Saints & Strangers (A Sam Warren Mystery)

by Richelle Elberg

  This year she’d talked a lot about the wedding, playfully moaning about things like her dress dilemma: strapless or halter top. In late September she uploaded a new collection with at least a hundred wedding photos. She named the album “Officially a Ball & Chain.”

  Anna’s posts drew lots of comments and “Likes”; she was a popular woman. She had nearly four hundred Facebook friends. I think I have around thirty. Again I felt the pain of her senseless death. (“Rule #1: You can’t become emotionally attached to the victim, Sam,” said Dad.)

  “Easier said than done,” I muttered to the computer monitor.

  “What’s easier said than done?” asked Milo. He obviously wasn’t tuned in to the Dad channel. I blushed.

  “Nothing, nothing, just thinking out loud. Let’s switch over to Perkins.”

  I tapped around a bit, but Perkins didn’t even use Facebook’s privacy settings. No hacking required in order to see his profile. I’d noticed in various hacking forays that a lot more women than men hid their profiles from lurkers, for obvious reasons. Too bad Anna Fuller’s caution hadn’t kept her safe.

  Alan Perkins wasn’t much of a FB talker. He had a few photos, most the same as Anna’s, and he occasionally shared a political joke. He liked Mad Men and Weeds.

  “Good taste in TV,” said Milo.

  “If you say so,” I said. I usually read a book out on the deck in the evening. Austerity measures had forced me to cancel cable a year ago.

  “I’m not getting the sense that this couple had problems,” said Milo.

  I leaned back and sighed heavily. “Well, we can’t rule Perkins out, but, it does seem as if they were disgustingly happy.”

  I hacked into Anna Fuller’s Microsoft Outlook program at her work and we studied her emails and calendar. Her emails were mostly work related, with a few to her mother thrown into the mix. In her calendar, in addition to work-related meetings, she’d noted ‘Drinks with Zeke’ two weeks ago, ‘dentist appointment’ in a week, and ‘family reunion’ in late November. Not one mention of an appointment with a hangman.

  “You think this could be work related?” Milo said.

  “I don’t know,” I said slowly. “Probably not, but let’s look some more at the company and the co-workers she spent the most time with.”

  We spent another hour on it.

  Finally, I’d had enough. I stood up and stretched.

  “Time to digest,” I said. “Let’s take a break and then look into John Clarkson and the Smits. Anna Fuller looks more and more like a random victim to me.”

  “A break sounds good to me,” Milo said. “Maybe we can take a break up in your room?” He put his finger on my chin and tilted my head up. Oh shit.

  “Milo, what the hell? Since when are you so interested in me?” I stepped back and glared up at him. I couldn’t solve a murder and resist my attraction to Milo at the same time. I was only Batgirl, I wasn’t super human.

  “Since 1999.”

  I stared at him. “Yeah, right, Milo.”

  That was low. I’d barely seen him over the past decade and now he was trying to suggest that he’d been thinking about me all this time? I wasn’t falling for it. I stormed out on the deck and then swung around, nearly crashing in to him.

  “You know, Milo, it’s one thing to come on to me, to flirt, to talk about sex. That’s what guys do. But for you to suggest that you’ve been thinking about me for all these years is just insincere, manipulative bullshit. You want it that bad, go work on someone else; I won’t let you fuck with my emotions, Milo Cooke.” I was breathing hard and a fire was spreading through my belly. “You know what? We’re done here for today.”

  I avoided his eyes. He reached for me and I shrugged him off and ran down the steps to the beach.

  “Just go!” I yelled without looking back.

  A minute later I looked back. Milo was gone.

  Pepper was trailing me down the beach as I huffed along. He took off running ahead and then stopped, scratched around in the sand and raised his tail.

  “Pepper, no!” I yelled, but it was too late. White Horse Beach, in Pepper’s opinion, makes one dandy litter box. Now I’d have to get a plastic bag and come back before some toddler stuck his shovel in it. Or mistook it for a chocolate-covered pretzel.

  “Christ, Pep,” I said as he scampered up and did his sideways jump-run thing past me. Taking a dump always gave him a surge of energy.

  “We’ve had this talk before. I didn’t want a dog when I got you.”

  But despite his quirks—the occasional dump on the beach, the occasional dead mouse on the kitchen floor—Pepper was my best bud. Lately there had been whole weeks where he was the only one I talked too.

  “What do you think, Pep? Was I crazy to go off on Milo like that? I mean, he did save me from that moron Tommy last night….but still.”

  Pepper ran ahead after some gulls.

  “Hey! Are you listening to me?”

  He came trotting back.

  “I thought Milo was just, you know, flirting. That’s what guys do, they flirt. They think about sex like eight times a minute. How could he say what he said, like he’s been pining away for me since high school?”

  (“You’re still mad he didn’t try harder after Mom died,” said Dad. “You secretly wish he’d stuck by you, even when you were a bitch and pushed him away.”) Fucking Dad. He’d nailed it.

  I picked up a small stone and tossed it up the beach. Pepper ran after it and then stood perplexed among the thousands of pebbles.

  “Come on Pep,” I yelled. I turned around and headed back toward home. I needed to call Milo; I owed him an apology. And I had an appointment with a cat turd.

  Chapter 9

  I got a plastic bag, returned to the offending spot and did my duty with the doodie. Pepper sniffed around like he’d never been there before and couldn’t imagine where that little pile came from.

  “You know exactly how that got there,” I said to him. He just stared back at me with his round, yellow eyes, long black tail straight and high. He was the picture of a clear feline conscience.

  “Oy vey,” I muttered.

  We wandered back up the beach. I wasn’t sure what to say to Milo. I wanted to atone for my freak-out without making him think that he could keep hitting on me. My emotional stability was questionable; part of me was desperate to think that he and I might get together again, and the other part was scared shitless that he was just looking for a fuck-buddy. I wouldn’t be able to handle that.

  I was mumbling out loud, practicing what I would say when we got back to the house.

  “I got food,” Milo called from the kitchen.

  Jeeesus! Who else wanted to let themselves into my house when the mood struck?

  I stormed into the kitchen, all notions of atonement and calm adult-like behavior forgotten.

  “Just what the hell—”

  Milo turned from the counter and put his hands on my shoulders and looked down at me.

  “Sam. Stop. I’m sorry.”

  I stared up into his liquid brown eyes and Goddammit, tears stung my eyelids.

  “I’ll stop with the come-ons, okay? I like you Sam. I’ve always liked you. But I shouldn’t have been so pushy. Let’s work together and see what else develops.”

  I turned my head and sniffled.

  “Batgirl and Robin, right?”

  I was quiet for another few seconds. Finally, I looked back at him and said, “Did Robin bring something good for lunch?”

  He grinned. “Holy tuna salad, Batgirl!”

  I was drying the last of our lunch dishes—I figured I could only push the sidekick thing so far—when Milo said, “Why don’t we go talk to John Clarkson? In person.”

  “And say what? We’re not official, Milo.”

  “We’ll tell him we’re freelance writers. This thing’s all over the news. He won’t know the difference.”

  I thought it over.

  “I guess that could work…but I’m more intereste
d in Charles Smit and his so-called church.”

  “Right, I know, but the best way for us to talk to him is to go to his church on Sunday. Which we should do. But in the meantime, let’s talk to the actor.”

  He was right. Which bothered me a little. I wanted to drive, so to speak. But…he was right. I shrugged. “I guess so.”

  We reviewed Clarkson’s statement on finding the body and Dennis and Turk’s interview notes and Clarkson’s rap sheet. He’d been arrested for assault in 1997 and his ex-wife put a restraining order on him in 1999. In 2004 he’d been arrested for DUI. Clarkson wasn’t on Facebook and we didn’t have a photo, so I hacked the DMV and found his driver’s license.

  He was forty-five and decent looking, with longish grey hair, pale blue eyes and rosy cheeks and nose. He was five ten and weighed one eighty according to his license—which put him around two hundred pounds. There’s a ten percent decline in body mass whenever a person walks through the door at the Department of Motor Vehicles. It’s a well-documented phenomenon.

  “He says he was at the Galway Pub the night of the hanging,” said Milo.

  “And Liz Smit thinks he’s got a drinking problem. DUI seems to confirm that.”

  “Would ye like a pint of bitter then?” Milo said in a terrible Irish accent.

  I laughed and said, “Let me change and try to do something with this eye.”

  An hour later we parked along Court Street in Plymouth and headed for the Galway Pub. It was nestled among the brick shops and bars that lined the main commercial drag through town. Shamrocks dotted the sign and an Irish flag hung above the door.

  A skinny woman with long, dark dyed hair and too much makeup stood out front talking on her phone. She was somewhere between thirty and sixty—it’s hard to tell with sun worshipers. She wore a short pink sun dress covered by a tatty cardigan and accessorized with stilettos and an extra-long cigarette. Not exactly the image Virginia Slims had in mind.

  She smiled up at Milo as we walked by, paying me no attention whatsoever. I stifled a giggle as we took our seats at the bar. He rolled his eyes, but before he could speak, Ms. Slims pushed into the bar and perched on the stool next to Milo.

  “Work it,” I said under my breath. I rose and went to the ladies room.

  The Galway Pub was a cramped watering hole with a bar down one wall and a few small tables along the other side. The décor consisted mostly of funny Irish signs, like “When Irish Eyes are Smiling, They’re Usually Up to Something” and “God Created Liquor to Keep the Irish from Conquering the World.” There was no dinner menu, but a nice display of lottery tickets hung behind the bar. I wondered how often the patrons got lucky with those. Probably the bar owner was luckier.

  When I came back, Virginia had removed her cardigan and her dress strap had ‘slipped’ down off her shoulder. Her hand rested on Milo’s arm and she had her face close to his, regaling him with some story from her Miss Plymouth days. Seriously?

  I sat, smiled, and waited for Milo to bring me into their conversation. She narrowed her eyes at me and then pulled her hand away from Milo.

  “Did he do that to you, honey?” she asked in a husky voice. Two packs a day for sure.

  “Oh, no! I was in a minor car accident.”

  “Well good. Can’t stand a man who beats on his woman.”

  “Oh, I’m not Milo’s—”

  “Margie, this is Sam Warren,” Milo said smoothly. “She’s my…assistant. Sam, this is Margie Cooper.”

  I kicked Milo’s shin but smiled sweetly at Margie, who, once reassured that Milo wasn’t a hitter, returned her hand to his arm.

  “Margie was telling me about how a bunch of the Plimoth Plantation crew drinks here. When you were in the bathroom. She knows John Clarkson, too; she says he’s here most days by six.”

  I smiled and nodded. That meant Margie was here most days by six too. It was only four.

  “I was telling her how I’m writing an article on the Plimoth Plantation murder and would like to interview some of the actors,” he added.

  He’s writing an article?

  “Well, I guess we got lucky,” I simpered.

  “So, like I was telling him,” Margie said, “John and some of the Plantation crew was here that night. But John and Melissa—that’s his latest squeeze—got into it and he stormed off early.”

  “Do you remember what time that was, Margie?” Milo smiled.

  Margie wrinkled up her forehead and took a sip of her drink. “Well, I was outside talking on the phone when he left. Let me check my calls.” She took a new iPhone off the bar and tapped expertly through the screens with inch-long blue fingernails.

  Could someone please explain to me why this raggedy woman in a K-Mart dress has an iPhone and I don’t? It’s like the body mass phenomenon at the DMV. Indisputable. The lower a person’s economic status appears to be, the higher the probability that they will own the best cell phone available. I looked at my old flip phone and sighed.

  “Right, here it is. I was talking with my daughter, Terry. She called at 11:15 and we talked for ten minutes. John stormed by just as I was saying goodnight to Terry. So, around 11:25.”

  “Wow, thanks, Margie. I guess I owe you a drink for that.” Milo called to the bartender, who was seated at the other end watching television.

  “Can we have another for the lady, please? On me.”

  Margie beamed. I had a feeling she didn’t pay for many drinks. Maybe that explained the iPhone.

  “Was John here last night, Margie?” I asked.

  She glanced at me then replied to Milo.

  “Hell, yes, he was here last night, bragging up a storm just cuz he found that body over there. Like that makes him some kind of celebrity. He sat up here telling the story over and over again. Didn’t he, Sherry?”

  The bartender rolled her eyes.

  “I got it memorized.” In a deep, exaggerated British accent Margie said, “Got in to work at nine-fifteen like always, opened up the house and walked in as usual. Went to stow my keys and my phone in the corner and I walked right into her!” Margie snickered. “John still thinks he should have gone to work for the Royal Shakespeare Company, ‘if only family obligations didn’t hold me back,’” she added in the accent. We all chuckled.

  My mind wandered as Margie and Milo continued talking. If John Clarkson left the pub around eleven-thirty he would have had enough time to get to Plimoth Plantation well before the estimated time of death. But that only worked if he grabbed Anna Fuller before going to the bar—unless he didn’t come in at six that night. Anna Fuller called her husband from their condo around eight and he arrived home to an empty condo at ten-thirty.

  I leaned around Milo. Margie’s strap had fallen even lower and a lacy pink bra was peeking out from under her sun dress. Her cleavage was deep and brown and lined with a thousand little wrinkles. Note to self: Sunscreen!

  “Margie, do you remember what time John came in two nights ago? Was he here at six like usual? Did he come in with Melissa?”

  Margie gave me an irritated look but then wrinkled up her brow again. Finally, she smiled at Milo. “Actually, he got here around nine that night. His gang came in earlier, but he got here later. He was with Melissa. I just figured he and Melissa were doing the nasty.”

  She said this with no hint of embarrassment while looking right into Milo’s eyes. Plymouth, Massachusetts, America’s Home Town, otherwise known as Cougar Town USA. I still couldn’t figure out Margie’s age, but her blatant flirting with Milo was getting on my nerves.

  I hopped off my bar stool.

  “Milo, don’t forget you’ve got that…thing. We’ll have to come back later to speak with John Clarkson and the other actors.” I smiled at Margie. “It was sooo nice to meet you,” I added, before marching out the door.

  Milo thanked Margie, gave her a peck on the cheek, threw some money on the bar and sauntered after me.

  Milo had an amused look on his face all the way back to my house, but despite his maddening
smirk, I refused to take the bait. Maybe it bothered me a little to see Margie all over him, but I wasn’t about to admit that to Milo. Not after my performance that morning. And anyway, he already knew it. We both knew it. We just weren’t going to discuss it.

  “So, what do you think?” I asked. “Clarkson had time to do it, unless he was doing the nasty with Melissa between eight and nine.” I made finger quotes when I said the word ‘nasty.’

  “Maybe he found out he was going to get the boot. Wanted to ruin the Thanksgiving season for the Plantation. Get back at Mrs. Smit.”

  I twisted this around in my head.

  “But if he really has a drinking problem, wouldn’t he have been too shitfaced to do such a clean job? So far, forensics isn’t coming up with squat. Not a single fiber or hair. We should see if the bartender remembers what he drank that night. Maybe he ran a tab.”

  “True,” Milo said. “Or maybe it wasn’t a one-man job?”

  “Interesting.” I said. “I’ve been working under the assumption it’s just one guy. But you’re right. Maybe there’s more. Maybe it’s not even a guy.”

  “Well, the ME said she wasn’t raped, so it got me thinking again about motive.”

  I nodded. “Right.”

  No brilliant deductions came to me. Why would someone hang a young woman at Plimoth Plantation? And what the hell was “In the name of God, Amen” supposed to mean? We rode in silence the rest of the way home.

  Chapter 10

  I went out to my deck with some cheese doodles. Milo might know how to cook, but cheese doodles were a staple in my diet and that wasn’t about to change just because he put some vegetables in my fridge. I sat munching and studying the waves for a couple of minutes, then brushed the neon orange powder from my fingers and called Dennis.

  “Whatchya got, Nance?” he answered. I could hear Turk chortling in the background; they were in the car somewhere. He was using a hands-free device.