“John Clarkson was out drinking the night of the murder at the Galway Pub, but he didn’t get there ‘til nine and he left at eleven-thirty. And Elizabeth Smit is planning to fire him. I’m going to go back there tonight and mingle with the actors. Seems a bunch of them are regulars.”
“Sam!”
“Don’t worry, Dennis, I’m going to pretend I’m writing an article. I’ll be casual, I’ll ask lots of questions everybody already knows the answers to, and then see what comes up when they’ve had a few drinks. I’m told they’re quite a bunch of drinkers.”
“Hmph.”
“It’ll be fine, Dennis! I can do this, no problem. Whereas you would never be able to pull it off—they’d know you’re a cop in a heartbeat.”
“She be right ‘bout that,” said Turk. “They got yo face under ‘homicide dick’ on Wikipedia.”
Dennis snorted. “Like you use Wikipedia.”
“I be a modern detective,” said Turk.
“I’ll call you if I get anything good. What’d you guys get today?”
I wanted to turn the conversation away from my undercover plan before Dennis officially nixed it. As for Milo…well, I could always say we just ran into each other at the bar if it came up.
“We spent half the day up in Boston talking to her parents, co-workers and bosses. Everyone loved her; she did a good job…” Dennis sighed heavily. “Big fat goose egg is what we got today.”
“Anything new on lab stuff? What about the tox screen?”
“Clean.”
“And the patch on her sleeve?”
“Standard white cotton, used in sheets sold at Wal-Marts across the country. Same with the ink, any red Sharpie. The Feebs got their analysts on the ‘AD.’”
“Okay, well…oh, wait. What if she got hit with a stun gun? It looked like not much of a struggle, so maybe she knew the guy. What if she were tasered?”
“Tasers leave marks and confetti all over the place. But a low voltage stun gun applied to her clothing might knock her out with no mark. We talked about it, but he could have just taken her at gunpoint.”
“Okay, thanks Dennis. I’ll call you.” I hit ‘end.’
Well that sucked. We had no way of knowing if Anna Fuller knew her killer or not.
After downing a big bowl of Trix, I scoured my closet for something that might look attractive, but wouldn’t look like I was trying to look attractive. After living in my dad’s hoodies for several years, I didn’t want to be too obvious.
I stood staring into the closet for nearly five minutes.
“As Dennis would say, a big fat goose egg is what I got, Pep,” I said. He opened one eye, yawned and then went back to sleep on my bed. Lotta help he was.
I settled on jeans and a collared white shirt, with a wide black belt and platform sandals. You can wear those when your date is tall. Not that this was a date. This wasn’t a date; Milo and I were working. But still, he was tall.
I spent some time working the frizz, but in the end I put it back up in a clip. Humidity sucks. The eye was still partly closed, but I used some extra cover-up and hid most of the purple. I put mascara and eyeliner on both eyes. Still not great, but at least I didn’t look like a Cyclops any more. I put my nine in my backpack and headed out.
I walked into the Galway Pub at five after eight. I didn’t see Milo, but I did see John Clarkson and a few of the other actors I’d taken photos of yesterday morning. I took a seat at the bar and ordered a Scotch.
“So I was rushing a tad, running a bit late ya see, and I walked right into the ‘ouse. Couldn’t see, ya know, eyes weren’t adjusted yet, and Bang! I bloody walked into ‘er! Thought it was a joke, ya know, but shite, when I saw ‘er eyes…And the smell!”
Margie was on the opposite end of the bar and I saw her roll her eyes. I smiled at her and she smiled back. She’d gotten Clarkson’s story exactly right. She picked up her drink and walked around Clarkson’s group and sidled up to me.
“Honey, you sure that boss of yours didn’t slap you around none? I know a place…”
I laughed.
“I’m sure. Trust me, Milo wouldn’t hurt a fly. In fact, Milo’s life partner says he’s the one who always has to kill the spiders at their place out in P-Town.” Ha! That ought to keep Margie from baring her breasts when Milo arrived.
“Oh,” she said. She took a drink. “Shame. S’always the lookers.” She glanced past me and smiled. “Speak of the devil.”
Milo squeezed in next to me. He was wearing a white collared shirt and jeans. Great. Now we looked more like the Bobbsey Twins than Batgirl and Robin.
“Ladies,” he said and then ordered a beer.
Margie picked up her drink and said, “Good luck with your article,” and headed over to talk with a pot-bellied, balding guy at the juke box.
Milo seemed confused as he stared after her. I giggled but kept my mouth shut. Finally he shook his head and looked down at me. “You ready to do this?”
“Yep.”
He picked up his beer and approached Clarkson.
“Mr. Clarkson?”
The actor turned on his stool and studied Milo.
“Yes?”
“Milo Cooke. I’m a freelance writer doing a story on the murder at Plimoth Plantation. I understand you found the body; I wondered if we could talk for a few minutes.”
I stood and positioned myself between them.
“This is Sam Warren, my assistant,” Milo added.
“Well, sure, I guess I can answer your questions. Bloody awful experience it was.” He lowered his voice and leaned closer. “You can pay me for the story I presume?” The accent had morphed. Now he sounded like Frazier. Or was it Niles? Whichever one was the snootier one.
I put my hand on Clarkson’s arm and smiled. Maybe the Margie Method would work here. “John…it’s John right? Can we buy you a drink? I just can’t wait to hear your story. And all about your work as an actor, I’m a huge theater fan. What can we get you?”
Clarkson looked me up and down and smiled. “Vodka tonic,” he said.
I ordered his drink and said, “Why don’t we sit over here at the table, then maybe after you’ve told us all about it, we can talk to your colleagues some. For background.”
I smiled at the four others in the group. Two plump thirty-something women with pale hair and eyes looked back at me with suspicion; the two men, one about forty with greying hair and the other maybe thirty, tall and blond, smiled back with more enthusiasm.
“Would you be willing to talk to us about your work at the Plantation?”
They all nodded.
“Buy that lot a drink and they’ll yammer ‘til closing time,” John said loudly in his British accent as he stood. The three of us moved over to a table in the corner.
Milo pulled a pen and a reporter’s notebook out of his back pocket. Nice touch, Milo. He took a sip of his beer and leaned over the table.
“So, John, tell us everything you can. About your job, your character, and give us as much detail as possible about what happened yesterday morning.”
John recited the lines he no doubt delivered dozens of times a day at the Plantation.
“My name is John Billington. I came to New Plymouth on the Mayflower in November, year of our Lord one thousand six hundred and twenty. I’m what they call a Stranger, don’t have much use for the ways of the Saints—the bunch that sailed here from Leiden. They’re a religious lot, always after me for my sharp tongue. But I say we came here to be rid of the strictures of government and I aim to say my mind!” Clarkson pounded the table with his fist.
“Now, that William Bradford, lives across the way from me, he can’t abide my ways. He’s a pious Saint and ’e’s been governor of Plymouth these last six years. We quarrel frequently. Put me in the stocks, ’e did, a few times. But I say my piece, nonetheless.”
I touched Clarkson’s arm again. “Tell us about working at the Plantation. You don’t have to do it in character, though I must say, your interpre
tation is genius.”
He smiled broadly. “I am one of the finer thespians in the bunch, truth be told. Most of the others have no formal training at all. But yes, I suppose it will go faster if I just tell you what happened. Could I get another drink?”
“Of course!” I jumped up and added another vodka tonic to our tab. If Milo’s wallet was as anorexic as mine, we might have an issue—but I’d worry about that later. I brought the drink back to Clarkson and sat back down.
“I’ve been at the Plantation for nearly ten years and I’ve been playing John Billington the entire time. It’s been a nice job, at least until…” He shook his head. “Forgive me. Anyway, I’m on five days a week; I’ve been speaking my piece in that cottage for so long I can do it in my sleep. Sometimes I think I do.” He laughed.
“A nice job until what?” I asked.
“Oh, nothing. I just haven’t gotten on with Elizabeth Smit recently. I often don’t get there early; we open at nine, but it takes the tourists some time to watch the movie at the welcome center and make their way over to the village. Usually I’m in position by nine-fifteen, nine-thirty at the latest. Yesterday I arrived at about nine-fifteen and strolled out to the village. I let myself into the cottage—”
“Do they lock them at night?” Milo asked.
“The cottages? No, we just close them up like the Pilgrims would have. So Wednesday morning, I let myself in and headed toward the corner where I put my personal things. It was a bright sunny morning, and I couldn’t really see yet when I entered the dark room, but as I say, I can do this in my sleep. I’m heading to the corner, thinking something smells off, when something whacks me in the side of the head. I yelled a little and jumped back. Nothing should be hanging there; it’s a low ceiling to begin with. When my eyes focus I see this woman, tied up. Her legs bent up behind her and tied to her wrists. And the face—Dear Lord, I will never forget that face. Blue skin, eyes wide open, red where they should have been white. For a split-second I thought someone was playing a joke on me, but then with the smell, and the face….I knew it was real. I ran out of there and yelled for the others. Thank God there weren’t any tourists down there yet. Then I got my phone out and called Liz. Marty and I, he plays Bradford, we went back in and looked again. That’s when I saw…er…”
“Saw what?” I asked with another smile.
“Oh, nothing, just the body, we could see the body better, that’s all.”
Dennis must have instructed him to keep the note and the patch a secret.
“So anyway, Liz showed up just a few minutes later and she sent us all up by the parking lots. She went to call the police. I gave them my statement a little while later. That’s really all I can tell you; the place has been closed since. We’re all hoping they’ll reopen in a week or so. Thanksgiving’s prime time for the Plantation and most of us need the income.”
“Tell us more about Mrs. Smit,” said Milo. He’d been taking diligent notes, even though we already knew most of the story. I’d been studying Clarkson. So far, he seemed believable—but then, he was an actor. He spoke like a Harvard boy but he had a troubled past. It was eight years since the DUI and closer to fifteen since the assault charge. But had he really changed? Or was he just a very good actor?
Clarkson hesitated. “You will keep your sources confidential? It might not be a good career move to speak out of turn about the boss.”
Little late for that, John.
“Oh, yes, John,” said Milo. “I may not even use it; the story is about the murder, after all. But I can name you as the person who found the body, right?”
“Oh yes, the papers already did. This morning I spoke with a television reporter as well.”
“So, Mrs. Smit?” I prompted.
Clarkson took a big swig of his drink.
“You see, I liked her very much at first. She took the position…oh, nearly two years ago. She was enthusiastic and eager to get our—the actors’—opinions on things. She seemed to appreciate our knowledge and experience. Unlike her predecessor.” He grinned at Milo. “She’s quite a looker too. But over the last six months or so, she’s gotten…uptight. I felt—rather, we felt—that she’d been playing us in order to learn her job. Once she knew what she was doing, she became very tiresome. I was actually written up for being late.” He shook his head; his eyes were sad. “She changed.”
“Do you know her husband?” I asked.
“Charles? Yes, we’re acquainted. A bit of a stuffed shirt. Terribly religious. But I can’t say I really know him. We’ve met at a few functions.”
“Right, well, thank you so much for your time, John,” said Milo. He closed up his notebook and put it back in his pocket.
“Might I have another drink?”
We moved together back to the group at the bar and I tried not to cringe as I put another $8 vodka tonic on our tab. I was still nursing my first Scotch.
For another forty-five minutes Milo and I chatted with the group of actors and actresses. Melissa Hopper, one of the pale, plump women, was hanging on Clarkson and threw a few nasty looks my way. The other woman, Susan Porter, was very touchy feely and hanging on Milo’s every word.
It seemed every female in the free world wanted Milo. And I spent the morning pushing him away. What the hell was wrong with me? (“Nothing wrong with taking it slow, Sam,” said Dad.)
David Colter was the tall blond guy. He tried to cozy up to me, but I couldn’t get too worked up about Colter’s band. The NumChucks. After listening to him for five minutes, I decided the Numb Nuts would have been a better name.
The older guy introduced himself as Daniel Wakefield. He played William Brewster at Plimoth Plantation, but he said little while the rest of the group worked their moves and played their roles. When I asked about Marty, the William Bradford actor, Clarkson said Marty went out of town for the weekend, since they were, after all, on a bit of a vacation.
The group got louder and less interesting as more drinks were consumed. Finally, Milo and I excused ourselves, thanked them all and made our escape.
As we walked out the door I turned back and saw Margie speaking with Susan Porter and gesturing in our direction. Porter exclaimed loudly “You’re shitting me!” and looked our way. I suppressed a giggle.
“What?” said Milo.
“Oh, nothing.”
“…for the glorie of God, and advancemente of the Christian faith…”
“You know, Reggie—you don’t mind if I call you Reggie, do you? No, I suppose that’s the least of your concerns. Reggie, I want you to know that I have the utmost respect for academic professionals. I do. I understand that it may be difficult for you to believe me, given our present circumstances, but let me assure you, I am sincere.”
Tears were streaming down Reggie’s face and she moaned beneath the duct tape that was wrapped around her mouth and head. She shook her head frantically up and down, to show him that she believed him.
“There is, however, a problem that has arisen over the years. The system has taken God out of our schools. Do you go to church, Ms. Cummins?”
She hesitated only slightly, then nodded her head up and down slowly. Her eyes were wide, staring at the man in the black mask. In the dim light of the moon, his eyes appeared to glow.
“Tut, tut, Reggie. You see? Insincerity and hypocrisy are just two of the many serious problems we face in our society today. Surely, as an educator, you must acknowledge this. And yet, you hold a position where you have influence over our innocent youth. Where your faithless choices may impact their development.”
She clawed at the ropes binding her wrists. Beneath her the bench she was seated on rose and fell gently. He’d crouched down and was lighting a fire in a metal bucket. The flames flared and then died down as a small chunk of fire starter began to burn. He added a few small pieces of wood. Then he rose and went back to his duffel bag. From it, he pulled out a two-foot long metal rod, with a wooden handle at one end and a dark metal circle at the other end. There was a soli
d flat triangle centered in the circle. He returned and propped the end of the branding iron in the flames and stood back.
“You are no doubt aware, Ms. Cummins, as a teacher and a local, that this nation was founded by two types of people. The Saints, whose reverence for God prompted them to seek a new land where they could establish a community founded in Christianity, unburdened by the whims of an egotistical monarch. But alas, for financial reasons, the Saints were forced to accept the Strangers amongst them. Many of these were greedy, lawless people. Godless people. As a result, today we live in a nation angrily divided. A nation where the Saints’ faith and goodness has been diluted by the evil of the faithless. Where laws are made by men—and women—who make a show of loving God and then commit sin after mortal sin.”
He stood silently for five more minutes. The wind blew Reggie’s hair in her eyes and she closed them. When she opened them again, he was pulling the branding iron out of the fire. The end glowed a white orange.
“Ms. Cummins, these conditions are no longer tolerable. You have not only turned your back on the Lord, you have sinned in a most base fashion. For these crimes, tonight, I fear you must die. For the glory of God, and advancement of the Christian faith.”
Chapter 11
The sharp scent of the ocean wafted into my room through the open window; all was still dark on the horizon. I sat up, puzzled. I was generally an early riser, but not this early. Pepper lay heavy across my shins, but I was used to that.
The sound came again; my cell phone was ringing. At five o’clock in the morning? I slid my feet out from under the cat and ran downstairs, following the ringtone. Where’d I leave the damn phone? I hit the lights in the kitchen and grabbed it off the counter in time to see the call end. I checked the log. Two missed calls from Dennis.
Not good. Nervously I dialed him back.
“Sam,” he said, “we got another one.”
After a moment I said, “Shit.”
Saints & Strangers (A Sam Warren Mystery) Page 6
