Saints & Strangers (A Sam Warren Mystery)

by Richelle Elberg

  “Have you ever used an online dating service?” I asked.

  He raised an eyebrow at me.

  Right. Stupid question.

  “Why?”

  “I just had no idea how many services there are. Millions of people use these sites.”

  I pulled the sheet from my printer tray and read. “Match.com, eHarmony.com, AdultFriendFinder, Zoosk, chemistry.com, ChristianMingle.com, Seniorpeoplemeet.com, perfectmatch.com, date.com, matchmaker.com, OKCupid.com, datehookup.com, Singlesnet.com, PlentyofFish.com.

  “Tastebuds.fm is for people who want to date people with similar taste in music. Ashley Madison is for married people who want hook-ups on the side. Compatible Partners is for same sex relationships, so are Gaydar and GayRomeo. Ourtime.com is for people who are over fifty but still too young for Seniorpeoplemeet. True.com screens its members to make sure they aren’t felons.”

  I looked back at Milo. “Does anyone just meet in a bar anymore?”

  “Every single night.”

  I shook my head. “This might take a while.”

  A half an hour later, I was trolling ChristianMingle.com’s database when my phone rang. It was Dennis.

  “Got something I want you to check out, Sam,” he said without introduction.

  “Shoot.”

  “Anna Fuller’s mother, Charlotte Fuller, maiden name Thornton, is a member of the Mayflower Society. So she’s descended from one of the original Mayflower passengers. Reggie Cummins’ grandmother on her father’s side was apparently also a member, but her mother didn’t know anything about it and her dad is dead. The grandmother’s maiden name was Warren, same as you. Margaret Warren. Turk called over there yesterday, but the Historian General at the library was a pain in the ass and wants a warrant before he gives us anything. I figured you might be faster than a warrant, especially since I don’t got a lot to give a judge and it’s Saturday.”

  I grinned. “You got it, Dennis; I’ll call you if I find anything. Oh, Dennis?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Do you have bank or credit card statements for Reggie Cummins? I’m looking for charges from a dating service.”

  “Turk has the financials. Meet us later at the Trap.”

  “’Kay.” I flipped my phone shut.

  “What’s up?” asked Milo.

  “Both Anna and Reggie may have been descended from original Mayflower passengers.” I didn’t know why that would make someone want to kill them—there had to be millions of people in America descended from the Pilgrims—but at least it was something to sink our teeth into.

  I cracked my knuckles and went to work.

  Milo stood and stretched. I tried not to stare as his flexed muscles. I failed. He smiled down at me.

  I felt a flush creeping up my neck and turned back to the computer. I pretended to study the screen. I was still trying to get into the Mayflower Society database. I’d worked in NSA sites that were easier to hack.

  “I didn’t ask the owner of the Wine Cellar if he has security cameras,” said Milo.

  I looked up at him. “Shit. He probably does too; he seemed like the anal type.”

  “And you know types.”

  I grinned. “I think we’ve established that. You should take a ride up there and check.”

  “You need to come with me.”

  “Milo, don’t be ridiculous. It’s two o’clock on a Saturday afternoon. There are people all over the beach. All over Taylor Ave. Nothing’s going to happen here now.”

  He frowned.

  “Milo, you’re not going to get a lot off the computer, not like I can. Let me do my thing and you go do yours. You can’t just sit here babysitting.” I picked up my gun off my desk. “I’ve got my gun. And The Wine Cellar’s only five minutes up the road.”

  “Bat Man hates guns, by the way.”

  “Yeah, well Batgirl likes hers just fine.”

  He shook his head. “Someone tried to send you a very clear warning last night, Sam.”

  “And if anyone walks through that door that isn’t you or Dennis or Turk or Mrs. Trimble, I’ll send them a clear reply. It’ll sound like Bang.”

  “Tough talk.”

  “I’m a tough girl.” Except when I’m bawling over my half frozen cat.

  “Hmm.”

  I exhaled loudly. “It’ll take you what? Twenty minutes? Just find out if they have cameras. If they do, Dennis can officially ask for the recordings.”

  “I can just call and ask.”

  “Just go look. Have a beer. I’ll be right here when you get back.”

  Milo seemed uneasy, but finally he said, “Fine. I won’t be more than thirty minutes.”

  He went into the kitchen and then came back into the living room with my broom. He studied the sliding door and then broke my broom over his knee.

  “Hey!”

  “I’ll buy you another broom.”

  He took the broken-off handle and fit it into the runner for the sliding glass door so that it couldn’t be opened.

  He turned and headed toward the front door.

  “I’m locking you in,” he called. The front door opened and then slammed shut.

  I heard the key in the lock and the deadbolt turned. I smiled to myself. It felt good to have someone worry about me. Especially when that someone was Milo. I turned back to my computer and went back to work.

  Fifteen minutes later I still wasn’t in. These fricking Pilgrim progeny took their privacy seriously. Why belong to a society if you didn’t want to show off about it? I sighed and leaned back in my chair, mentally debating alternate workarounds.

  My front door knob rattled and the hair on the back of my neck rose. I grabbed my gun. It was too soon for Milo to be back and anyway, he had the key. I rose and walked around the couch in a crouch and checked to make sure Pepper was in his climbing tree. He was curled up and sleeping in the top bunk.

  I moved quickly through the kitchen into the foyer and stood pressed against the wall behind my front door. I hadn’t heard the door knob rattle again after the first try. After another thirty seconds, I leaned over and looked through the peep hole. No one. I turned back toward the living room and walked slowly through the foyer with my gun raised in front of me with both hands, like they taught us in shooting school. I stopped short of going into the living room, pressed myself against the wall and then angled my head around the corner.

  Mrs. Trimble was standing at the back door with her forehead pressed to the glass and her hands cupped around her coke bottle glasses. Really? She didn’t even have any baked goods with her.

  Exhaling, I slid my nine into the waist of my jeans, pulled my hoodie down over it and walked into the room. She smiled and waved.

  I glanced around the room at all my murder stuff. Shit.

  I walked over to the door and yelled through the glass.

  “Sorry Mrs. Trimble, my door’s broken.”

  “I’ll just go back around front,” she screeched.

  Crap.

  As she hobbled down the deck stairs, I grabbed my white board and bulletin board down off the walls and slid them under the couch. I took Milo’s piles and turned them all upside down. This was getting to be routine. Then I hurried to get the door.

  “Hi, Mrs. Trimble.”

  She walked past me and headed straight for the living room.

  “Sam, did you know there was somebody out on your deck here last night? After you and Milo left?”

  She really does know everything.

  “Did you see who it was? Someone broke in last night. That’s why the back door’s not working.”

  “You know, we never used to even lock our doors around here.” Her eyes were darting around the room; I could see the mental inventory being catalogued.

  “Did you see who was on my deck?”

  “Well, I’d been in bed for a couple of hours, but I got up to go. That happens when you get older you know; I haven’t slept for more than two hours at a time since my seventies.”

  “
But what did you see?”

  “Well, it must have been around eleven. I was just flushing and I looked out and I saw someone walk across your deck and go around front. It was dark, though. You really should leave your back porch light on.”

  “What did he look like?”

  “I hurried into the front bedroom, but Roger was sleeping in there, so I had to climb over him. It took me a minute to get to the window. I make Roger go in the spare bedroom when he snores. Sleep apnea.”

  I waited. She was staring at my desk. I glanced over. Shit. The Mayflower Society page was still up on my monitor.

  “Are you a member of the Society too, Sam?”

  “Mrs. Trimble, who did you see here last night?”

  She looked back at me. “Well, I didn’t see anyone, Sam, not clearly. I’m not even sure if it was a man or a woman. By the time I climbed over Roger, whoever it was had gotten into their car and was pulling away.”

  I figured it was hopeless, but I asked anyway.

  “I don’t suppose you got a license plate.”

  “Oh, no, I didn’t have my glasses on. I couldn’t see those little numbers.”

  I sighed.

  “But it was a white Honda Civic Coupe. The LX, either 2004 or 2005. I couldn’t swear to it, but my money’s on the 2004.”

  My jaw dropped and I stared at her. “You couldn’t see the person who was walking around on my deck, which is just below your bathroom window, but you can identify their car, down to the make, model and year?”

  Mrs. Trimble giggled. “I guess that’s about right, Sam. Roger’s always been a car fanatic; he’s been taking me to shows for more than sixty years. We get Automobile Magazine, Car and Driver, European Car Magazine, Hot Rod Magazine, Luxury Auto, Motor Trend…about six more I guess, but you get the idea.”

  “And you read them?”

  “Well sure. Believe it or not, Sam, I don’t sit around baking coffee cake all day long.” She had a rather smug look on her face, and I couldn’t deny it—I was impressed. If only she’d been with me the other morning when I was chasing that darkish, maybe sedan.

  “Could I borrow some of those magazines sometime? I should learn more about cars, too. For my work.”

  She looked at me shrewdly and nodded. “That would probably be wise, Sam.” She stared around the sanitized room. “Well, I suppose I should be going. I just wanted to tell you what I saw.” She glanced back at my computer monitor.

  I had to throw her a bone. “So, are you a member of the Mayflower Society, Mrs. Trimble?”

  “Oh yes, lifelong. I’m descended from the Howlands. You must be a Mayflower descendent too. Name like Warren and all.”

  I’d never really thought about it before, but her comment provided an opportunity. “You know, I’m pretty sure I am, and now that it’s just me, I was thinking maybe I should establish my family’s lineage. Just in case, you know, I never have any heirs…”

  “Tut tut, Sam.” Mrs. Trimble patted my arm. “Just because it’s been two years since your last date doesn’t mean you have to start thinking like an old maid. You’re still a pretty girl, although I really can’t understand why you insist on wearing those nasty old sweatshirts all the time.”

  I was tempted to tell her about my evening at the Wine Cellar with Milo, just so she’d get past that whole two-year dry spell thing, but she didn’t give me a chance.

  “Girls don’t get married at seventeen anymore like they did in my day. I’d say you still have a year, maybe even two, to try and find Mr. Right.”

  Was she joking? Or did she really believe that I needed to marry by thirty-two or I’d be doomed to spend the rest of my days with a dozen or so cats? The old bird was tough to read, but I would worry about my marriage prospects some other day.

  “Tell me, Mrs. Trimble, what exactly do you get as a member of the Society? I wanted to look at the web site, but I can’t log in until I become accepted as a member. Could you log in and show me a little?”

  “Oh sure, Sam. I have a look once a month or so, just to see who’s died and whatnot.”

  About ten minutes later I heard Milo put the key in the front door. I jumped up, a little too quickly. “Well, Mrs. Trimble, thank you so much for showing me the site. I think I’ll head over to the Mayflower Society next week and get the ball rolling.”

  “Is someone coming in your front door?” She looked up at me. Those sharp blue eyes looked tiny behind her thick lenses, but obviously they didn’t miss a trick. “I thought you locked it.”

  “That’s, uh, that’s Milo. I gave him a key, we’re…uh. Well, I’m helping him with a surprise for his mother. You know she’s been ill.” Nice save, Sam.

  “Isn’t that nice.” She looked at me with a smirk, leaned over and whispered, “Hope it’s not a surprise that’ll need its diaper changed nine months from now.” She stood to go and shook her head at me. “Hook-ups do not count as dates, Sam.”

  “Mrs. Trimble!”

  Milo walked in, saving me from further punishment. She winked at me and said, “One or two years, Sam, remember that. Oh, and I really hope you decide to join the Society. Everyone who’s a Mayflower descendant really should, you know.” She smiled at Milo as she shuffled past and let herself out the front door.

  “One or two years for what?” Milo had a bewildered look on his face.

  “Oh, never mind her,” I said. “Woman thinks she’s Betty White, that’s all. What’d you find out?”

  It turned out The Wine Cellar did have security cameras. Milo had ordered an import at the bar and chatted with the same slow-moving bartender who’d recognized Reggie Cummins. Not only were there cameras, but Milo also learned that recently the staff was checking the footage every time the owner wasn’t around. Seemed the boss had been flirting a lot with one of the regulars and there was a running bet among the staff as to whether or not he’d get caught on tape some night after close with his proverbial pants down. The bartender had fifty bucks riding on an indiscretion before Thanksgiving.

  “Did you ask him any more about Reggie and Zeke?”

  “Nah, dude was way more interested in his wager. It was very ‘wink, wink, nudge, nudge’ if you know what I mean. I didn’t want to say too much.”

  “Okay, I’ll let Dennis know. They can get a warrant and pull the video Monday.”

  “Just let him know they only have about four more days to get it. The disk rerecords after three weeks. That’s why the staff makes sure to check the footage often.”

  I explained to Milo how Mrs. Trimble had given me access to her Mayflower Society account, and sat down at my computer. I had to laugh as I logged back in. Her password was Porsche911. I had a feeling Mrs. Trimble was quite the spitfire in her day. Hell, she still is.

  Chapter 18

  Dennis and Turk were seated in a corner booth when Milo and I got to The Trap. The pool tables were busy and the gulls were in position around the bar. A cover band played in the corner and a few dancers swayed nearby. As we waited to order, the band launched into a truly awful version of The Proclaimers song, ‘I Would Walk 500 Miles.’

  Milo and I stared in horror as the band members marched their legs up and down in unison and belted out the lyrics in an overdone Scottish accent. Several dancers joined in the march and sang loudly along. It was an absolute train wreck. Milo and I looked at each other and cracked up.

  A woman named Eileen was slinging drinks; I’d seen her there a time or two back before Tommy took over the Wednesday shift. Eileen was fiftyish with her long grey hair in a braid and an ample bosom. She had cheerful brown eyes. She leaned on the bar, placing her impressive cleavage front and center. “Evenin’, folks, what’s your poison?”

  I tried not to stare as Milo ordered. I glanced up at him, but he was keeping his eyes firmly on Eileen’s face. Impressive self-control. She served us and we carried our drinks over to the booth.

  We shared our latest. I still hadn’t cracked the Mayflower Society database, but I was close. Milo told Dennis abo
ut the video at the Wine Bar and Dennis said he’d get a copy.

  “We spent the day at Plimoth Plantation, interviewing employees,” said Dennis.

  “Dat be one funny crew,” said Turk.

  “Well, Liz Smit is wound pretty tight, and some of the actors are a little nutty, but I’d be nutty too if I had to wear a Pilgrim suit all day and talk to tourists in Ye Olde English.” Dennis chuckled and took a swig of his beer.

  “Anyone stand out?” I asked.

  “Not sure,” said Dennis. “There’s definitely something about Smit. I think half the men who work there have a crush on her. But as far as her being involved in the murders?” He shook his head. “Can’t really see it. Aaron Stevens was a smooth character, but I…”

  “The CFO?” I said. “His sheet’s clean.”

  “We’ll be checking alibis tomorrow,” Dennis said. “They all tell a good story, but then half of them are actors.”

  Just then a woman in fancy designer jeans and an excess of gold jewelry came over and slid into the booth next to Dennis. “Hi, Dennis,” she said, putting her manicured hand on his arm. She had a sleek brown bob and her lipstick was flawless. I guessed she was in her late forties.

  Dennis smiled at her, but he looked uncomfortable. Turk was staring into his lap and his shoulders were shaking. Laughing on the inside.

  “I’m Sam,” I said. “And this is Milo.”

  “Well, hi, Sam and Milo. I’m Barbie. I’m a friend of Dennis.’” Barbie? Corporate Barbie with the pantsuit maybe. “We met each other down at the courthouse.”

  I raised my eyebrows.

  “I’m a judge,” said Barbie.

  Just then Eileen appeared at our table. “Can I get anyone a refill? Dennis, would you like another?” She leaned over on the table and put her girls right in front of Dennis’ face. I had the distinct feeling she wasn’t asking about his beer.