down and drew a deep breath as he lifted the cardboard lid and set it aside. He didn’t know what he had expected to find. Certainly not near to nothing. He fingered through the manila folders. Pulled one out. Ten minutes later he put down the file he was reading and picked another folder, skimmed through it, tossed it on the desk, and repeated the routine with file folder number three. These were just summary documents. He hated working a case from summary documents. Almost by definition the reports were filled with erroneous assumptions—assumptions and conclusions. For now, this was all he had, and they would have to do. He pinched the bridge of his nose. He was thinking hard and giving himself a headache.
His cell phone vibrated. He unhooked it from his belt and looked at the caller ID. The bottom nearly dropped out of his stomach. Why would the sheriff, his father’s best friend, be calling from El Paso—unless? “Sheriff Juh.”
“Howdy, Mitch.”
“Has something happened at the ranch?”
He didn’t miss the hesitation before Sheriff Alcaraz Juh spoke. “Nothing that needs your immediate attention. I think your mother’s condition is beginning to take a toll on your father. But that’s not why I’m calling.”
Mitch relaxed his shoulders. “Dad hasn’t called. You know him. He never complains.”
Whatever Al Juh might have said, Mitch knew the cantankerous former Texas Ranger never interfered in one’s personal affairs. Al’s voice was all business when he spoke. “Let’s cut to the chase. I’m retiring right after the November election. Forty years as a lawman is enough. I want you to take my place. Can you get here by the first of September?”
The first of September. This was the beginning of June. If he pushed, and pushed hard, he might be able to solve the mystery of Lynnette Braswell’s murder. Sparks of indecision rapid-fired inside Mitch’s brain. “My name would have to be put on the ballot, and I’d need to run for election. Besides, I’ve probably already missed the deadline for filing. Truth is, Al, I’m in the middle of a murder case. The current sheriff is on her honeymoon and not expected back on the job until July. There’s no time for me to campaign.”
“Listen, Mitch, you’re multilingual. You’re a decorated war vet, and your years of service with the Texas border patrol, plus whatever it is the hell you’re doing up there in Yankee territory, qualifies you a helluva lot more than the jackasses already on the slate. Your daddy paid your filing fee. All I need is your signature on the application and you’re on the ballot.”
Aggravation flashed through him. “You and my dad sure are assuming I’ll agree to this.”
Alcaraz Juh’s voice grew serious. “Mitch, two of the jacklegs on the ballot are as corrupt as they come. The other couldn’t find his asshole with a flashlight.”
Mitch laughed outright. “You must be talking about Bubba L’Roy.”
“I’m ready to hit the Send button on the fax machine. I need an answer now—not tomorrow.”
Mitch expelled an audible sigh. He riffled a hand through his hair. “Damn, Al. You’re putting me on the spot. I-I…”
“Hesitation will get you dead. You know that. What’s it gonna be? All I need is a yes or a no. If it’s no, your dad and I will try not to fault you.”
He was stagnating in Cole Harbor. Roberta Gilman would follow in her father’s footsteps and stay sheriff until she was toted out boots first. Did he want to remain second fiddle in a small seaside tourist community and end up dying of boredom and wondering why he didn’t do more with his life? Or did he want to run his own operation, busting drug mules and other nefarious criminals? He also rationalized that his sixty-five-year-old father wasn’t getting any younger and would eventually need help running the ranch. The bullet his mother had taken in the spine…the same day his bride of six weeks was killed… No, he wouldn’t go there, couldn’t go there. He didn’t save Susan. And he couldn’t restore the use of his mother’s legs. Wallow in it, or suck it up?
With the memory of Susan’s death playing through his mind, he said, “Fax the paperwork. I’ll sign it and send it back asap. Count on seeing me before Labor Day.”
“I knew we could depend on you. By the way, word on the street is Navarre Àron is the one who pulled the trigger on your mother and Susie. I would’ve told you before, but I didn’t want that to be your reason to run for sheriff. Get here, and I’ll help you take him and his gang down.”
A ring tone sounded. Mitch looked across the room. “Fax is coming through.”
“Good. Go solve your murder and wrap up any loose ends you have in Maine. Before you leave, call me with your flight information, and I’ll pick you up at the airport.”
When the call disconnected, Mitch stared at the phone. “What the hell have I just done?”
He rolled his chair over to the machine and grabbed the form. Before giving himself a chance to change his mind, he signed where Sheriff Alcaraz Juh had placed an X, and faxed it back.
Reaching into his back pocket, he removed and opened his wallet to carefully slide out a picture tucked away between various business cards. He gingerly ran his thumb over the smiling image. “I’m coming home, Susie. I’ll run for sheriff, and when I win, I’ll make my own rules. There won’t be a rock big enough for Navarre Àron or his gang to hide under.”
Since the murder of his wife, all his idyllic days had died. No more sitting in the porch swing sipping cold lemonade, or slow dancing to Garth Brooks. He nestled the photo back inside its resting place, his heart wanting to turn to stone.
He took another hour skimming through folders, looking for more conclusive information that would lead to evidence surrounding the mystery of Lynnette Braswell. Finding nothing, he placed all the files back in the box, closed it, and returned it to the records room. He flipped open his phone and dialed. He thrummed his fingers on the desk. “Friday, do you think your aunt would mind answering a few questions about Lynnette?”
He detected the hint of caution. “Why, surely she isn’t a suspect?”
He chuckled. “Absolutely not, but she’s the one person I trust to give me solid answers to a few tough questions.”
“Hold on. She’s with me at the newspaper.”
He heard Laura’s muffled voice and guessed she was asking her aunt about answering his questions.
“Aunt Philly says, ‘I’d be tickled pink.’ We don’t usually eat lunch on Sundays, and we treat ourselves out to supper. When did you want to do this?”
“What if I get take-out and bring it to your place? Crab cakes, baked beans, cole slaw, blueberry pie, beer?”
“Man after my own heart. We’ll supply the plates. Don’t worry about the beer. We’ve got plenty. What about six o’clock?”
“Deal.”
Mitch filled the hours filing paperwork. As much as he wanted to read the ME’s report on the skeleton, to know if she was really Lynnette Braswell, he’d learned to expect a wait of a couple of weeks, closer to a month, before such reports came through. But now that he’d agreed to run for sheriff of El Paso County, his impatience to solve this case intensified. He needed to work, and work fast.
At two o’clock he received a telephone call from Park Ranger Bryan Cole.
“Got something you should see, Mitch.”
“Yeah…what?”
“Think it’s better you see
rather than me telling you. You should also bring your crime kit.”
“Body?”
“No, not exactly. Like I said, you need to see firsthand.”
“Give me about half an hour.”
“I’ll meet you at the entrance.”
Mitch notified the answering service that he was on his way to Acadia National Park. He also called the Silly Lobster to place his order. “If I’m not there to pick up by 5:45 p.m., deliver it to Phyllis Friday. Do you need the address?…No, okay…Good.” He paid with his credit card.
A few minutes later found him locking the office door and unlocking the door to his blue-and-white police cruiser.
Tourist season had begun. RVs, vans, pickup trucks with campers on the back, and cars full of families and their gear all crawled single file toward the park’s entrance. His impatience growing, he grabbed the bubble, set it on top of the patrol car, and turned the siren to intermittent blasts. He used caution as he passed the line of vehicles until he reached the park entrance on Loop Road.
He spotted Ranger Cole as he walked from the building and waved him toward a parking space. Cole vigorously pumped Mitch’s hand.
“What you got?” Mitch hefted the black crime satchel from the back seat of the patrol car.
“Like I said over the phone, I’m not sure. Climb in. We’ll take the Mule 4x4 in from here.”
A ten-minute ride over rough terrain and past the wilderness campsites, the senior ranger rolled to a stop.
The air hung mild and faintly misty, and the grass was dappled green in the late afternoon sun. Another ranger jumped from her sitting position on a large rock to greet them.
“Deputy Carter, meet Ranger Jane Dorsey.”
Like her boss, Dorsey was dressed in khaki walking shorts, a matching khaki shirt with the park’s insignia badge sewn on the sleeve, and brogan hiking boots. A walkie-talkie was strapped to her waist.
Mitch glanced around the area, then quizzically asked, “What’s the range on the walkie-talkie, Ranger Dorsey?”
“Between seven and eight miles.”
Murder in the Mist Page 8
