Death Across the Lake

by Lyle Hightower

  CHAPTER FOUR

  “You all need to back away from the building,” Chief yelled at the assembled mob. I recognized most of the faces from the assembly the night before. Angry farmers have a look to them, sort of gaunt and enraged. “We’re trying to figure out what’s happened, but you need to let the police pursue the investigation, and we can’t do that if we have to be out here arguing with all of you.”

  “This is monstrous,” cried out one of the farmers, a young woman in overalls. The crowd echoed her sentiment, yelling and jeering at Chief and Molly, who was standing next to him with her arms up, trying to keep them back.

  “How do we know you’re going to find the culprit?” another said. “What reason do we have to trust you?” said another.

  I pushed through the crowd and stood next to Molly. “You all need to go,” I yelled out.

  “Why?” said one.

  “Make us,” said another.

  “We will if we have to, believe me. I will gladly fight every last one of you with my bare hands if I have to, but I know that I don’t have to, because if a single one of you so much as touches me or anyone else standing on these steps, we won’t hesitate to start shooting. Do you understand?”

  They quieted down somewhat. Chief looked at me disapprovingly.

  “In the meantime, we’re pursuing this as a murder investigation, which should tell you, if you’re listening right, that we take this very seriously, and we intend to get our man.”

  That last bit I did on purpose. As much as Nora looked like our man, I didn’t want anyone jumping to conclusions. The farmers started to mill about as if they were unsure what to do next.

  “I think you all should have lunch. There are food stands a ways up Church Street, if you walk for about five minutes. If you’re looking for something more upmarket, let me recommend Halvorson’s. It’s been open for seventy years, since before the troubles. And for your own safety please stay away from the bars along the waterfront.”

  They seemed to appreciate this last bit of folksy advice, and calmed down a bit more. I was being sarcastic, but as near as I could tell they liked it, and they started walking up the hill as a group.

  “Those people were armed, to the last one of them,” Chief said.

  “So’s everyone these days,” I said.

  “I know that, Bailey. But what I mean is, this place is a powder keg. And if we don’t figure this out soon, we could be in real trouble.”

  “We could be in trouble if we solve it too,” I said.

  Molly laughed.

  “Fair point,” Chief said, seriously. “Let’s go inside, get you debriefed.”

  Chief showed me into his office and had me go through everything for him. When he’d arrived that morning, I and Velasquez had already left for the hotel, and what he knew about the situation came from the beat cops who had processed the room and brought the body back to the morgue, as well as Velasquez’ breathless recounting of what he knew when he got back to the station house an hour before I did. I put it all together for him.

  “So we have the murder weapon, most likely, a clear line of ownership over it, and a possible motive. But like I said, Chief, there’s things that don’t make sense, if you think about it. I’m not saying Nora Cartwright didn’t do it, but if she did, she went about it…strangely.”

  “The evidence is clear enough for an arrest,” he said, as he looked through his desk for something. He opened the bottom drawer and pulled out a small cloth bag. It was his coffee, the same stash I’d used to make coffee for the mayor the night before. He walked over to the credenza on the far side of the room and pulled out a small metal contraption with a handle. It was a coffee grinder, and he poured some of the beans into it and turned the crank. It made an unpleasant cracking sound.

  “We can arrest her, sir, but I don’t think she did it,” I said, yelling over the noise. He finished and turned on his kettle. He put the coffee in a little sieve and placed it on top of a chipped mug that said “#1 Mother”.

  “If she didn’t do it, someone sure tried to make it look like she did,” he said.

  “In which case we might want to play along and see what happens. But why would anyone do that in the first place?”

  “Well let’s not let go of the idea that Nora did do it. She’s still the most likely suspect by a mile, but your skepticism is warranted, I think. Does she have any enemies, on a personal level? Business?”

  Nora Cartwright probably had a lot of enemies. You don’t get to be head of the merchant’s association by being nice. She may have represented a collection of small-time shopkeepers, but there was power in the office. She could influence elections, and held enough leverage that if you owned a storefront in the downtown and you got on her bad side, she could probably put you out of business. Not that she was spiteful, but it had been known to happen.

  “She must. But for someone to both kill Peck and frame her, that takes a bigger agenda,” I said.

  “Political?”

  “Could be.”

  “We should bring her in,” Chief said. “I’ll tell the mayor what’s happening, she’ll want to suspend the negotiations.”

  With that, I left to go find Nora Cartwright.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Nora lived in a white clapboard house on Pine Street, fifteen minutes away from the station. I decided to go through the Champlain electronics market. If any angry farmers were following me, I’d be able to lose them there. The details of the case, the fact that Nora’s pencil seemed to be the murder weapon, would be explosive if it got out. She’d be accused of being a Minutemen spy, which I supposed was possible, but somehow I doubted it. Even if they didn’t think she was a spy, it made coordinating defence all the more difficult. If the merchants and the farmers couldn’t agree to a compromise plan, we’d be sitting ducks.

  The market was busy. It was a city block, formerly a parking lot that now served as a place to get things fixed. It had started when a lone refrigerator repairman who’d been evicted from his storefront set up a stall, using a portable wind turbine to generate power. Quickly it had turned into a sprawling, semi-permanent marketplace, where you could get anything fixed, from bicycles to ultralight aircraft. I’d even had an ancient watch, given to me by my uncle, fixed by an old man who did a brisk business in watch and clock repair. I wandered through the market, which was more subdued than usual, but still bustling, certain that I wasn’t being followed, and exited, taking a shortcut through an alley, which eventually dumped me out onto Pine Street.

  I walked up to Nora Cartwright’s house, and knocked on the door. Nora’s husband Ned answered the door almost immediately.

  “Detective Bailey, nice to see you. What’s this about?” he asked. Ned Cartwright was a sour old man, who had made money in agricultural supplies before some kind of episode–I’d heard it referred to as a fit–caused him to sell up and retire. Nora still ran a clothing store on Church Street that did a brisk business in repairs, as well as importing fabric from New York State and Quebec.

  “Is Nora in, Mr. Cartwright?”

  “Yeah, she’s…” he motioned behind him and opened the door. Nora was lying down on a day bed, her hand over her face to keep the sun out of her eyes.

  “Nora, Mr. Bailey is here from the police.”

  With that she sat up slowly and looked across the living room at me. There was a dark bruise on her forehead, and even from this distance I could see a red mark around her neck where the chain had laid against her skin. There were bruises on her upper arms as well.

  “Show him in Ned.”

  Ned took me into the living room and Nora motioned for me to sit across from her in a large leather chair. It was a small house, but they lived in luxury, with nice restored furniture and wallpaper that wasn’t peeling or faded.

  “Ned, bring us some water, and see if we have any tea. I’m sure Detective Bailey would appreciate some.” Turning to me: “Please excuse my appearance. I was accosted last night by thugs, after t
he general assembly. It was just around the corner from here as it happens. They hit me over the head with some kind of metal object, maybe a pipe. At that point I almost lost consciousness. They grabbed my bag, and ripped the chain from my neck, and with it my pencil, and then shoved me to the ground.”

  Her injuries looked real from where I was sitting.

  “I’m sorry to hear that. Why didn’t you come to the police?”

  “I didn’t think it would be of much use. I planned to file a report today, but my only real concern was that I might have a concussion. Early this morning I went to see Dr. Philips, around the corner. She thought I might have a mild concussion, but that it was nothing to worry about. She gave me the usual checklist of things to look out for, in case my condition got worse.”

  I’d have Velasquez check out her story with Dr. Philips later.

  “Irving Peck is dead,” I said.

  She didn’t react at first. Then: “Could you repeat that?”

  “Irving Peck is dead.”

  The colour drained from her face, just as Ned walked back in the room, carrying a tray with glasses of water and two cups of tea.

  “Honey, you look like you’ve seen a ghost,” he said.

  “Irving Peck is dead. Mr. Bailey just told me.”

  “Good God,” he said, putting down the tray on the end table next to my elbow. I hesitated for a moment, not wanted to tell her the rest. I hadn’t had a cup of tea in years. I was sure Ned and Nora could barely afford to have it in the house, but there was something to be said for keeping up appearances.

  “Tell me what happened, Mr. Bailey,” she said.

  “He was found dead in his hotel room. Your pencil was sticking out of his neck.”

  “Oh,” was all she said.

  “The truth is, Mrs. Cartwright, is that I’m here to arrest you for his murder.”

  She looked like she was about to cry.

  “This is an outrage,” Ned started, before Nora put up her hand. “Ned, please.” She turned to me. “I can assure you I didn’t do this. I think what happened to me bears that out.”

  “Yes, quite. But I’m not in a position to say one way or another. I think it would be best if you cooperated and came along without a fight. For your own safety if nothing else.”

  “What do you mean, my safety?”

  “We can’t keep a lid on this forever. There are already mobs of angry Farmers’ Union people in town, demanding answers. As the details get out, your life will be in some danger. You’ll be safer with us.”

  She sighed and looked resigned. “Can we at least drink our tea? It’s so dreadfully expensive. I’d hate to see it go to waste. I’d be much obliged if we stayed here long enough to drink it.”

  “Of course,” I said, and we drank the weak tea in silence, Ned furtively looking to his wife, who only stared at the floor, her eyes fixed on one spot, unmoving.

  CHAPTER SIX

  I walked Nora to the police station. She insisted that Ned stay behind and try to get a hold of their lawyer. I’ll be honest, I still wasn’t convinced she was innocent. Suspects who turn out to be innocent aren’t usually so stoic about the whole process. They usually cry, beg, plead. It was as if she knew it was coming, and it only made the whole thing more confused. As I walked her to the station I got a closer look at her bruises and the red mark around her neck. If she’d had someone do them to her, she’d been sure they hadn’t pulled any punches. The bruise on her head was starting to come into stark relief, the shape of a large metal pipe coming up through the skin. I also hadn’t seen any signs of blood under her fingernails, which you would usually see after a messy scene like that. Doesn’t mean she couldn’t of cleaned up, but crimes of passion often leave the perpetrator unprepared for what comes next. We’d have to keep an eye on Ned too. If she’d done it, he would know.

  Thankfully there was no one milling around the entrance to the police station and I was able to get her booked and in a cell without anyone noticing. One of the uniforms did the booking, and I made it clear to him that he was not to tell anyone, under any circumstances, that we had arrested her. I had him send for Nora’s lawyer, a man named Smitty Franklin who lived just outside of town in Essex Junction, to come see her.

  After that I went down to the morgue to see the body. Velasquez was there, just finishing his cleanup. He’d never done one before, and I watched him work for a while. He hadn’t seen me, and I could tell he was nervous.

  “How’s it looking Velasquez?”

  He started, looking up at me.

  “Hey boss, how…how long have you been standing there?”

  “Just a few seconds, Anything to report?”

  “I just finished cleaning him, I followed the manual.”

  We didn’t have a real medical examiner. When we needed someone, we’d get a doctor, but most of the time one of the uniforms would follow an old autopsy manual written for pathology students sometime in the aughts. The thing was crumbling at the edges but we hadn’t found a suitable replacement. One day soon we’d have to get one of the uniforms to copy the thing out, diagrams and all. If there was budget enough maybe we could find someone with some artistic skill to do that part. The library had an old xerox, but I was pretty sure it was busted. We should’ve taken advantage when it was still working.

  “How many holes?” I asked.

  “Just the one, in the neck, from the pencil. It’s the jugular, so that explains the blood. But no other puncture wounds. Is it possible that he died from some internal injuries that we’re not seeing?”

  “Anything’s possible,” I said, looking over the body, “but the only reason that would be relevant would be if someone was trying to convince us that the pencil was what killed him. But I’m not seeing any signs of of a beating or other trauma. What are these?” I asked, pointing at his wrists. He had faint marks around the circumference of his wrists. Are these ligature marks?”

  “Could be, I’m sorry, I really don’t know.”

  “They aren’t that apparent. I could almost have missed them. And look at these on his ankles, the same, though even less pronounced.” There were faint red marks across his ankles. “Maybe he was bound. If he was, then the ligatures might have gone over his pants, which would account for why these are so faint. The ones around his hands might have been padded.”

  There was also a bruise on his forehead, but it was faint. I pointed this out to Velasquez. “He was killed within hours of this wound.”

  “Then this was premeditated,” Velasquez said.

  “I can’t see any other way,” I said. “But once you have someone bound and gagged, you don’t stab them in the neck with a pencil unless you want to make it look like it was an un-premeditated act.”

  “Makes sense,” Velasquez said.

  “Do you know when the family is coming to pick up the body?” I asked.

  “They aren’t.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The family sent word. They aren’t going to pick up the body. His widow won’t make the trip into town. They didn’t give any explanation.”

  “I’m used to dead vagrants lying here unclaimed, but Irving Peck, that’s just strange.”

  Velasquez shrugged, and I left him to put the body in storage–we’ve only got a few working refrigerators in the basement. It’s so rare that we ever need to examine a body–and went upstairs to my desk to write up my notes.

  Molly McHale came in. “Boss, I’m glad I found you. I think we got something.”

  “Go on…”

  “I was canvassing the area around the hotel. I thought that maybe someone in the neighbourhood might have seen something, and a woman who lives across the street says she saw a guy matching Peck’s description leaving the hotel at around midnight. Left by the front door, in the direction of the waterfront. So I checked by the waterfront. I thought maybe some longshoremen might have seen him. Sure enough, I found a guy at Craven’s, says he saw him not long after that. Walking down by the water, but he
kept going south, towards the old ferry terminal.”

  “He left by the front door?”

  “That’s what she said.”

  “I’d just assume he was going for a walk,” I said. “Except it’s more than likely the desk clerk lied about the fact that Peck left the hotel.”

  Molly shrugged. “What does it mean?” she asked.

  “I don’t know, but can you do me a favour? I need you to take another uniform and go to this address. You’re looking for the desk clerk, Willy Reinhold. I need you to bring him in for questioning. If he won’t come willingly, make up a charge. The guy might be ok, but he lives like a dirtbag, I’m sure you could find something. Bring him to interview room two. If he’s a reluctant guest, cuff him to the table.”

  Molly took the address I had written on a piece of paper, and left to find another uniform.

  I waited around for an hour, catching up on other paperwork, when I heard the door to the station house swing open, and I could hear what I assumed must have been Willy Reinhold being frog-marched to the interview room. Molly came to find me at my desk.

  “We got him, he put up a bit of a fight, said he had to go to work. I arrested him for that rape that was reported last week out near Winooski. That really sent him over the edge. I tried to be gentle but he really put up a fight.”

  Sure enough, Willy was cuffed to the table. He looked up at me with a helpless expression of fear on his bleeding face.

  “Willy, you really need to start making things easy for yourself,” I said.

  Garibaldi, a uniform, one of the old timers who mostly did desk work, came in with two glasses of water. “Garibaldi, can you bring a clean rag and a basin of water? We need to clean this guy up.”

  Garibaldi nodded, and left the room. I sat looking at Reinhold.

  “You want to explain why you didn’t tell me that Peck left the hotel at midnight last night, by the front door?”

  “I didn’t see him leave,” he said.